CHAPTER 21
EMILY
Ocean Cup media day smells like coffee, hairspray, hot camera batteries, and people pretending questions don't have teeth.
I have done hundreds of these.
National team debuts. Tournament previews. Post-loss scrums. Post-win panels. Sponsor obligations where someone asks about leadership while a logo repeats itself behind your head until your eyes feel branded.
Media rooms don't scare me.
This one annoys me on sight.
The moment I walk in with Team Canada, the atmosphere shifts. Not dramatically. Reporters don't gasp. Cameras don't swing toward me like a courtroom revelation. No one points at my left side and announces that the replay has entered the building.
They don't have to.
The room looks at me differently now.
Not as captain first.
As question.
I keep walking.
Ava is half a step behind me, too quiet for someone who normally has at least three opinions about bad lighting and the emotional risk of folding chairs.
Coach Ramirez walks ahead with Talia from team media.
Lena is somewhere behind us, probably carrying a tablet and the ability to end my whole day with one raised eyebrow.
The media room is set inside the stadium’s lower level, all temporary walls, sponsor banners, and too-bright lights.
A long table sits at the front with microphones lined up like tiny weapons.
The Ocean Cup logo repeats across the backdrop.
Water glasses sweat on coasters. Power cords snake under the carpet and disappear behind black curtains.
My side aches beneath the support wrap.
Not sharply.
Not enough to change the plan.
Enough to remind me it has opinions.
Fine.
Everything has opinions today.
I reach the table and take the centre seat because captains don't hide at the end. Ava sits to my right. Coach Ramirez sits to my left. Talia stands just off to the side with her tablet, expression professional and mildly murderous, which I appreciate.
I set my water bottle down.
Unscrew the cap.
Take one sip.
Cold. Plastic. Control.
Good.
The room settles.
Cameras lift.
Pens hover.
A few reporters glance at each other with the hungry patience of people waiting for permission to use the word fitness.
Talia steps forward. “We’ll begin with match-related questions. Please keep medical speculation out of this availability. Team updates will come through official channels.”
A man in the second row writes something down.
Probably not, I will be respectful.
Sienna sits three rows back on the aisle in a navy blazer, notebook open, pen already poised. She does not raise her hand first. She waits until Talia nods to her.
Of course she does.
Invited.
Clean.
Useful.
“Sienna Voss, Northline Sports,” she says, voice clear. “Emily, in the final ten minutes of the last match, Canada adjusted the back line after the opponent started overloading the left channel. Can you walk us through Ava’s cover on the weak-side runner and how that changed the shape?”
There it is.
The ball, rolled cleanly to my feet.
Not injury.
Not replay.
Soccer.
For one dangerous second, gratitude moves through me.
I keep it off my face because I am a professional and because Sienna Voss doesn't need me smiling at her like she has handed me a life raft in front of thirty media people.
Still.
I know what she did.
I lean closer to the microphone.
“The key was timing,” I say. “The overload only works if our line chases the first movement. We knew they wanted to pull us toward the touchline, then cut the second runner into the half-space behind us.”
Several pens move.
Good.
Make them write the story.
“Ava read the second runner earlier than she would have two weeks ago,” I continue.
“She held her hips longer, which meant she could cover the lane without opening the middle. Our midfield compressed about five yards, so the pass through the central channel disappeared. That gave us time to clear the second ball.”
Ava is very still beside me.
I do not look at her.
If I look, she will either blush or cry or try to become invisible. None of those are tactically useful.
“The adjustment was not one player,” I say. “It was the line. Keeper, midfield, weak-side cover, first defender, second ball. That is defending. People like to isolate the dramatic moment, but most good defending happens in the choices before the dramatic moment arrives.”
The room is quiet.
Not stunned.
Listening.
Better.
A reporter in the front row lifts his hand. “So you’d say the replay has been taken out of context?”
There it is.
First toe over the line.
Not the whole foot.
I take another sip of water because answering too fast gives questions more power than they deserve.
“I’d say any clip that starts after the tactical decision is already incomplete,” I answer. “A replay can show one second. The match gives us the full picture.”
Talia’s posture relaxes by one millimetre.
Coach Ramirez doesn't move.
Ava breathes beside me.
Good.
We are fine.
We are absolutely fine.
Another reporter asks Coach about preparation for the knockout round. Coach answers with her usual calm precision, which makes the entire room sound less intelligent by comparison.
Ava gets a question about stepping into a bigger role. Her eyes widen for half a second, then she answers.
“We train for those moments,” she says. “Emily’s been clear with me all week. It’s not about guessing. It’s about knowing your space and trusting the call.”
My chest tightens.
Not from the injury.
She does not say more.
She doesn't need to.
I reach under the table and tap the edge of her shoe once with mine.
Ava’s mouth almost curves.
Then the man in the second row raises his hand.
I recognize him before he speaks.
Regional Sports.
Lobby voice. Corridor voice. The one Nathan wanted to correct with his entire body yesterday. The one Sienna made look lazy. The one who has apparently decided shame is not a learning style available to him.
Talia hesitates.
He takes the opening anyway.
“Emily, with your fitness under visible scrutiny after the replay, can Canada afford to build its defensive shape around a captain whose availability may be uncertain?”
The room goes cold.
Not silent.
Cold.
Ava shifts beside me.
Coach Ramirez’s pen stops moving.
Somewhere near the back, a camera strap creaks as someone adjusts their grip.
The question lands exactly where it is aimed.
Not at my side.
At my authority.
I feel the hit in the space beneath my ribs where pain has been living all week, but the ache it wakes is older than injury.
Can Canada afford you?
That is what he is asking.
Can they trust you?
Are you still worth building around?
I keep both hands on the table where the cameras can see them.
Steady hands matter.
So does breathing.
I breathe.
Once.
Not too deep.
Then I look directly at him.
“Canada does not build its defensive shape around one player’s ego,” I say.
Ava goes very still.
Good.
Listen, kid.
This part matters.
“We build around information, trust, and tactical clarity. Every player in our back line knows her role. Every adjustment we make is based on what gives the team the best chance to win.”
The reporter’s face doesn't change, but his pen stops moving.
I continue.
“If you are asking whether we make choices because of reputation, the answer is no. If you are asking whether we make choices with accurate information, the answer is yes. If you are asking whether a captain can lead while managing a physical issue under team supervision, the answer is also yes.”
There.
The room has the words now.
Managed.
Supervision.
Not secret.
Not crisis.
Not nothing.
My mouth tastes like water and adrenaline.
I keep going because stopping early lets him choose the echo.
“The mistake is assuming leadership only counts when nothing hurts,” I say. “Tournament soccer is not that clean. Bodies get managed. Minutes get managed. Shape gets managed. What matters is whether the team has the truth and whether the decisions help the match.”
The reporter lifts his chin. “So there is a physical issue?”
Talia steps forward.
I lift one hand slightly.
Not enough to silence her.
Enough to say I have this.
Talia stops.
That matters too.
I look back at the reporter. “Team medical updates will come through official channels. I’m answering the soccer question.”
His jaw tightens.
Good.
He has not been handed the quote he wanted.
“The soccer answer,” I say, “is that Canada’s back line is organized, honest, and prepared. Ava’s role is not a reaction to panic. It is part of the plan. Coach Ramirez’s decisions are not emotional. They are tactical. And I trust every player beside me to do her job.”
Ava’s shoulder brushes mine under the table.
Not accidental.
I do not look at her.
I look at the room.
“If you want to talk about the match, we can talk about the match.”
Sienna’s pen moves once.
Slowly.
Not performing.
Recording.
The room breathes again.
Another reporter raises her hand quickly, probably sensing the need to move before the air breaks.
“Coach Ramirez, how has Ava’s development changed your options in the back line?”
Bless you, stranger.
Coach answers.
Smooth. Precise. Ruthless in the way good coaches are when someone hands them a better question.
The panel continues.
Some questions are useful. Some are softballs. One outlet asks Ava what she has learned about cover responsibilities, and Ava answers so well that I consider forgiving her for the peppermint tea.
Almost.
I keep my face composed through all of it.
Lights heat my skin.
The microphone smells faintly metallic when I lean near it.
My side aches, steady and stubborn.
I answer three more questions about shape, preparation, and leadership. I don't look toward the media boundary where I know the Kings sometimes hover during cross-team availability.
I do not look.
Not until the panel ends.
Talia closes the session, and chairs scrape back.
Reporters stand. Cameras lower. The air shifts from performance to movement.
That is when I see him.
Nathan stands near the side boundary with Darius and Morgan.
Not close to the reporters.
Not near the exit.
Visible.
Avoidable.