CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SIENNA
Darius Vale has gone cold on me, Maren wants blood by noon, and the leaked note in my inbox feels less like a document than a loaded match waiting for somebody careless.
The temporary broadcast office smells like burnt coffee, printer toner, and stress.
It is technically a hotel conference room, but Northline has turned it into a production bunker with folding tables, extension cords, camera cases, open laptops, three half-dead plants, and a whiteboard covered in names, times, access windows, and enough arrows to qualify as a tactical breakdown.
NY/NJ TRAVEL DAY is written across the top in red marker.
Under it, someone has circled FINAL BUBBLE ARRIVAL three times.
As if circling the words makes the chaos more obedient.
I sit at the end of the table with my laptop angled away from the room, the leaked file open inside the secure folder.
DO NOT USE WITHOUT CONFIRMATION.
The folder name feels more like a prayer than a system.
I scroll through the PDF again.
Charlotte Kings Player: D. Vale
Status: monitored load
Recommendation: avoid full-match workload if possible; Reassess pre-Final
Medical staff to coordinate with coaching staff regarding minutes management
The words do not change.
That seems rude.
I click into the email header, then the expanded details, then the forwarding chain again. Most of it is stripped. Whoever sent this to Maren either knows enough to clean a trail or forwarded something already scrubbed. Tournament operations. External inbox. Maren.
Not my footage.
Not my notes.
Not Morgan.
Not directly, anyway.
My coffee sits untouched beside my keyboard.
The surface has gone dull and cold.
I take one sip anyway.
Mistake.
Across the room, a production assistant says into a headset, “No, media bus two goes to the airport first. Fan-zone crew is separate. No, not that bus. If you put camera three on that bus, camera three will be in New Jersey and its tripod will be in Charlotte.”
Someone else groans.
Normal people would hear logistics.
I hear a countdown.
Noon deadline.
Travel.
Final bubble.
Darius walking past me in the lobby, voice low and ordinary.
Morning.
Then on the training pitch, the same voice gone cold.
Careful is not the same as honest.
I close my eyes.
Not long enough to be weakness.
Long enough to keep from typing something emotional into a folder name and calling it workflow.
When I open them, Maren is standing at the other end of the table.
She has a tablet in one hand, a coffee in the other, and the kind of expression that makes junior staff suddenly remember urgent tasks in different rooms.
“Sienna,” she says.
Not a greeting.
A summons.
I lock the screen.
Her eyebrows rise. “That private?”
“Yes.”
Wrong answer.
Her mouth flattens. “Conference corner. Now.”
I stand, grab my laptop, and follow her to the far side of the room near the folded partition wall. The carpet is patterned in green and gold swirls, which might be intended to feel upscale but mostly looks like a salad losing an argument.
Maren sets her coffee on a windowsill and turns to me.
“Where are we?”
“Working through verification.”
“That’s not where we are. That’s where you are hiding.”
Heat climbs up the back of my neck. “I’m not hiding.”
“You have a document that gives us the strongest Final-week angle in the building, and you’re treating it like a diary you found in middle school.”
“It’s an internal player availability note.”
“It’s a leaked internal note relevant to the biggest match of the week.”
“Leaked is doing work in that sentence.”
“So is relevant.”
The room keeps moving behind her. Phones. Headsets. Rolling cases. Export pings. Every sound says hurry.
Maren leans closer. “We do not need to publish the document. We need to use it to ask the obvious question.”
“The obvious question can still be reckless.”
“The obvious question is whether the Kings captain is fully fit for the Global Cup Final.”
“And the responsible version is that athletes at this stage are almost always managing something, and without comment or context, turning load management into scandal is lazy.”
Maren stares at me.
I stare back.
My pulse is too loud.
She lowers her voice. “You’re getting sentimental.”
“I’m getting accurate.”
“You’re getting protective.”
The word lands where it hurts because it is not entirely wrong.
I think of Darius in the business centre. His hand at my jaw. His voice when he said, I’ll follow your lead on what’s safe.
I think of Darius on the training pitch today, looking at me like I had handed his name to the wolves.
I think of the way his face changed when I said, If a story starts moving before you’re ready.
Protective is not the whole truth.
But it is in the room.
I can’t pretend otherwise.
“I am protecting the story from becoming smaller than it is,” I say.
Maren makes a sound under her breath. “That’s a beautiful sentence.”
“Don’t say beautiful like it means weak.”
“I say beautiful because it is beautiful. I say weak because you are dodging the part that makes it news.”
A camera case thumps behind us.
I flinch.
Maren notices.
She steps back and folds her arms. “Here’s what I think.”
“I’m sure I’ll treasure it.”
“I think you found the heart of the feature. I think it works. I also think you kissed the subject, or came close enough that you’re now making editorial decisions inside a fog machine.”
The air leaves the room.
Not all at once.
Slowly, like a punctured ball.
My face goes hot.
I do not move.
That is the only victory I manage.
Maren’s eyes narrow. “There it is.”
“There is nothing you need to know for production.”
“That is exactly the kind of sentence people say when there is something production needs to know.”
I hold the laptop tighter against my ribs. “My coverage is clean.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove that?”
The question should make me angry.
It does.
But underneath, something colder opens.
Because Maren is my producer.
Because she is sharp and ambitious and sometimes ruthless, but she is not stupid.
Because if she sees the risk this quickly, others will too.
“I have not used private material,” I say. “I have not buried confirmed information. I have not given Darius or the Kings editorial control. I have not shown him the leak. I have not shared the leak with anyone outside this conversation.”
Maren watches my face. “But you want to.”
The quiet answer burns more than the loud one would.
I look at the carpet salad.
Then back at her.
“Yes.”
That surprises her.
I need one point on the board.
“I want to tell him because he deserves to know a story may be moving before he gets ambushed by it,” I say.
“I have not told him because I know the difference between warning a person and becoming their back channel. I’m trying to keep that line intact while you keep trying to paint it as softness. ”
Maren looks away first.
Not a full win.
A half inch.
I will take it.
“You have until noon,” she says.
“My answer isn’t changing.”
“Then your plan had better be excellent.”
“It will be.”
“If it isn’t, I assign Luca to the injury thread.”
The name hits like a slap.
Luca Grant.
Aggressive, polished, always looking for the part of a story that bleeds fastest. The kind of reporter who calls people sources before he calls them people.
“You assign Luca,” I say, “and this becomes a spectacle before the Kings even board the plane.”
“Maybe.”
“Maren.”
Her eyes harden. “Maybe the spectacle is already coming, and the question is whether we lead it or watch someone else own it.”
“Own it.” I laugh once. Bad sound. “That’s the problem.”
“The problem is you keep saying heart like it exempts you from pressure.”
“No.” I step closer. “The problem is you keep treating heart like it can’t handle pressure.”
We stare at each other.
Behind us, the production assistant says, “Camera three and its tripod are reunited. Love wins.”
No one laughs.
Maren picks up her coffee. “Noon.”
Then she walks away.
I stand in the conference corner with my laptop clutched to my chest and my pulse kicking against the plastic edge.
My phone buzzes.
For one terrible second, I think it might be Darius.
It is not.
Team media update.
Kings equipment load-out underway. Restricted access. Approved media remain in marked areas.
Morgan.
The thought comes so quickly I almost drop the phone.
Morgan needs to know.
Not the document itself.
Not from me as a source.
But the team deserves to know the question is coming.
There is a difference.
I grab my bag and head for the door before I can talk myself into a safer delay.
The facility loading bay is controlled chaos.
Equipment crates line the concrete in neat rows.
Medical cases sit near the wall, each labelled with obsessive precision.
Tape. Braces. Ice wraps. Hydration. Recovery.
Emergency. Morgan’s handwriting is visible on half of them because apparently she labels supplies the way other people write threats.
The loading doors are open to the morning heat. Sunlight slices across the floor. A truck idles outside. Staff roll carts over the concrete, wheels rattling. Players move through in waves, bags over shoulders, travel jackets half-zipped, voices bouncing off the walls.
I spot Morgan near the medical crates.
She has a tablet balanced on one forearm and a roll of athletic tape tucked into the pocket of her team vest. Her hair is pulled back, no loose strands, no nonsense. Colton stands six feet away holding two boxes and looking like a man trying very hard not to make a joke.
Morgan looks up before I reach her.
Her eyes sharpen.
Colton follows her gaze, sees me, and suddenly becomes fascinated by the boxes.
Smart man.
“Morgan,” I say.
She taps something on her tablet. “This is a restricted area.”
“I know.”
“Then your next sentence should be impressive.”
Fair.
I step closer, keeping my voice low. “A leaked internal note exists.”
Everything around us keeps moving.
Wheels rattle.
A staffer calls for crate numbers.
Someone laughs outside by the truck.
Morgan goes very still.
Not frozen.
Still.
There is a difference. Frozen is fear. Still is control finding a target.