CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
A reminder and a warning.
The team is watching.
The rookies are watching.
The cameras are definitely watching.
I swallow the argument.
“Fine.”
Morgan gives me a look that could cut tape.
“Not as a metric,” I add.
Nathan, from thirty yards away, shouts, “Growth!”
Colton claps once. “We’re proud of you!”
“Run another pattern,” Coach barks.
They run.
I stand beside Morgan while she asks questions I answer with increasing irritation and decreasing success.
Sharp pain?
No.
Instability?
No.
Pressure?
A little.
Swelling?
Not that I can feel.
She gives me a look.
“Minimal,” I correct.
“Location?”
“Lateral.”
“Change since warmup?”
“No.”
Her eyes lift.
“Yes,” I say. “Awareness.”
“That is almost a useful word.”
“You’re welcome.”
She makes a note. “You can return for controlled phases. No pressing sprints. No recovery runs past the midline unless we discuss it. If you feel a sharp pull, you signal.”
“Understood.”
“Do you?”
I look at her.
She looks back like she has never once feared an athlete with an ego and a pain tolerance.
Behind her, the cameras wait.
Sienna waits.
My mouth goes flat. “Yes.”
Morgan steps closer, voice low. “If you are angry, be angry after training. If you are scared, be scared after training. Right now, you play the session you need, not the session your pride wants.”
The words hit.
Hard.
I hate that she can still do that.
Coach claps his hands. “Blue reset. Darius back in. Controlled.”
Controlled.
The word follows me onto the pitch like another marker cone.
The next twenty minutes are a test I do not enjoy passing.
I let Nathan call the defensive line without stepping over him.
He glances at me once, surprised.
“Keep going,” I say.
His eyebrows lift.
Then he does.
He does it well.
Too well, frankly.
I take the simple outlet instead of driving through pressure. I open my hips early, receive, release, shift. No hero run. No extra sprint. No proving. The team moves better when I stop trying to turn every camera into a challenge.
That should feel good.
It mostly irritates me.
Colton takes the ball in the half-space and plays a simple pass to Mateo instead of attempting something illegal in six countries.
Mateo fumbles the first touch.
Nathan calls, “Again. Same idea. Faster feet.”
I almost say it too.
I don’t.
Mateo nods, resets, receives again, and this time the pattern opens.
The ball moves from right to left, back through me, into Colton, out wide, across the face of goal. The finish goes in.
Coach claps once. “That. Again.”
The team energy lifts.
The session sharpens.
The cameras keep watching my right leg.
Not good.
When training ends, sweat runs down my spine and my knee sits at a firm four, maybe four and a half if honesty is feeling ambitious. Morgan catches my eye and holds up two fingers.
Recovery.
Now.
I nod because I am not suicidal.
Then the media coordinator appears with a clipboard.
“Captain, five-minute availability before recovery.”
Morgan turns slowly toward him.
He backs up half a step. “Coach approved. Five minutes. Standing.”
Morgan looks at Coach.
Coach looks at the sky like perhaps clouds will rescue him.
They do not.
“Three minutes,” Morgan says. “Standing. No hallway follow-ups. No medical questions.”
The coordinator nods too quickly. “Three minutes.”
I want to ask why no medical questions needs to be said out loud today.
I do not.
The interview area is set near the shaded edge of the pitch. Sponsor backdrop. Two microphones. Three cameras. Four reporters. Sienna at the end of the line with Scott beside her.
Not first.
Not pushing.
Not safe either.
The first reporter asks about travel.
I answer.
The second asks about the Final opponent’s high press.
I answer better because soccer still has lines.
The third asks whether Charlotte’s final session was designed to test late-match fatigue.
Interesting wording.
Test late-match fatigue.
Not prepare for it.
Test.
My fingers tighten around the water bottle.
“We prepare for match situations,” I say. “Fatigue is part of tournament soccer. The team needs to make good decisions when legs are heavy and the stadium is loud.”
“Do you expect to play full minutes if required?”
Morgan’s head turns from the hydration area.
Coach stills near the equipment cart.
Sienna’s face does not change, which tells me her face wants to.
I look at the reporter.
Young. Eager. Not from Northline. His camera operator is already zooming.
“That decision belongs to the coaching and medical staff,” I say. “My job is to prepare, communicate honestly, and be ready for whatever helps the team.”
Polished.
Clean.
A sentence with no handle.
He tries again. “Have you been given any limitation heading into the Final?”
“No player reaches a Final without management plans,” I say. “We follow ours.”
Morgan’s expression shifts by one degree.
Approval.
Or at least less disapproval.
The reporter opens his mouth again.
The media coordinator steps in. “Next.”
Sienna.
She steps forward with her microphone in hand. The camera light comes on, and everything in me closes by instinct.
Her eyes catch that.
Pain flickers.
So fast I almost miss it.
Almost.
“Captain Vale,” she says.
“Miss Voss.”
There is no warmth in it.
I hear the absence.
So does she.
Scott’s camera stays steady.
Sienna’s hand tightens once around the microphone, then settles.
“The team leaves for New York/New Jersey today,” she says. “How do you keep the Final bubble from becoming a distraction before you even reach the stadium?”
Fair question.