CHAPTER 20
NATHAN
Staying out of the frame is harder than it sounds.
Frames are everywhere.
Camera frames. Media frames. Story frames. The literal rectangle of a phone screen held up by a tournament staffer while Emily stands in front of a Canada backdrop and turns last night’s replay back into soccer.
I am on the adjacent pitch with a ball under one foot, pretending to listen to Darius explain recovery movement patterns I already know.
This is disrespectful to both of us.
Darius knows it too.
“You’re not subtle,” he says.
“I’m looking at the far goal.”
“The far goal is behind you.”
“Then I’m deeply committed to not looking at it.”
He gives me the captain stare.
I roll the ball under my foot and force my eyes to stay on the grass in front of me.
Across the facility, Emily stands near the media wall with her shoulders square, hair pulled back, Canada jacket zipped, face calm enough to make everyone else look overexcited by comparison.
Talia from Team Canada stands just off-camera.
Sienna is there too, holding a notebook instead of a microphone for now, body angled toward Emily but not crowding her.
Professional.
Careful.
Invited.
Good.
My hands still want to curl.
Not good.
Colton jogs past us at approximately the speed of a man whose hamstring has negotiated strict limitations with the court. “You two look intense.”
Darius doesn't look away from me. “Nathan is practising not looking.”
Colton turns his head toward the Canada media setup immediately.
I say, “Really?”
“What? I’m assisting with directional awareness.”
“By staring directly at the thing I’m not supposed to stare at?”
“Teamwork takes many forms.”
Morgan’s voice cuts from behind him. “Colton.”
He slows instantly. “Medical tone detected.”
“Mobility station.”
“I was providing emotional support.”
“You were wandering.”
“Emotionally.”
She points.
He pivots with theatrical sadness and jogs back toward the marked area, muttering something about authoritarian stretching.
Morgan watches him go, then looks at me.
I hold up both hands. “I’m staying out of the frame.”
“Physically.”
“That counts.”
“Partly.”
I sigh. “Everyone has become very demanding about my personal development.”
“Good.”
She walks off before I can argue, because that is apparently the family communication model.
Darius bends and adjusts the cone beside his foot.
A performance of normal training.
I appreciate it.
Mostly because I need one.
On the Canada side, Talia lifts her phone stabilizer.
Emily looks into the camera. I cannot hear her from here, but I know when she starts talking because Ava, standing near the defensive group, goes still in the specific way young players do when the person they admire says something worth keeping.
Emily’s hands stay relaxed at her sides.
Her face doesn't flicker.
No one watching that short team clip will know she is tired, sore, or carrying enough pressure to buckle a person who has not spent years becoming more stubborn than pain.
But I know.
No.
Correction.
I know some things.
I do not know enough to own any of them.
Darius drops the cone and stands. “Say it.”
I look at him. “Say what?”
“The argument you’re having with yourself.”
“I have several.”
“Start with the loudest.”
I watch the ball under my foot. Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.
“I hate that she has to do this.”
“Media?”
“Manage everyone’s perception. Her body. Her captaincy. The clip. Me. The team. The internet. The stupid narrative before it grows teeth.”
Darius nods. “That’s a lot.”
“It is.”
“And yet you are not on her list of assigned tasks.”
The sentence lands clean.
Annoying.
Useful.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Everyone keeps asking me that.”
“Because you keep saying it like an answer and living it like a theory.”
I lift my head and stare at him.
He stares back, calm as a wall.
“I liked you better before you became emotionally articulate,” I say.
“No, you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Across the facility, the Team Canada clip ends. Talia lowers the phone and says something. Emily nods once. Then Sienna steps forward.
Not too close.
Notebook in hand.
Emily turns toward her.
My body locks before I can stop it.
Darius sees.
Of course he does.
“Sienna is not the problem,” he says.
“I know that.”
“Your shoulders disagree.”
“My shoulders are independent contractors.”
“Nathan.”
I breathe out.
Sienna gestures toward the side media table, and Emily follows her. Talia goes too. Good. Team channel present. Terms set. No ambush.
Still, every protective instinct in my body dislikes seeing Emily sit across from a reporter while the world is already trying to make her pain into a headline.
Even Sienna.
Maybe especially Sienna, because she is good enough to ask the questions everyone will listen to.
Darius steps beside me, blocking part of my view.
Subtle as a parked bus.
I give him a look.
He smiles faintly. “Far goal.”
“I deserved that.”
“Yes.”
We move into a passing pattern with two other Kings players. Light touch. Controlled movement. Nothing that will strain tired legs after the Global Cup. I do the work because my body knows how even when my mind is across the facility, trying to solve problems it has not been invited into.
Receive. Open hips. Play wide.
Check shoulder.
Receive. Turn. Release.
It helps.
For eleven minutes, soccer pulls me back into myself.
Then a media staffer from the tournament side jogs past the edge of our drill, speaking urgently into a headset.
“Northline wants to go first, but Regional Sports is pushing for follow-up on fitness. No, I told them team availability only.”
My pass goes two feet behind Darius.
He traps it anyway.
Barely.
His eyes cut to mine.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No, you’re not.”
“I will be in a second.”
The staffer keeps moving.
Regional Sports. Fitness follow-up. Team availability.
Words that sound normal until you know the machine behind them.
Darius taps the ball back. “Stay here.”
“I am here.”
“Your body is.”
I play the next pass cleanly out of spite.
Across the facility, Sienna’s interview continues. Emily sits straight, one ankle crossed over the other, expression composed but not frozen. I cannot hear the question, but I can tell when the topic turns toward Ava because Emily’s face changes.
Pride.
I see it even from here.
Not soft exactly.
Emily’s pride is too disciplined for soft.
But there is a little lift in her chin, a small warmth around her mouth. She gestures once, probably explaining the cover lane or the weak-side read. Sienna writes something down, nodding.
Good.
That's good.
That's the story.
Ava’s growth. Canada’s shape. The whole sequence. Emily choosing one media door instead of letting the internet build a hallway around her.
I roll my shoulders back.
Darius notices.
“Better?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t get ambitious.”
“I’ve heard that recently.”
His mouth twitches. “Emily?”
“Possibly.”
“You look less miserable when you say her name.”
“I did not say her name.”
“You thought it loudly.”
“I hate everyone.”
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
The drill ends. Morgan releases Colton from the mobility station, and he approaches us with the cautious joy of a man who has survived medical supervision.
“Good news,” he says. “My hamstring and I have reached a temporary peace agreement.”
Morgan calls from behind him, “Your hamstring did not sign anything.”
“See? Negotiations remain tense.”
Darius takes a water bottle from the cooler and hands me one.
I drink because my mouth is dry and because hydration is apparently the only form of control I am allowed right now.
A sharp laugh comes from the media setup.
Not Emily.
Not Sienna.
Someone else.
A male reporter has moved near the approved media table. He is not seated, but he is close enough that Talia has stepped slightly forward. The man holds a phone in one hand, badge swinging from his neck. I recognize his face from the lobby last night.
Regional Sports.
The one who said compromised.
My fingers tighten around the bottle.
Darius looks over.
Morgan looks over.
Colton says, “Oh, that guy has a face I don’t like.”
For once, no one corrects him.
The reporter says something we cannot hear.
Talia answers.
He gestures toward Emily.
Emily stays seated.
Sienna stands.
That is when I know the temperature has changed.
Sienna doesn't stand quickly. She doesn't storm. She simply closes her notebook, rises, and places herself slightly between the reporter and the seated interview setup.
Not blocking Emily.
Not speaking for her.
Controlling the frame.
There is that word again.
Frame.
My feet want to move.
They do not.
Darius steps closer anyway. “Stay.”
“He’s crowding them.”
“Talia is there.”
“He’s trying to get her to answer.”
“Sienna is there.”
“He was in the lobby last night making it sound like I leaked something.”
“And?”
I look at him.
Darius’s face is calm.
Too calm.
“And,” I say, “I want to correct him.”
“No,” Darius says.
One word.
Not loud.
Final.
Colton mutters, “I support the no, while emotionally understanding the punchy undertones.”
Morgan says, “Colton.”
“I said I support the no.”
On the media side, the reporter’s voice rises enough for the nearest group to hear.
“We’re not asking for medical details. We’re asking whether loyalty to a captain can cloud tactical judgment when visible limitation becomes part of the match.”
The words hit the pitch like a flare.
Loyalty to a captain.
Tactical judgment.
Visible limitation.
Every part of me goes hot.
Not angry.
Past angry.
There is anger, yes, but underneath it is something older and uglier.
The need to step between Emily and a sentence built to make her smaller.
I take one step.
Darius catches my arm.
This time, it is not light.
“Nathan.”
I look at him.
He does not let go.
“That is the feeling,” he says.
“I’m not going over there.”
“You were.”
“I was going to stand nearby.”
“No. You were going to make your anger look like defence.”
The words are too accurate.
I hate them enough to listen.
Across the facility, Emily stands.
The whole area seems to hold its breath.
She doesn't look at me.
Good.
Bad.
No.
Good.
She doesn't need to.