CHAPTER 17
EMILY
I watch the replay twelve times.
This is not smart.
I know it isn't smart.
Knowing doesn't stop my thumb from dragging the video back to the same three seconds until my phone screen feels warm in my hand.
Ava’s arms go around me after the whistle.
My smile holds.
Then the hug lands too high against my left side, and my face breaks.
Not much.
Half a second.
Less.
A tiny wince. A blink. One breath I do not catch fast enough.
On a field, it was nothing.
On a stadium screen, it became evidence.
On a phone, slowed down and clipped and shared by strangers, it becomes a question people think they have the right to answer.
I sit on the floor beside my bed with my back against the mattress and an ice wrap tucked under my shirt.
The room smells like menthol rub, hotel soap, damp socks, and the peppermint tea I made and forgot to drink.
My medal from tonight’s match sits on the desk, still looped around its ribbon, catching light from the bedside lamp.
Canada won.
That should be the largest fact in the room.
It is not.
The video starts again.
Ava hugs me.
My face changes.
The caption under the clip reads: CAPTAIN SMITH HURT? CANADA DEFENDER WINCES AFTER FINAL WHISTLE.
I close the app.
Open it again.
Brilliant.
Excellent leadership.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Nathan.
No. But I understand why you had to ask.
I stare at the message until the words stop behaving like words.
No.
That should settle something.
It does not.
The second part is worse.
I understand why you had to ask.
No defence. No insulted innocence. No, Emily, how could you think that after everything?
Just understanding.
It makes me want to throw the phone at the bed.
It makes me want to answer.
It makes me want to do neither and sleep for seventeen hours.
The typing bubble appears.
Mine.
I stop.
It disappears.
Good.
Coward.
Sensible woman.
Same thing, apparently.
A knock comes at the door.
Three quick taps.
Ava.
No one else knocks like she is apologizing to architecture.
“I’m alive,” I call.
The door opens anyway.
Ava steps in holding two paper cups and wearing team sweats, wet hair loose around her shoulders. Her socks slide slightly on the carpet when she stops.
“I brought tea,” she says.
“That sounds like concern.”
“It’s captain-adjacent hydration data.”
I close my eyes. “That is a horrible sentence.”
“It’s herbal.”
“The sentence?”
“The tea.”
I should tell her to go to bed. She played eighty-six hard minutes, cleared three dangerous balls, and handled post-match media without saying anything that will haunt her for the next decade. She needs sleep. She doesn't need to stand in my hotel room pretending tea is reconnaissance.
Instead, I hold out one hand.
She brings me the cup.
Peppermint and honey.
Too sweet.
Kind.
Annoying.
Ava sits cross-legged on the carpet across from me, careful not to look at my side. She looks at the medal instead.
“That’s a good medal,” she says.
“Technically, yes.”
“Emotionally?”
“Currently under review.”
She nods like that makes sense.
It probably does to athletes.
We know how to win and still sit on a hotel floor trying not to fall apart over the price of it.
Ava wraps both hands around her cup. “I saw the clip.”
“Of course you did. Everyone with an internet connection and a tragic amount of free time saw the clip.”
“It’s small.”
“It’s huge on a stadium screen.”
“It’s small,” she repeats.
I look at her.
There is no pity in her face. No panic either. Just stubborn twenty-two-year-old certainty, which is both irritating and occasionally useful.
“I don’t mean it doesn’t matter,” she says. “I mean it’s one second. The rest of the match was you organizing us, telling me when to hold, letting me cover, trusting the line. That’s what the team saw.”
My throat tightens before I can stop it.
I take a sip of tea.
Too hot.
Good.
Physical discomfort is easier than whatever that sentence is doing.
“The team saw Coach Ramirez speak to the back line after,” Ava says.
I look up fast. “She did what?”
“She told us there’s a managed load plan.”
My grip tightens on the cup.
Ava lifts one hand. “Not details. Just that there is a plan, medical and coaching staff know, and everyone needs to execute the shape instead of creating drama.”
Of course Coach did.
Efficient. Calm. Slightly terrifying.
Very her.
“And?” I ask.
Ava blinks. “And nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nobody panicked.”
The room goes too quiet.
Outside the window, rain ticks against the glass. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes softly. The ice wrap under my shirt has gone half slushy, cold enough to ache, not cold enough to numb.
Ava looks into her tea. “Marta said it explained the adjusted cover. Solène said good, because she prefers plans to vibes. Priya asked whether she should shift two yards earlier on the switch. Coach said yes.”
My laugh catches before it can become anything.
“That’s what they said?”
Ava’s mouth curves. “Also, Solène said if anyone calls you a warrior in media, she’ll throw a glove at them.”
“Reasonable.”
“She has excellent aim.”
“She does.”
Ava’s smile fades into something steadier.
“You trained us to think,” she says. “So when Coach gave us information, we thought. We didn’t crumble.”
I look down at the cup in my hands.
Peppermint steam curls up between us.
I expected honesty to make me smaller.
Instead, my team adjusted.
I do not know what to do with that.
Ava leans back against the side of the armchair. “You know what I hated most about the clip?”
“The existence of it?”
“That too.” She tips her head. “I hated that people will talk about your face instead of the clearance before it.”
My chest pinches.
“Because the clearance was excellent,” she says. “Ugly, but excellent.”
“That’s the highest form of defending.”
“I know. I learned from someone bossy.”
“Careful.”
“Hydrated and reckless.”
I almost smile.
The almost feels like a small victory.
Ava sees it and wisely does not celebrate.
Her gaze drops to my phone.
Nathan’s message still glows on the screen.
She reads enough to know.
Not all.
Enough.
“Did he tell someone?” she asks.
I lock the phone.
“No.”
The answer leaves faster than expected.
Ava watches me over her cup. “Do you believe him?”
That's the problem.
I want to say no because no is easier. No keeps the shape simple. Nathan saw, Nathan worried, Nathan crossed a line. Old story. Familiar ending.
But the message is still sitting under my palm.
No. But I understand why you had to ask.
And I keep seeing him in the stands, hands on the rail, fear all over his face, not moving.
I hate that image.
I need that image.
Both truths sit badly together.
“I think I do,” I say.
Ava nods like this is tactical information, not the floor opening under me.
“That seems inconvenient,” she says.
“It is deeply inconvenient.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
I look at her.
Young defender. Tea carrier. Future captain if the world has any sense.
“No,” I say. “You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I’m older. I can make worse choices with more experience.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
She stands, but she does not leave immediately.
“Captain?”
“Yes?”
“We trust you more, not less.”
My throat goes tight again.
This is getting excessive.
“You don’t have to keep saying helpful things,” I tell her.
“I’m growing.”
“Tragically.”
She smiles, sets her empty cup on the dresser, and leaves before either of us can make the moment worse by naming it.
The door clicks shut.
The room returns.
Menthol. Rain. Tea. My phone waiting on the carpet.
I pick it up.
Nathan’s message is still there.
No. But I understand why you had to ask.
The fair thing would be to believe him from here.
The honest thing is that I need to see his face.
I text before I can overthink it.
Where are you?
His answer comes almost immediately.
Quiet lounge near the east elevators. Public. Empty enough. I can leave if you want space.
Of course.
Public.
Avoidable.
Permission built into the sentence like he has become emotionally literate out of pure spite.
I stand too fast.
Pain grips my left side.
I freeze, hand braced on the bed, jaw locked, breath shallow.
“Rude,” I whisper.
The room does not apologize.
I change into team sweats, rewrap the ice, and pull a hoodie over the evidence. My hair is still damp at the ends from the post-match shower. My face in the mirror looks tired, angry, and too close to crying for my personal brand.
I fix none of it.
Let him see the cost.
No.
That sounds like a strategy.
I am not going there to perform hurt.
I am going because the question is too heavy to leave inside a text bubble.
The hallway outside my room is quiet. Team Canada has mostly shut down for the night. A room-service tray sits near one door, abandoned fries gone cold under a silver cover. The carpet smells faintly of cleaner and rain-damp shoes.
The east lounge is at the end of the corridor, half open to the elevator bank, with low lamps, a table of old magazines, and windows showing the city blurred by rain.
Nathan stands when I enter.
He is near the far window, not the door.
Good.
Visible.
Avoidable.
Hands empty.
Also good.
He looks tired. Dark shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp like he has showered but not settled. His eyes go to my face and stay there.
Not my side.
Not my hands.
My face.
Progress is infuriating when it works.
“Emily,” he says.
“Did you tell someone?”
No greeting.
No buildup.
The question hits the room and stays there.
Nathan doesn't flinch.
That matters too.
“No.”
I watch his face.
His jaw is tight, but not offended. His shoulders stay still. His hands do not lift in protest.
“I didn’t tell anyone about your injury,” he says. “I didn’t talk to media. I didn’t suggest a story. I didn’t confirm anything.”
The list comes plain.
Not polished.
Not defensive.
I fold my arms carefully. “Then why did it get specific so fast?”
“Because the replay was specific,” he says.
I hate that answer because it is true.
He takes one breath. “And because I looked worried in the stands. There’s a post going around. Blurry shot of me at the railing. People connected dots.”
My stomach drops.
Not because I did not know optics could do damage.
Because he is naming his part without making it the whole explanation.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For looking worried?”
“For letting any part of my face become another thing people used to talk about you.” His voice lowers. “I stayed where I was supposed to stay, but I didn’t hide it well enough.”
I stare at him.
The rain ticks at the windows.
An elevator dings somewhere behind me, but the doors must open on another floor because no one comes.
“That’s a ridiculous apology,” I say.
“Probably.”
“You’re allowed to have a face.”
“I’ve been told mine makes unnecessary claims.”
“By Morgan?”
“And Colton.”
“Then it’s probably true.”
His mouth moves.
Almost.
The almost doesn't soften the air enough.
“Sienna?” I ask.
The name comes out sharper than I intend.
Nathan hears it.
Of course he does.
“Sienna is keeping Northline away from speculation,” he says. “She called it a soccer story, not an injury hunt. Morgan knows only what she saw, which is probably too much because she’s Morgan. Darius knows I was trying not to move. Nobody had private information from me.”
I absorb the names one at a time.
Sienna. Morgan. Darius.
A fair reporter. A trainer with boundaries. A captain who understands restraint.
People around Nathan who helped him not become the worst version of himself.
I should be relieved.
I am.
That is what makes my chest feel too tight.
“So you didn’t betray me,” I say.
“No.”
“And you understand why I thought you might.”
His face changes.
There is pain in it, but he doesn't hand it to me to carry.
“Yes.”
That answer undoes more than a denial would have.
I look toward the windows.
Rain turns the city into streaks of gold and black. My reflection looks pale in the glass, hoodie loose around my shoulders, one arm still folded too carefully over my side.
“I wanted you to have done it,” I say.
Nathan is quiet.
Good.
He should be quiet for this.
“I wanted a clean reason to be furious,” I continue. “I wanted the old shape. You saw something, got scared, decided what needed to happen, and I could stand on that and know exactly where to put the hurt.”
My voice thins at the end.
I hate that.
I keep going anyway.
“But if you didn’t do it, then the problem is not you crossing a line. It’s that people saw me.”
The words feel worse out loud.
Nathan’s hands stay loose at his sides.
He doesn't step closer.
“I hate that they saw it,” I say.
“I know.”
I look at him.
He corrects himself before I can.
“I believe you.”
Better.
Too much better.
The air shifts between us.
I press one hand lightly against my side, over the hoodie, because the ache has started pulsing under the wrap. Not dramatic. Not dangerous. Just present, like the rest of the night.
Nathan sees the movement.
His jaw tightens.
He looks at my face.
Stays there.
I should reward that with nothing.
Instead, I say, “You’re trying very hard.”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Very much.”
The answer echoes yesterday’s recovery room.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Nathan sees that too, and something in his face eases. Not relief. He is not foolish enough for relief.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.
The question is careful.
No sadness added.
No pressure tucked underneath.
Just a door left open.
I should say yes.
I came here to ask a question. He answered. The clean thing is to leave before this turns into something softer, messier, more dangerous than blame.
But the room is quiet.
The rain is steady.
My side hurts.
My team trusts me more, not less.
Nathan did not betray me.
And I am so tired of being alone with every feeling that does not fit under an armband.
“No,” I say.
His breath changes.
Barely.
I notice anyway.
I lift one finger. “But if you say one inspiring thing, I’m leaving.”
He nods once, solemn and almost smiling.
“Understood.”
I move toward the chair across from him, slow enough not to lie with my body.
Nathan doesn’t offer help.
He doesn’t look at my side.
He doesn’t fill the silence with concern dressed as advice.
He just stays.
For now, that is the most dangerous thing in the room.
***