CHAPTER 22
NATHAN
Emily walks onto the training pitch, and I stay in the tunnel.
This should feel like progress.
It does feel like progress.
Unfortunately, progress still feels terrible.
From where I stand, I can see the edge of the pitch through the open stadium entrance.
Afternoon light spills over the grass. Team Canada players move through their warm-up patterns, red kits bright against the green.
Ava jogs beside Emily, talking with her hands.
Emily says something back, and Ava laughs, then immediately straightens like she has remembered she is supposed to look stern.
Good.
That is good.
Emily is moving.
Emily is training.
Emily is still captain.
I repeat those facts like a scouting report.
Moving. Training. Captain.
Not mine.
Not my problem to solve.
Not my decision.
The tunnel smells like concrete, turf rubber, and damp air from the stadium mouth. Camera cables run along the far wall, taped down in black strips. Somewhere behind me, a media staffer laughs too loudly, then lowers her voice as if remembering this level of the stadium has secrets.
My hands hang at my sides.
Empty.
Again.
I am beginning to understand that empty hands can still ache.
Colton appears beside me with two water bottles tucked under one arm and the expression of a man prepared to be either helpful or impossible.
“Your face is doing the thing.”
“My face is standing quietly.”
“Faces don’t stand.”
“Mine is versatile.”
He leans his shoulder against the wall beside me and follows my line of sight toward the pitch. “She looked okay.”
“She looked like Emily.”
“That’s not a measurement.”
“It’s the only one I trust right now.”
Colton is quiet for half a second, which is usually the warning before either wisdom or nonsense.
“She laughed in the tunnel,” he says.
I look at him. “Were you spying?”
“I was approaching with hydration and emotional readiness.”
“Spying.”
“Supportive surveillance.”
“Colton.”
He holds up one bottle. “Fine. I saw Ava come out looking like she had discovered a new category of gossip, and then I saw you standing here like a man who just successfully avoided both romance and a felony.”
Despite everything, I nearly laugh.
Nearly.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Colton’s face softens in a way I do not enjoy. “No, you’re not.”
I take one of the bottles from him because my hands need something to do and because accepting water is easier than accepting that.
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
He nods like this answer is better.
It probably is.
Out on the pitch, Coach Ramirez blows her whistle. Canada shifts into a controlled passing pattern. Emily stands near the back line, pointing Ava two steps wider. Not overdoing. Not hiding. Talking. Leading. Using the plan.
The right thing is happening without me.
I am proud.
I hate how much pride can hurt.
Colton twists the cap off his water. “Do you want a joke or a truth?”
“Neither.”
“Too bad. Truth first. Your job right now is very boring.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Everyone has asked me that this week.”
“That means your brand has a consistency issue.”
I look at him.
He shrugs. “Your job is to be boring. Stand where you were asked. Do nothing dramatic. Drink water. Let the woman captain her country. Maybe avoid reporters who look punchable.”
“That last one feels targeted.”
“It’s a broad public safety recommendation.”
A media coordinator hurries past the tunnel entrance with a clipboard pressed to her chest and a headset slightly crooked over one ear.
“Regional wants the quick hit after Canada training,” she says into the mic. “Yes, with Smith if possible. The injury story is still trending.”
Every muscle in my body locks.
Colton’s water bottle crackles in his hand.
The coordinator keeps walking.
Her voice fades around the corner.
If possible.
Injury story.
Trending.
The words stay in the tunnel after she leaves.
Colton looks at me. “Friend.”
“I heard.”
“I know you heard.”
“She just did media.”
“I know.”
“She handled the question.”
“I know.”
“She’s about to train.”
“Nathan.”
I push away from the wall.
Colton steps with me.
Not blocking.
Just there.
“Do not make me Morgan,” he says.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“That sentence has been the trailer before many bad decisions.”
“I’m getting information.”
“Information is often where bad decisions rent office space.”
I give him a look.
He lifts both hands. “I’m improving metaphors under pressure.”
I do not answer because if I answer, I might sound like a man who is still in control.
I walk toward the media corridor.
Not fast.
That matters, apparently.
Colton follows anyway.
The stadium service level opens into a busier mixed-zone area near the training pitch exit.
Staff move between barricades and sponsor backdrops.
Camera operators adjust tripods. Reporters cluster in small groups, checking phones, rehearsing lines, sipping coffee that smells burnt enough to count as punishment.
Sienna stands near the Northline setup with her notebook under one arm, speaking to a producer. Darius is beside her, not in the conversation exactly, but close enough to understand the shape of it.
He sees me.
Of course he does.
His expression changes.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
I hate captains.
Sienna follows his gaze and spots me. Her mouth flattens.
Also not ideal.
I stop beside the equipment table before either of them can accuse me of anything I have not yet done.
Sienna finishes her sentence, hands her notebook to the producer, and walks over.
“Tell me this is a coincidence,” she says.
“I heard there’s a quick hit after Canada training.”
“That is not the same thing as coincidence.”
Colton arrives at my side, slightly out of breath because he is still respecting Morgan’s very specific definitions of jogging. “For the record, I attempted prevention.”
Sienna’s gaze flicks to him. “Noted.”
Darius steps closer, calm and already disappointed.
I hate that too.
“I’m asking what’s happening,” I say.
Sienna crosses her arms. “Team Canada is deciding whether Emily does a short availability after training. Talia is pushing for no. Regional is pushing for yes. Northline is not asking medical speculation.”
“Regional is.”
“Likely.”
“That reporter?”
Sienna does not ask which reporter.
“Yes.”
My jaw tightens.
Sienna’s voice sharpens. “Emily can handle him.”
“I know.”
“No, you know she handled him. That’s past tense. This is future tense, and you’re looking at it like a threat you can tackle.”
Darius says, “Nathan.”
I look at him.
He shakes his head once.
Small.
Clear.
Do not step out of line.
“I’m not going to talk to the reporter,” I say.
“Good,” Sienna says.
“I’m not going to talk to Emily.”
“Also good.”
“I’m going to ask the coordinator what the plan is.”
Darius’s gaze stays on mine. “Why?”
“Because she already did the availability.”
“That is true.”
“Because the next one is clearly not about soccer.”
“Also possible.”
“Because if they are pushing her into another injury question before training recovery, someone should point out that it’s unfair.”
Darius does not move.
His face is calm in the precise way that makes me want to climb the wall.
“Someone,” he says.
I hear it.
I do.
The problem is I hear it too late.
Or maybe I hear it and keep moving anyway because fear has always been better at volume than wisdom.
Sienna steps slightly into my path. Not enough to block. Enough to force me to look at her.
“If you speak for her,” she says, “even with the best sentence in the world, you become part of the story.”
“I’m not speaking for her.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I do not answer fast enough.
Her expression changes.
Not anger.
Recognition.
Worse.
“You’re trying to remove the hit before she takes it,” she says.
The words land.
They should stop me.
They almost do.
Then the aggressive reporter appears near the media line, phone in hand, tapping notes into the screen.
Regional Sports badge.
Same jaw.
Same hungry, professional patience.
He says something to another reporter, too low for most people to catch.
I catch enough.
“Ask it clean. Tactical loyalty angle. She can’t dodge it twice.”
Something hot and black-edged moves through me.
Not thought.
Reaction.
Emily in the media room, hands steady while that question asked whether her team could afford her.
Emily in the tunnel, hand pressed to the wall, admitting the worst part was people watching to see if she became less.
Emily almost saying yes when I said she was scared.
That is the picture that does it.
Not the replay.
Not the clip.
Her almost.
Her almost-trust.
Darius sees the shift.
“Nathan.”
“I’m just talking to the coordinator.”
“That is stepping out of line.”
“I’m not on the field.”
“Exactly.”
I hate the answer.
I hate it because it is right, and because right has become incredibly inconvenient.
I walk anyway.
The media coordinator is near the sponsor backdrop, scrolling through the schedule on her tablet. Her name badge says Lacey. She looks young, tired, and one headset issue away from reconsidering her career path.
I stop a few feet away.
Not looming.
Not angry.
Professional.
That is what I tell myself.
“Lacey?”
She looks up, startled, then recognizes me. “Nathan Bellows. Hi. Do you need something?”
“No. I just heard there may be another availability with Emily Smith after Canada’s training.”
Her smile turns cautious. “We’re still confirming.”
“She just did full media.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And she has training recovery after this.”
Lacey glances toward the pitch entrance, then back to me. “Team Canada media is part of the discussion.”
“Good. I just wanted to make sure athlete load is considered. She already addressed the replay in the earlier availability. Pulling her again for a trending injury angle before recovery seems like it could create unnecessary pressure.”
The words sound reasonable.
That is the problem.
They sound good.
Fair.
Professional.
Like something a person could say while wearing a credential and good intentions.
Lacey shifts her tablet against her hip. “We weren’t going to frame it that way.”
“I’m sure you weren’t. But Regional is.”
Her face changes.
She knows.