CHAPTER FIVE #2
The little red light stays dark.
Darius turns.
He sees me.
His face closes before he says a word.
Not anger first.
Disappointment.
That lands worse.
“That wasn’t for your story,” he says.
I step fully into the doorway. “I know.”
His eyes drop to the table behind me.
To the recorder.
Then back.
“That’s why I didn’t record it,” I say.
He says nothing.
The hallway stretches between us, beige and too bright and entirely too quiet.
I should explain that I could have. That I almost did. That restraint should count for something when every person above me gets paid to reward the opposite.
I don’t.
The almost is not noble.
Darius’s gaze flicks once to the recorder again. “Am I supposed to thank you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’d hate for you to strain something.”
One corner of his mouth almost moves.
Almost.
Then it disappears. “Basic decency isn’t usually billed as generosity.”
“Depends on the network.”
His eyes hold mine.
I shouldn’t have said that.
Or maybe I should have.
The truth sits there, ugly and small, between the stale coffee and the hallway carpet.
I cross my arms, then uncross them because it feels defensive. “I don’t want credit.”
“Then what do you want?”
The answer should be simple.
Access.
The quote.
The feature.
The promotion.
Instead, my gaze drops for half a second to the spot where Mateo stood.
“I want you to understand I know the difference between seeing something and taking it.”
Darius goes still.
His stillness.
More revealing than most people’s confessions.
Behind him, Mateo disappears around the corner. A laugh from another hallway filters in, followed by the squeak of a cart wheel.
Darius steps closer.
Not too close.
Enough that I can see the thin line of fatigue at the corner of his eye and the faint damp edge of his hair from the morning sun.
“You keep saying things like that,” he says.
“Terrible habit. Words are part of the job.”
“And which ones are for the job?”
I should have an answer.
Instead, I look at his shirt collar, where one tiny blade of grass has somehow survived the entire training session. It clings near the seam, stubborn and bright.
I lift my eyes. “Fewer than you think.”
His jaw shifts.
The air between us changes.
Not soft.
Not safe.
Just aware.
I have stood closer to athletes before. I have interviewed men still high on adrenaline, still bleeding, still shouting over locker-room chaos. Proximity is part of the job.
This doesn’t feel like the job.
Darius looks toward the media room behind me. My laptop screen still shows him paused mid-session. Great. Very subtle, Sienna.
“Studying me?” he asks.
“Professionally.”
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It was. I practise in mirrors.”
That does it.
Almost.
The smile is brief enough that a lesser reporter would miss it.
I am not a lesser reporter.
He turns slightly, as if he is about to leave.
I hear myself say, “You’re much more interesting when you forget to perform.”
He stops.
His shoulders do not tense. His hands do not curl. He gives away nothing easy.
But the silence answers.
When he looks back, the captain is there again, polished and careful and standing exactly where he wants the conversation to end.
“If you’re waiting for me to forget you’re a reporter,” he says, “you’ll be waiting a long time.”
I should let him have that.
I should nod. Smile. Return to my laptop. Build the segment. Send Maren something sharp enough to keep her off my back.
Instead, I lean one shoulder against the doorframe and match his calm with my own.
“Good,” I say. “I’m patient when the story is worth it.”
His eyes hold on mine for one second.
Two.
The hallway light buzzes above us. Somewhere in the media room, my laptop fan kicks harder, like even the machine is nervous.
“That’s what worries me,” he says.
Then he walks away.
I stay in the doorway until he turns the corner, which is unprofessional and therefore something I will never admit in a meeting.
When he’s gone, I go back to my table.
The recorder sits where I left it.
Dark.
I pick it up, turn it over in my hand, then set it beside the laptop. Not hidden. Not packed away.
Just there.
A choice I made.
A choice I could still undo in a different hallway, on a different day, if I am not careful.
I sit and wake the screen.
Darius is frozen mid-pass again. Calm face. Controlled body. Barely visible hitch.
The folder marked REVIEW waits in the corner.
My phone buzzes.
MAREN: Please tell me you found something usable.
I look toward the hallway where Mateo left taller than he arrived.
Then back at the screen.
I type with my thumbs.
ME: I found something.
Maren responds before I can set the phone down.
MAREN: Sharp?
I glance at the recorder.
At the dark light.
At the still frame of Darius doing exactly what he does best: giving everyone else the next right step while pretending he does not need one himself.
ME: Not sure yet.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
MAREN: Make sure.
I close the message.
On my laptop, I drag the footage of Darius correcting Mateo on the pitch into the main timeline. Public. Fair. Recorded with permission.
Then I open a blank title card and type:
DARIUS VALE: THE CAPTAIN WHO CLOSES SPACE
I stare at it.
Too tactical.
Too cold.
My fingers move before I can talk them out of it.
DARIUS VALE: THE CAPTAIN WHO CARRIES EVERYONE
The room hums.
The recorder stays dark.
And for the first time all week, the story looks back at me and asks what kind of reporter I’m planning to be.
***