CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SIENNA
The New York/New Jersey broadcast centre is what happens when soccer, television, money, and panic all decide to rent the same building.
It has too many screens.
That is my first thought.
Not professional.
Not insightful.
Definitely not the kind of observation that gets someone promoted into prime tournament coverage.
Still true.
Screens hang from every wall and roll past on portable carts. One shows live fan-zone footage. One shows a tactical preview with arrows moving across a digital pitch. One shows the rival headline about Darius’s fitness, because apparently the universe is committed to being rude in high definition.
Questions Swirl Around Kings Captain’s Fitness Before Global Cup Final
I look away.
Too late.
The words have already hooked under my ribs.
Around me, the broadcast centre moves at a speed that makes Charlotte look sleepy.
Producers shout timing windows. Camera operators wheel cases through taped lanes.
Translators move in pairs with headsets around their necks.
Sponsor reps check logo placement on step-and-repeat walls.
Someone jogs past carrying three coffees and a panic expression.
Beyond the glass doors, the fan zone pulses with chants, flags, food trucks, and kids chasing mini balls between barricades while security pretends not to smile.
This is the room I always wanted to be in.
Big assignment.
Big pressure.
Big screens.
Big enough that being overlooked should be impossible.
My press credential knocks against my chest as I adjust my laptop bag.
I let myself feel it.
I made it here.
Then my phone buzzes.
Darius.
I know before I look.
That is a problem for later.
Maybe every problem is for later now.
I step out of the main walkway and into a narrow pocket beside a stack of folded sponsor banners. The air smells like vinyl, coffee, overheated cables, and whatever expensive floor cleaner stadiums use when they need panic to smell professional.
I unlock my phone.
Darius’s message sits there, simple and impossible.
I saw it. You told the truth and still let me keep myself.
My chest tightens so hard I have to hold the edge of the banner cart.
The apology under the apology.
Not I’m sorry.
Not I was wrong.
Something more specific.
He saw what I chose.
He saw what it cost.
He saw that I could have taken more and did not.
For a moment, I am back at the media van in Charlotte, his face tight with hurt, mine trying not to break under it.
Did you leak it?
I close my eyes.
I want to forgive him immediately.
That is annoying.
I also want to make him sit with it.
That is probably healthier.
Or petty.
Maybe both.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I type: Thank you.
Delete.
Too easy.
I type: I told you I didn’t use it.
Delete.
Too sharp.
I type: I wish you had trusted me.
I stare at that one.
It is true.
It is also a blade without a handle.
A crew member bumps the banner cart from the other side. “Sorry.”
“All good.”
Liar.
I move farther into the corner, near a closed equipment closet.
My phone waits.
Darius waits.
Or maybe he does not. Maybe he sent the message, set his phone down, and went into a team meeting full of ice wraps and tactical boards and people trying not to read the internet.
He should be busy.
I should be too.
Instead, I type again.
I’m glad you saw it.
That part is clean.
I send it before I can overthink it.
Then I stare at the bubble.
It is not enough.
My thumb moves.
I wish you had believed it before you needed proof.
I send that too.
My stomach drops immediately.
No taking it back.
No softening it.
No little smiley face to pretend I did not mean the whole thing.
The message turns blue.
Three dots appear.
My breath catches.
Then they disappear.
Good.
No.
Not good.
Necessary.
He should have to think.
I should have to work.
I tuck the phone into my blazer pocket and step back into the broadcast centre like my heart has not just run a sprint in sensible shoes.
Ten seconds later Maren finds me.
She’s standing beside a rolling monitor with a tablet in one hand and a headset around her neck. Her hair looks like it has personally defeated humidity. I resent that.
“There you are,” she says.
“I was gone ninety seconds.”
“Ninety Final-bubble seconds.”
“We’re still doing that?”
“Until it stops being true.”
The monitor beside her shows our feature thumbnail.
Darius at the hotel send-off, Tyler in his cape at the edge of frame, the crooked brING IT HOME, KINGS! banner behind them.
The title sits underneath.
THE CAPTAIN WHO LEARNED THE NEXT RIGHT PASS
Below that, early engagement numbers crawl upward.
Not explode.
Climb.
Steady.
Long watch time.
High share rate.
Comments.
Youth clubs tagging players.
Parents talking about captains.
Former athletes posting about pressure and playing hurt and learning the difference between toughness and stupidity.
I try not to breathe like that matters.
It matters.
Maren watches me watch the numbers.
“Don’t look smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re considering it.”
“I’m considering gratitude.”
“That would be worse.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
She taps the tablet. “The feature is working.”
“Good.”
“Do not make me regret saying that.”
“I’ll try to behave with dignity.”
“Please don’t. It will alarm everyone.”
Then her face shifts.
The other story.
“The rival article is still getting clicks,” she says.
“I know.”
“Panels are picking it up.”
“I know.”
“Digital wants us ready to address it if the question comes during official training.”
“If the question comes, we answer with context.”
Maren’s eyebrows lift. “We?”
I hear it a second too late.
We.
Not me.
Not you.
We.
I straighten. “The broadcast. The network. The people with microphones who can either make it worse or make it clear.”
Maren studies me.
I let her.
Finally, she nods once. “Official training access opens in thirty-five minutes. I want you live from the sideline before the Kings begin their open phase.”
“With the injury angle?”
“With the pressure angle.”
That stops me.
Maren’s mouth curves slightly. “Do not look so moved. It’s unsettling.”
“I’m not moved.”
“Another poor lie.”
“Pressure,” I repeat.
“Yes. Leadership. Trust. The tactical demands. The small-town roots inside this enormous Final machine.” She gestures toward the screens, the booths, the noise. “Your heart thing, but with spine.”
“My heart thing has always had spine.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
I nod because I am learning.
Slowly.
Painfully.
In public.
Maren looks down at her tablet again. “If Darius brings up the knee, we follow it. If another reporter asks him directly, we cover the answer. We do not pretend the article doesn’t exist.”
“Agreed.”
“But we don't lead with the rumour.”
The relief is sharp enough to sting.
“Thank you,” I say.
She points the tablet at me. “Numbers supported the decision.”
“Of course.”
“And the line about the next right pass is obnoxiously effective.”
“I’ll try not to quote you.”
“Good. I’ll deny it.”
She turns away, already calling someone named Ben about lower thirds.
I stand there for half a second and let the room keep moving around me.
The feature is working.
The rival article is still moving.
Darius has seen the truth.
Darius has also seen the wound.
No full repair yet.
Maybe good things shouldn’t be rushed just because everyone in television believes dead air is a crime.
Scott appears at my side with his camera bag and a cup of coffee.
He hands me the coffee.
I take it. “Is this safe?”
“Emotionally or medically?”
“Either.”
“Unclear.”
I drink it anyway.
It is terrible.
“Wow,” I say.
“Right? Keeps you humble.”
“I have plenty doing that already.”
His gaze flicks to my pocket.
I narrow my eyes. “Do not be observant at me.”
“I would never.”
“You are doing it right now.”
“I’m standing here with coffee and concern.”
“Worse.”
He smiles and nods toward the glass doors. “We need fan-zone colour before training.”
“Colour?”
“Flags, chanting, kids, people who look like they love soccer enough to risk sunburn.”
I take one more sip of terrible coffee and hand it back to him. “Lead the way.”
The fan zone outside the broadcast centre feels like stepping from a control room into a heartbeat.
Noise hits first.
Not one noise.
Layers.
A chant in one corner. A drum line near the sponsor stage.
Kids shrieking as they pass a foam ball through a tiny pop-up goal.
Vendors calling orders. Camera drones humming overhead.
A giant screen replaying the Kings’ semi-final goal while a group in blue-and-gold erupts as if it has just happened live.
Flags snap in the wind.
Food trucks line the plaza, filling the air with grilled onions, fries, coffee, sugar, and summer heat rising off concrete.
Security barriers create lanes between broadcast crews, fans, and tournament staff.
Volunteers hand out paper schedules. A little boy in a Colton jersey wears shin guards with sandals.
Bold choice.
I respect it.
Scott lifts the camera.
I start taking notes.
Not for lines yet.
For feeling.
The scale matters.
This is not Charlotte. Not Briarwood. Not the hotel curb with crooked poster board and muffins.
This is the Global Cup Final.
Big screens. International press. Sponsor walls. Fans in shirts from a dozen places. Cameras pointed at everything that moves.
And then, tucked near the edge of the plaza, I see them.
Kings fans.
Maybe twenty of them clustered around a temporary table, blue-and-gold shirts bright against the global crowd. One has a handmade sign that says brIARWOOD BELIEVES. Another has printed out Tyler’s cape photo and taped it to poster board.
My throat tightens.
Small town.
Big machine.
Same heartbeat.
A woman spots my credential and waves. “You’re the reporter!”
This could mean several things.
Some good.
Some requiring security.
I smile. “I am a reporter.”
“No, the one from the piece.” She points at me like she has solved a puzzle. “You made Coach Miller cry again.”
A man beside her says, “He was already crying.”
“I was not,” Coach Miller says.
I turn.
Of course he’s here.
He stands behind the group in a Kings cap, arms folded, eyes suspiciously shiny.