CHAPTER SIXTEEN #3
Clean question.
Too clean.
“The same way we handle pressure on the pitch,” I say. “We keep the next action clear. Travel. Recovery. Official training. Film. Rest. If you start trying to play the Final three days early, you waste energy you’ll need when the whistle goes.”
She nods. “And after a week where trust has been a theme around this team, has that changed how you lead?”
A softer question.
The one she asks when she wants the real answer.
Last night, I would have given it to her.
Last night, she cut the camera and gave something back.
This morning, the press is watching my knee.
This morning, she knows something I do not.
This morning, every honest answer feels like a room with a hidden microphone.
“No,” I say.
Her eyes still.
“Leadership is consistency. The team knows what to expect from me. That doesn’t change because the stage gets bigger.”
The answer is empty.
Useful.
Empty.
Sienna feels it.
Her chin dips a fraction, not quite a nod.
She lowers the microphone when Scott cuts.
The other reporters begin packing. The media coordinator steps toward Coach. For half a second, the space around us opens.
Sienna moves closer, voice low. “Darius.”
My first name.
Not for the camera.
That makes it worse.
I look at the far goal instead of her face. “We’re done?”
“With the interview, yes.”
“Then I have recovery.”
“If a story starts moving before you’re ready,” she says, “you need to know not every person near it chose that.”
The words hit like confirmation.
A story is moving.
She knows.
She has known all morning.
Maybe last night too.
I look at her then.
The sun is behind her, bright enough that I have to squint. Her press credential catches the light. Her mouth is set, but her eyes are not cold. They are trying to tell me something without giving me the thing itself.
That should matter.
It does not matter enough.
“That is the thing about people near stories, Miss Voss,” I say. “They always know more than they admit.”
Her face changes.
A flinch so small no camera would catch it.
I catch it.
I hate that I catch it.
I hate more that I do not take the words back.
Her hand drops to her side. “I’m trying to be careful.”
“Careful is not the same as honest.”
The sentence leaves my mouth before the better part of me can stop it.
Now the pain in her face is not small.
It is contained.
Professional.
She puts the mask on so cleanly I understand for one terrible second how often she has had to do it.
“Understood,” she says.
That is worse than an argument.
“Sienna.”
Her name comes out before I can decide what to do with it.
She waits.
One heartbeat.
Two.
I could ask.
I could say, What do you know?
I could say, Did you tell Maren?
I could say, I am scared and angry and you are the only person I want to believe, which is exactly why I am choosing not to.
Instead, I choose the worst safe thing.
“We should keep the rest of the access to official settings,” I say. “Cleaner that way.”
Cleaner.
The word lands between us like a door closing.
Sienna’s eyes shine for half a second.
Then nothing.
Reporter face.
Camera-ready.
Knife-proof.
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll coordinate through media relations.”
She steps back.
Scott looks between us, then lowers his camera bag without speaking.
Good man.
Better man than me, apparently.
Sienna turns and walks toward the media exit.
I stand there with sweat cooling on my shirt, a water bottle crushed in my hand, and the taste of a mistake already bitter in my mouth.
Morgan appears at my side.
“Recovery,” she says.
I do not move.
“Darius.”
“I heard you.”
“Did you?”
I look toward the media doors, but Sienna is already gone.
Morgan follows my gaze.
Her face gives nothing away.
“You don’t know what you think you know,” she says.
I turn to her. “And what do I think I know?”
She gives me the look.
The one that says I am being foolish enough for the answer to be obvious.
“I’m not your emotional trainer,” she says. “I only handle muscle damage.”
“That’s convenient.”
“No. It’s boundaries. Try them sometime.”
She walks toward the recovery hallway.
I follow because my knee hurts, my pride hurts worse, and apparently Morgan is the only person on earth allowed to insult me while improving my medical outcome.
Near the loading bay, Nathan waits with two equipment bags slung over his shoulders and one duffel at his feet. He looks from my face to the media exit.
Then back.
“What?” I say.
He sets one bag down. “Whatever you think she did, you better be sure before you make it true.”
The words stop me cold.
Nathan doesn’t wait for an answer.
He picks up the bag and heads toward the travel crates marked NY/NJ FINAL WEEK.
I stand there as the facility moves around me.
Players laughing too loudly.
Staff calling numbers.
Equipment wheels rattling over concrete.
Morgan waiting near recovery with an ice wrap in one hand and impatience in both eyes.
Outside, somewhere beyond the doors, the media pack waits for a story to break.
And I realize too late that fear does not only make people run.
Sometimes it makes them swing first.
***