CHAPTER 23
EMILY
“What did you do?”
The corridor keeps moving around us.
That feels rude.
Players walk past with towels around their necks. A camera operator adjusts a tripod near the mixed-zone barricade. Someone from tournament staff calls for another athlete. Cleats click against concrete. A cart beeps twice as it reverses near the equipment lane.
The world has no manners.
It should stop for this.
Nathan stands in front of me with his face open and ruined, which is also rude because I don't want him to look like he already knows.
I want him to argue.
I want him to be confused.
I want him to say, Nothing, and mean it, and let this sick twist under my ribs turn into an overreaction I can apologize for later.
He does not.
His throat moves.
“I talked to the coordinator.”
The sentence is small.
Too small for the way it hits.
Lacey, the media coordinator, shifts beside us. “Captain Smith, I’m sorry if there was confusion. We were just trying to adjust the post-training flow, and Nathan mentioned athlete load and the earlier availability, so we thought Coach Ramirez could handle the quick hit instead.”
Nathan’s eyes stay on mine.
Good.
He doesn't hide behind her explanation.
Bad.
Because if he were hiding, I could be furious at the cowardice too.
Now I have to be furious at the thing itself.
I turn to Lacey.
My voice comes out calm.
It always does when something inside me is bleeding.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll handle the availability.”
Lacey blinks. “Oh. We can still route you to recovery if that’s better for the team schedule.”
“I said I’ll handle it.”
Talia steps closer, her expression careful. “Emily, we can decline if you want. Coach is ready to speak.”
I look at her.
She stops.
Not because I glare.
Because she understands.
This has stopped being about the availability.
“No,” I say. “I’ll answer.”
Coach Ramirez is a few feet behind me. I feel her attention like a hand between my shoulder blades, steady but not steering.
“Your call,” she says.
Two words.
They reach places Nathan’s explanation cannot.
My call.
Exactly.
I nod once.
Ava stands near the pitch entrance with her towel in both hands, eyes wide and worried. She has seen enough to understand this is not about a reporter either. Poor kid. I keep accidentally turning her youth development into emotional field study.
“Captain?” she asks softly.
“I’m fine.”
She gives me a look.
I sigh. “Functional.”
“Better.”
The correction almost makes me smile.
Almost.
Not now.
I look back at Nathan.
He has not moved.
His hands are open at his sides.
Too late.
Everything careful about him is too late.
“I need to do my job,” I say.
His face tightens. “I know.”
No.
No, he does not get to say that right now.
I turn before the words can come out sharp enough to draw blood.
The media line waits beyond the temporary barricade.
So does the reporter.
Regional Sports.
He sees me coming and straightens like a man who has just been handed exactly the thing he wanted.
Good for him.
May his socks always be damp.
Sienna is near the Northline position, notebook tucked under one arm. Her eyes move once from my face to Nathan behind me, then back to me. She doesn't step in. She doesn't ask if I want her to redirect. She only shifts half a pace so there is clean space near the media line if I choose it.
Invited.
Not assumed.
I file that away because apparently the universe has decided to teach one lesson from every possible angle today.
Talia moves beside me. “Two questions max. We stop if it turns speculative.”
“I stop it if it turns speculative.”
Her mouth tightens.
Then she nods. “Yes.”
I step to the line.
Microphones lift.
Phones tilt.
The lights come on.
The reporter leans in first. Of course he does.
“Emily, thank you for taking a minute. Given the visible concern around your fitness, is Canada reconsidering how much of the defensive shape depends on your presence?”
He says it smoothly.
Professional voice. Clean shirt. Polite mouth.
The sentence is still ugly.
I could answer with the team-approved line.
No medical updates outside official channels.
We are focused on preparation.
Everyone is available according to the plan.
Fine lines. Useful lines.
Not enough.
Because Nathan already tried to remove this question from my path, and now I need to answer the thing beneath it. Not for the reporter. Not for Nathan. For myself.
For Ava, standing behind me.
For the team that deserves a captain who does not flinch when someone tries to turn trust into weakness.
I look directly at the reporter.
“Canada’s defensive shape doesn't depend on one player being treated as untouchable,” I say. “It depends on information, communication, and trust.”
Pens move.
Phones hold steady.
Good.
Let them have the whole answer.
“If I am on the field, it is because the staff, medical team, coaching group, and I agree that I can help the team within the plan. If Ava has a cover responsibility, it is because she has earned that responsibility, not because anyone is hiding a weakness. If Coach Ramirez adjusts the shape, it is because that is what good coaches do with accurate information.”
The reporter’s eyes sharpen.
I keep going before he can interrupt.
“What we are not going to do is confuse leadership with pretending nothing hurts. That is not leadership. That is ego in better shoes.”
A camera clicks.
Somewhere behind me, Ava makes a tiny sound.
I do not turn.
The reporter tries again. “So you would reject the suggestion that loyalty to you as captain could cloud tactical judgment?”
There it is.
The line Nathan heard coming.
The line he tried to intercept.
The line I apparently still have to clear.
“I would reject the suggestion that this team is careless enough to confuse loyalty with tactics,” I say. “My teammates do not owe me denial. I don't ask them for it. My coach does not owe me minutes. I have to earn them. That's sport.”
My side aches under the wrap.
I let it.
“My job as captain is not to make everyone comfortable with my image,” I say. “It is to help this team win with the truth in the room.”
Silence.
Not long.
Long enough.
Sienna writes something down, face composed.
Talia stands beside me like she is trying not to grin in a professional setting.
The reporter looks down at his notes because there is apparently nowhere else useful to look.
Good.
“Last question,” Talia says.
A woman from another outlet raises her hand quickly. “Emily, could you speak to Ava’s development through this stretch and what it means for Canada’s depth?”
Bless her entire publication.
I turn to her.
“Ava’s development has been one of the most important parts of this tournament for us,” I say. “Not because she is becoming a backup plan. Because she is becoming a better defender every match. She reads earlier. She communicates sooner. She trusts the shape instead of chasing panic.”
My voice steadies around the familiar language.
This part is easy.
True things are easier when no one is trying to twist them.
“Depth is not what happens when one player steps back,” I say. “Depth is what happens when every player steps fully into her role.”
Ava will hate that this makes her sound important.
Excellent.
She should get used to it.
Talia closes the availability before anyone can push another edge. “Thank you. That’s all for now.”
The lights lower.
Microphones drop.
The reporter looks dissatisfied.
I hope he has a terrible sandwich later.
I turn away before he can see any part of that thought on my face.
The moment I am past the media line and into the service corridor, my body catches up.
Not dramatically.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a hard pulse under the ribs. A wave of heat along my left side. The hollowed-out feeling that arrives after adrenaline has paid for something in advance and now wants collection.
I stop beside the concrete wall and press the heel of my hand against it.
Cool.
Rough.
Real.
Breathe.
Ava appears at my side first.
“Captain.”
“I’m fine.”
She says nothing.
“Functional,” I correct.
“Barely,” she says.
I look at her.
She lifts her chin, brave and ridiculous. “Respectfully.”
Coach Ramirez arrives behind her. “Ava, give us a second.”
Ava hesitates.
I nod.
She goes, but not far. She stands ten feet down the corridor with her arms folded, glaring at anyone who looks like they might require access to me.
Excellent emerging leadership.
Coach Ramirez steps into my line of sight. “Pain?”
“Higher.”
“Category?”
“Still inside the plan.”
Her eyes do not move from mine.
I breathe once.
“Sharp spike after the answer. Settling.”
“Good report.”
“I hated giving it.”
“I assumed.”
I almost laugh.
Not enough air.
Coach’s gaze flicks past me.
I don't need to turn to know Nathan is there.
My whole body knows.
That is inconvenient.
Coach says, “Do you need me?”
The question is not medical.
Or not only medical.
I shake my head.
“Not for this.”
Her face gives away nothing, but her voice softens by one degree. “Then I’ll be with Talia.”
She leaves.
Ava looks from her to me, then to the far end of the corridor, where Nathan must be standing. Her mouth presses together.
I point at her. “Team room.”
“But...”
“Team room.”
She wants to argue.
Good.
She does not.
Better.
“Yes, Captain.”
When she walks away, the corridor becomes too quiet.
Which is absurd because it is not quiet at all.
Media chatter leaks from behind the barricade. The training pitch noise carries through the open tunnel. A staffer wheels a case past the far end with a rattle that goes on too long.
Nathan steps into the service corridor.
Only a few feet.
He stops before he reaches me.
That should count for something.
It does.
It also counts too late.
“Emily,” he says.
“No.”
His mouth closes.
Good.
I push off the wall and turn to face him.
He looks pale under the stadium lights. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are full of all the things I refuse to manage for him.
Guilt.
Fear.
Regret.
Love, maybe.
No.
Not now.
Love doesn't get to make this softer.
Not when love was the costume fear put on before it walked into a media schedule and moved my choices around.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I know.”