CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #3
Back in the broadcast office, Maren is waiting.
Literally waiting.
She sits at my station, which is bold even for her.
I stop in the doorway.
She looks up. “Did you warn them?”
I walk in slowly. “I warned Morgan that a story may be moving.”
Maren’s eyes narrow. “You made her a source?”
“No.”
“Did you show her the document?”
“No.”
“Did you give her details?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly did you accomplish?”
“I let the medical staff know their athlete’s private planning may be in the public conversation before someone shoves a microphone in his face.”
“That sounds very noble.”
“It sounds very basic.”
“It sounds like you are choosing sides.”
I set my bag on the table. “I am.”
The room quiets.
Not fully.
Enough.
Maren’s jaw tightens.
I open my laptop and turn it toward me. “I’m choosing the side of context. I’m choosing the side of not making a responsible medical recommendation sound like a cover-up. I’m choosing the side of asking hard questions without pretending incomplete information is bravery.”
Maren says nothing.
I log in, open the Briarwood project, and pull up the new structure.
“Here’s the story,” I say.
She leans back. “This should be good.”
I ignore that.
“The question is not, Is Darius Vale hurt? That’s small. Everyone at this stage is managing something. The question is, What does leadership look like when the world expects one person to carry everything?”
Maren’s eyes flick to the timeline.
I keep going.
“The package opens with Briarwood. Not as charm. As origin. Then training. Pressure. Trust. The next right pass. Darius learning that captaincy does not mean taking every run, every question, every burden alone. We include the physical demand of the Final, but we do not use leaked internal notes as a trapdoor under him.”
Maren stares at the screen.
The timeline shows Darius with the kids, then Nathan correcting Mateo, then Colton checking into space, then Coach Miller at the fence, then Darius saying, Fear does not get the only vote.
I don’t look at that clip too long.
“What about the leak?” Maren asks.
“We hold it. We use it only if we can confirm, get comment, and frame it responsibly. Otherwise, we let the feature create the context so if someone else runs ugly, we already have the better truth in the world.”
Maren’s mouth twists. “The better truth.”
“Yes.”
“You sound like a campaign slogan.”
“You sound like someone who knows I’m right and hates it.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
Too far?
Maybe.
No.
Not today.
I think she might end me.
Then she laughs.
Short.
Sharp.
Not warm.
But real.
“Fine,” she says. “Show me the cut.”
I sit.
My hands only shake once before I press play.
The room hums around us. The export drive ticks. Someone behind me argues about airport credentials. My phone lights up beside my laptop.
Darius.
My heart trips.
I do not reach for it.
Maren sees the screen.
The message preview is short.
Can we talk before travel?
My hand freezes above the trackpad.
Maren looks at me.
“Play the cut,” she says.
I turn the phone face down.
The small sound it makes against the table feels louder than it should.
Then I press play.
Briarwood fills the monitor.
Kids in blue-and-gold jerseys.
A crooked banner.
Darius kneeling to listen to a child.
Coach Miller’s voice over the footage.
Some kids are loud when they need help. Some kids become helpful instead.
Maren watches without speaking.
When the clip ends, her face is unreadable.
That is not a no.
It is not a yes either.
I rebuild the feature in pieces while she sits beside me.
The leaked note stays locked away.
The knee does not become the spine.
Pressure does.
Team does.
Trust does.
Darius does, but not as a wound to prod.
As a man inside a system of people who refuse to let him mistake fear for duty forever.
At eleven fifty-three, I export the new draft.
Maren stands behind my chair.
“If this doesn’t land,” she says, “the injury package goes live with or without you.”
My finger hovers over the export button.
A month ago, that threat would have moved me.
Today, it still moves me.
I am not above fear.
I am just no longer willing to let it drive.
I click export.
The progress bar appears.
One percent.
Two.
Three.
My phone buzzes again, face down.
I do not turn it over.
The better story starts rendering frame by frame.
Maren walks away to take a call.
The office noise surges back in.
I sit alone at the end of the table, watching the export bar climb, with Darius’s unanswered message cooling beside my hand and a leaked document locked behind a password.
Outside, the team bus pulls away from the curb.
By the time I finally turn my phone over, the message is fifteen minutes old.
Can we talk before travel?
Below it, three dots appear.
Then disappear.
Then nothing.
The export reaches ninety-nine percent.
For one suspended second, everything waits.
Then the file completes.
And before I can decide whether to answer Darius or protect the story from one more angle, Maren’s text lands on my screen.
Remember, if this doesn’t land, the injury package goes live with or without you.
***