CHAPTER 21 #2
Rigid enough that I can see the effort from across the room.
His eyes are on my face.
Not my side.
My face.
Darius is beside him, one hand tucked into his pocket, posture casual in a way that is absolutely not casual. Morgan stands on Nathan’s other side with a tablet against her hip, watching him like she has been assigned to prevent emotional offside.
Nathan’s hands are loose.
Barely.
I see the marks where his fingers must have been curled a second earlier.
He did not intervene.
Not when the question hit.
Not when the room went cold.
Not when I lifted my hand to stop Talia from answering for me.
He stayed.
Part of me is grateful.
Part of me is furious that gratitude is in the room at all.
Part of me, the part I do not have time to examine, wanted him to move.
That is the worst part.
Not because I needed him to.
I did not.
I answered.
I held the line.
I put the story back where it belonged.
But some tired, bruised, furious place inside me wanted someone to hate the question out loud so I did not have to carry all of it with perfect posture.
Ridiculous.
Dangerous.
Human.
I look away before Nathan sees too much.
Too late, probably.
Defenders.
We are unbearable.
Ava nudges my arm as we stand. “That was terrifying.”
“The question?”
“You.”
“Good.”
“No, I mean good terrifying.”
“That is the brand.”
Coach Ramirez steps to my other side. “You handled that well.”
“Thank you.”
“And you let Talia know you had it.”
“I did.”
“And you stayed within the agreed medical language.”
“I’m capable of following instructions.”
Ava makes a small sound.
I turn my head.
She looks at the ceiling.
Coward.
Coach’s mouth does that almost-smile again. “Training tunnel in five.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The room keeps moving around us. Media staff pack microphones. Camera crews coil cables. A reporter thanks Ava for her answer. Sienna passes near the table on her way out and gives me one nod.
Not warm.
Not smug.
Professional recognition.
I return it.
That is enough.
I make it halfway down the service hallway before the air in my chest goes thin.
Not panic.
Do not be dramatic.
Not panic.
Just the delayed cost of sitting under lights while someone asks whether your team can afford to trust you.
The corridor opens into a narrower tunnel leading toward the training pitch. Concrete walls. Overhead lights. The smell of turf rubber, damp air, and cleaning solution. Farther ahead, cleats echo from players already moving toward the field.
I step to the side, out of the traffic, and press one hand flat against the wall.
Cool paint.
Rough patch beneath my palm.
Good.
Physical details are useful when the inside of your body wants to become weather.
Breathe.
Not too deep.
Again.
The injury aches, but it is not the main thing.
The main thing is the question still sitting under my skin.
Can Canada afford to build around you?
I close my eyes.
For one second.
Only one.
Then a voice comes from the mouth of the tunnel.
“Company or space?”
My eyes open.
Nathan stands several feet away, just outside the narrower stretch of corridor. He has not entered fully. He is not close enough to block my way. Darius is nowhere visible, which means Nathan has either passed a test or escaped supervision.
Possibly both.
His face is careful.
Too careful.
Like he knows if he steps wrong, I will turn the entire tunnel into a cautionary tale.
I could say space.
It would be safer.
I am very good at safe, as long as no one studies my long-term results.
The tunnel hums around us.
A cart rattles somewhere behind him. The media room noise fades. Ahead, training waits.
I look at my hand against the wall.
Then at him.
“Company,” I say. “But no speeches.”
His shoulders lower by a fraction.
Not relief he asks me to hold.
Just breath.
“Understood.”
He steps into the tunnel and stops beside me, leaving enough space that our sleeves do not touch.
For two seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then he says, “That reporter’s question was garbage.”
I turn my head.
His face is completely serious.
“That’s not a speech,” he adds. “That’s waste management.”
A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it.
Short.
Unwilling.
Real.
It pulls under my ribs, and I press my hand a little harder against the wall.
Nathan sees.
He does not comment.
Excellent man.
Infuriating man.
“Waste management,” I repeat.
“I thought it was an important civic service.”
“Very noble.”
“I try to contribute to society.”
“You mostly contribute stress.”
“That has also been reported.”
The laugh fades, but the pressure in my chest loosens enough that air finds room again.
Nathan leans one shoulder against the opposite wall, careful to keep the corridor open. Anyone passing could see us. Anyone passing could interrupt.
Good.
That makes this feel less like a secret and more like a choice with exits.
“They were listening by the end,” he says.
“Reporters?”
“Everyone.”
I look down the tunnel toward the pitch entrance. “They were taking notes.”
“They were listening.”
“Sometimes those overlap.”
“Today they did.”
I don't answer.
The compliment tries to land.
I make it wait on the doorstep.
Nathan’s voice lowers. “Ava heard every word.”
That one gets in.
Fast.
No permission.
I swallow.
“She needed to.”
“She looked like she understood it.”
“She did.”
“She looked proud too.”
I turn back to him. “Of herself?”
“Of you.”
My throat tightens.
Rude.
Very rude.
I look away before my face does anything expensive.
“She answered well,” I say.
“She did.”
“She’s ready for more.”
“She is.”
“I hate that more sometimes means more pressure.”
“I know.”
My eyes cut to his.
He catches himself almost immediately.
“I mean,” he says, “that makes sense.”
Better.
Not perfect.
Better.
My hand slides off the wall. I flex my fingers once.
“The worst part isn’t the pain,” I say.
The words leave before I fully decide to let them.
Nathan goes still.
Not the old stillness, the kind where he is preparing to step in.
The new kind.
The listening kind.
I should stop.
Training is in four minutes.
My team is ahead.
My coach is waiting.
My reputation is apparently available for public debate.
I keep talking anyway.
“It’s everyone watching to see if I become less than I was.”
The tunnel feels narrower after the words.
Nathan’s expression changes.
Not pity.
Good.
If it were pity, I could leave.
He says nothing.
That might be worse.
I look at the concrete floor between us, at the strip of light falling from the open doorway behind him.
“I can handle being hurt,” I say. “I’ve handled being hurt. What I hate is people treating pain like it rewrites the whole person.”
A ball thuds faintly somewhere ahead.
Training.
Life continuing.
The world always has another drill.
Nathan’s voice is quiet when he answers. “I don’t think less of you.”
The words are simple.
Too simple.
I could swat them away easily.
Of course you don’t.
You’re biased.
You’re guilty.
You’re Nathan.
Instead, the truth comes out before defence can dress it properly.
“That’s because you know me.”
The sentence lands between us.
Soft.
Dangerous.
Too revealing.
Nathan’s eyes hold mine.
Something moves across his face, but he does not reach for it.
He does not make it romance.
He does not make it about him.
He only nods once, like I have handed him something breakable and he knows better than to grip.
“I do,” he says.
My chest tightens.
I should correct him.
You know parts.
You knew me.
You are learning.
Something precise and less vulnerable.
But the tunnel is quiet, and I am tired of being precise about every inch of myself.
Nathan’s gaze searches my face.
Not down.
Not toward my side.
My face.
Then he says, “I know enough to know you’re scared.”
Everything inside me goes still.
Not because he is wrong.
Because he is not.
The easy answer is anger.
The old answer.
The safe answer.
I can feel it there, sharp and ready.
I can tell him not to diagnose my emotions either. I can remind him that knowing some things does not mean knowing everything. I can walk toward training with my captain face already half-built.
Instead, I stand in the tunnel with my hand still tingling from the cold wall, my side aching under the wrap, and Nathan Bellows looking at me like he will accept the truth if I am brave enough to hand it over.
For one reckless second, I almost say yes.
Ava’s voice calls from the pitch entrance.
“Captain? Coach says if you’re hiding from training, I’m supposed to look stern.”
I close my eyes.
Of course.
Of course this is my life.
Nathan’s mouth curves.
I open my eyes and point toward him without looking away.
“Not a word.”
“I have never been more silent.”
“That is obviously untrue.”
“Emotionally silent.”
“Worse.”
Ava appears at the far end of the tunnel, trying very hard to look stern and mostly looking like a golden retriever asked to guard classified documents.
She sees Nathan.
Then me.
Then the space between us.
Her eyebrows move.
“Am I interrupting waste management?” she asks.
Nathan coughs.
I turn toward the pitch before either of them can make this worse.
“You are running after training,” I tell her.
Ava falls into step beside me. “For tactical reasons?”
“For emerging leadership.”
She sighs. “That feels fair.”
I do not look back at Nathan.
If I look back, I might say the thing I did not say.
Yes.
I am scared.
Instead, I walk toward the training pitch with my captain face returning piece by piece.
Behind me, Nathan stays in the tunnel.
He does not follow.
Which is good.
Which is terrible.
Which is starting to feel like trust.
***