CHAPTER FOUR #2
What makes this group special?
I answer them all without lying and without handing over anything breakable.
Then Sienna steps forward.
Her microphone is lower today. No live camera light. Just a camera operator behind her shoulder and that notebook tucked against her side.
“Captain Vale,” she says.
“Miss Voss.”
A flash of something crosses her face.
Maybe irritation.
Maybe amusement.
It disappears fast.
“During the last transition block, you dropped the midfield line several yards deeper after the third sequence,” she says. “Was that about conserving legs after last night, or are you already preparing for the Final opponent’s second-pass press?”
The question lands clean enough that my answer doesn’t come right away.
Not because I don’t have one.
Because it’s good.
Behind me, Colton makes a tiny sound that might be a laugh. I ignore him.
“A little of both,” I say. “Coming off a semi-final, you don’t waste legs chasing pressure you can invite and control. But the Final opponent wants teams stretched. If we step too early, they’ll play through us. If we drop too late, they’ll trap us. The space has to be intentional.”
Sienna nods once. Not performative. She’s following.
“And your role in that?”
“Communication. Timing. Making sure the first adjustment isn’t panic.”
Her pen moves.
“Earlier, you corrected Mateo after the turnover, but he looked calmer after, not smaller.” She looks up from the page. “How do you tell someone they’re wrong without making them feel like the mistake is who they are?”
The field noise thins.
Not really.
Players still laugh near the benches. Ice rattles in coolers. A grounds crew member drags a hose near the far touchline. Somewhere behind Sienna, another reporter complains about losing his tripod plate.
But the question steps closer than the others.
Closer than tactics.
I wipe sweat from the back of my neck with a towel to buy some time.
“Depends on the player.”
“That’s the press-conference answer.”
“That was the answer.”
“It was also the polished one.”
My gaze locks on hers.
Her camera operator shifts his weight.
Sienna does not.
Fine.
“You correct the decision,” I say. “Not the person. Mateo knows he missed the read. He doesn’t need me to make him feel stupid. He needs the next cue, so he can fix it before the mistake becomes a habit.”
Her pen stays still now.
“And who taught you that?”
I hear the click of a door somewhere in my memory. Not opening. Locking.
“No one likes being corrected by someone who enjoys it,” I say.
“That sounds learned.”
“Most useful things are.”
Her eyes stay on me.
Too steady.
Too much.
I glance toward the pitch, where Mateo is gathering cones with Nathan. Nathan throws one cone at him like a terrible role model. Mateo laughs and throws it back.
Safer subject.
“You’re good with him,” Sienna says.
“He’s easy to be good with.”
“He’s terrified.”
“He’s nineteen.”
“That too.”
A laugh tugs at me before I can stop it.
Small.
Bad idea.
Sienna sees it.
I take a drink from my bottle.
She lowers the microphone a fraction. Not off. Not hidden. Just lowered enough that the interview changes shape.
“Who takes care of you when you’re done taking care of everyone else?”
The question doesn’t hit like a ball.
It slides in under the ribs.
I should have an answer. I have answers for everything. Load. Shape. Pressure. Leadership. Momentum. Trust.
This question sits there with its hands folded, waiting.
A drop of sweat runs down the side of my neck.
I hear Colton laugh behind me. Morgan’s voice cuts through it, dry and precise. A ball thuds against the rebound board. Cleats scrape. Whistles blow from the next field.
Ordinary noise.
Ridiculous, then, that the space between me and Sienna feels quiet.
“Hydration staff,” I say. “Very underrated.”
Her mouth doesn’t smile.
Annoying.
“Good answer,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“Not the answer.”
“No one said you were getting all of them today.”
Her gaze flicks down.
Not at my face.
My knee.
It is barely a glance. So brief I might have missed it if I were less used to reading pressure before it arrives.
I go still in all the places that don’t show.
She saw.
Or suspects.
Or both.
Morgan seeing the knee is inconvenient.
Sienna seeing it is a match before a gas leak.
I lift the towel to my shoulder and give Sienna the professional nod. “Are we done?”
“For now.”
“That sounded like a threat.”
“It was meant as scheduling optimism.”
This time, my mouth almost moves.
I stop it.
“Enjoy the rest of your access, Miss Voss.”
I turn before she can ask anything else.
My first step is clean.
So is the second.
The third takes effort, which irritates me more than the ache itself.
I make it to the cooler before Morgan catches up.
“Don’t,” I say.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re breathing in medical disapproval.”
“Comes with the certification.”
I grab another bottle and twist the cap harder than necessary.
Morgan’s gaze cuts past me to the media line. “She saw.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure?”
I look back once.
Sienna is speaking to her camera operator, but her eyes lift at the exact wrong second and meet mine across the training pitch.
She doesn’t look triumphant.
That should help.
It doesn’t.
I face Morgan again. “Yes.”
Morgan takes the bottle from my hand, loosens the cap, and gives it back.
The insult is quiet but effective.
“Then you should decide what you’re actually worried about,” she says.
“My knee becoming content.”
“Or someone noticing you’re not invincible.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
No blink.
No mercy.
Before I can answer, Sienna’s voice carries from behind me, clear enough to cross the space between the media barrier and the bench.
“Captain?”
I turn.
She stands with her notebook against her chest, the sun catching the edge of her hair, camera lowered at her side.
“For the record,” she calls, “not every story starts with a scandal.”
I say nothing.
She tilts her head, just slightly.
“Some start with a tell.”
The pitch goes loud around me again.
Players talking. Coach calling. Bottles hitting crates. The whole day moving forward like she hasn’t just found the one thread I did not hand her.
Morgan exhales beside me.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite sympathy.
I watch Sienna walk back toward the media area, and for the first time since the tunnel, I’m not sure which is more dangerous.
That she noticed.
Or that she didn’t use it yet.
***