CHAPTER 16 #2
“I’m not having an emotional emergency.”
Morgan and Colton both look at me.
I sigh. “Fine. I’m having an emotional incident.”
“Progress,” Morgan says.
“I hate this family.”
“You love this family.”
“Unfortunately.”
Colton offers me a protein bar from his jacket pocket.
I take it because apparently I have reached the stage of emotional growth where I accept suspicious pocket food.
We move with the crowd toward the exit.
Every few steps, my phone buzzes.
I do not check it.
The first two times, this feels heroic.
By the fifth, it feels like I am losing a fight with a small rectangle.
By the time we reach the shuttle lane outside, the night air has turned damp and heavy. Rain threatens without committing. Stadium lights bleach the pavement white. Team buses and shuttles idle along the curb, filling the air with exhaust and heat.
Canada’s shuttle is already gone.
Good.
Bad.
Both.
Our Kings shuttle waits near the far curb because apparently champions still get stuck in post-match traffic like everyone else.
I climb aboard and choose a seat halfway back.
Not because I need privacy.
Because if I sit near the front, Morgan will stare at my hands for the entire ride.
Colton drops into the seat across the aisle. Morgan sits in front of him. Darius and Sienna are not on this shuttle, which means they are still somewhere in the media zone, probably fighting the good fight against stupidity.
My phone buzzes again.
I take it out.
Morgan turns in her seat immediately.
“I’m checking if Emily texted,” I say.
“And?”
I look.
Nothing.
The disappointment is sharp and humiliating.
“No,” I say.
Morgan’s face softens.
I hate that too.
There are, however, many other messages.
Kings media reminding us not to comment on Ocean Cup medical speculation.
Coach Miller asking if Emily is okay, followed by three question marks and a maple leaf emoji for reasons known only to him.
Two texts from teammates asking whether the online post about me is garbage.
One from an unknown number I ignore.
And the fan post again, now shared by a bigger account.
Nathan Bellows’ reaction says everything. Did Kings camp know Canada’s captain was carrying an injury?
My stomach drops.
Kings camp.
That phrase alone is enough to make everything worse.
I did not leak anything.
I did not say anything.
I stood still.
Apparently even that can become a story if a camera catches the right fear on your face.
Colton leans across the aisle, quieter now. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I know.”
“Optics are stupid.”
“I know.”
“Also deeply powerful and unfair.”
“I also know that.”
“Running out of comfort options.”
“Your first mistake was attempting comfort.”
He nods. “That tracks.”
Morgan turns fully in her seat. “Send one text.”
I look at her.
“To Emily,” she clarifies.
My thumb is already on the screen.
That is embarrassing.
Morgan’s voice stays calm. “One. Factual. No pressure. No spiral.”
“Are you dictating?”
“Do you need me to?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
I open Emily’s thread.
The last messages sit there like fresh footprints.
Her: Company was acceptable.
Me, later that night after the shuttle lane: Medium acceptable or fully acceptable?
Her: Don’t get ambitious.
My chest hurts with it.
That was before the kiss.
Before the apology.
Before the deciding match.
Before the stadium screen turned her pain into a public object.
I type.
I saw the replay. Sienna is keeping Northline away from speculation. I’m here if you want anything. Space included.
I stare at it.
Too much?
Maybe.
Not enough?
Probably.
Morgan leans over the seat back. “Read it.”
I do.
She nods. “Send.”
I send before I can improve it into disaster.
Then I lock the phone and put it facedown on my thigh.
Colton points at it. “Leaving it facedown implies moral strength.”
“Or fear.”
“Both can be athletic.”
The shuttle pulls away from the curb.
Outside, the stadium slides past in streaks of white light and wet pavement. Fans move in clusters under umbrellas. A vendor folds a pretzel cart awning. Security staff wave buses through the line.
My phone does not buzz.
Good.
Emily is busy.
Emily is with her team.
Emily may not want to answer me.
All valid.
All awful.
We ride in silence for almost six minutes, which may be a team record.
Then my phone buzzes.
I flip it over too fast.
Not Emily.
A team media alert.
DO NOT ENGAGE WITH SOCIAL POSTS REGARDING OCEAN CUP PLAYER FITNESS. REFER ALL INQUIRIES TO TEAM MEDIA.
I almost laugh.
Not because it is funny.
Because every institution in the world apparently knows how to say do nothing while every nerve in my body is screaming do something.
At the hotel, the lobby is bright, cold, and full of post-match noise. Athletes returning. Staff checking lists. Media crews setting up near the approved backdrop. Security guiding people into lanes.
The air smells like wet coats, lobby flowers, coffee, and adrenaline gone stale.
I make it three steps inside before I hear Emily’s name.
“Smith looked compromised late.”
I stop.
The voice comes from near the media coffee station. Two reporters, both with credentials, both looking at a laptop on a high table. One has earbuds around his neck. The other is scrolling through clips.
“Canada won, though,” the first says.