EPILOGUE
SIENNA
Two months after the Global Cup Final, I stand at the edge of Briarwood FC with a microphone in my bag, Darius Vale’s hand in mine, and absolutely no intention of turning either one into a shield.
This is progress.
Possibly maturity.
Possibly heatstroke.
Briarwood in late summer is very proud of both.
The field looks greener than it did the first time I came here, though that might be because I no longer see it through the lens of needing something from it.
The goalposts still lean slightly. The clubhouse paint still peels near the gutters.
The snack table is still too close to the raffle table, which means three people have already almost bought cupcakes with prize tickets.
A crooked banner hangs between two poles near the entrance.
WELCOME HOME, GLOBAL CUP KINGS!
Underneath, in smaller letters someone definitely added later:
AND SIENNA TOO!
I stop walking.
Darius stops with me.
His fingers tighten around mine. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“I practiced in the car.”
“Terrible strategy. Makes you look guilty.”
“I am innocent.”
The banner sags in the middle, glitter catching the sun. The word SIENNA tilts sharply downhill, like my name has lost confidence halfway across.
My throat tightens anyway.
Darius watches my face.
He is very bad at pretending not to.
“Too much?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to take it down?”
“No.”
The answer comes fast.
Too fast.
His mouth curves.
I narrow my eyes. “Do not look pleased.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am considering gratitude.”
I laugh, because apparently his sense of humour has been infected by mine. Or mine by his.
A dangerous development either way.
Around us, Briarwood FC is in full fundraiser chaos.
Kids in Kings jerseys run passing drills on the far side of the field.
Parents carry folding chairs. Someone is selling raffle tickets from a plastic cash box with a sticker that says GO KINGS.
The smell of hot dogs, cut grass, lemonade powder, and sunscreen wraps the whole place in the kind of summer that should probably come with background music.
This time, I am not here on assignment.
Technically.
My microphone is in my bag because old habits and new jobs both require preparedness. But no camera crew follows me. No producer talks in my ear. No red light asks me to turn a human moment into usable footage.
I am here because Coach Miller asked.
Then Mrs. Hanley asked.
Then Tyler sent Darius a video invitation in full cape.
No one survives that.
A little girl from the youth team spots us and waves so hard her whole arm becomes a weather event. “Darius! Sienna!”
Three more kids turn.
Then six.
Then the field notices.
Darius mutters, “Brace.”
“For what?”
“Briarwood affection.”
“That sounds wholesome.”
“It is not always legal.”
The kids swarm him first, which is correct. He is, after all, the captain who helped win the Global Cup Final.
Then two of them hug me too.
I freeze for half a second.
Darius feels it through my hand but does not save me from it.
I am learning to receive.
Slowly.
Awkwardly.
With witnesses.
“You came back,” Tyler says, cape tied crookedly around his shoulders.
“I did.”
“Are you filming?”
“Not today.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Because some days are just for being somewhere.”
He considers this with the seriousness of a child who once asked the question that changed a championship story.
Then he nods. “Okay. But if I do something impressive, you can write it down.”
“I’ll keep my notebook ready.”
Darius leans down. “What counts as impressive?”
Tyler looks offended. “You’ll know.”
He sprints back toward the drills.
Darius straightens, shaking his head. “Future captain.”
“Future network problem,” I say.
“Also that.”
We walk toward the field, where Coach Miller is pretending not to supervise sixteen things at once and failing at all of them. He has a whistle around his neck, a clipboard under one arm, and a paper plate balanced on a folding chair behind him.
He sees us and points the clipboard.
“You’re late.”
Darius checks his watch. “We’re early.”
“Only because I told everyone the wrong time to make sure you were early.”
I look at Darius.
He says, “Briarwood strategy.”
“Briarwood manipulation,” I say.
Coach Miller beams. “Same thing if it works.”
He pulls Darius into a hug first, one hard thump on the back that makes Darius close his eyes for half a second.
Then Coach Miller turns to me.
For a moment, I brace.
Not for criticism.
Not exactly.
For the weight of being included by people who know how much inclusion costs when it is real.
Coach Miller studies me, then nods toward the banner. “Too crooked?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Good. We measured emotionally.”
“That explains a lot.”
He laughs, then lowers his voice. “You made this place look like home.”
The same thing he told me before the Final.
This time, it still lands.
But it does not knock the breath out of me.
This time, I can hold it.
“Thank you for trusting me with it,” I say.
He gives a gruff little sound and looks toward the field. “Didn’t at first.”
“I know.”
“Good thing people can improve.”
Darius coughs.
I look at him. “Something to add?”
“Nothing safe.”
Coach Miller points the clipboard at him. “You, go run the passing station before Colton teaches step overs to children with poor insurance coverage.”
“Where is Colton?”
A shriek rises from the far side of the field.
Then Colton’s voice.
“THAT WAS ARTISTIC!”
Morgan’s voice follows. “That was reckless!”
Darius sighs. “Found him.”
We cross the grass toward the medical-awareness booth, which is Morgan’s idea and, from what I can tell, Colton’s excuse to hand out stickers.
One sign reads:
STRETCH FIRST, HERO LATER.
Another reads:
HYDRATE BEFORE YOU CELEbrATE.
A third, clearly not Morgan-approved, reads:
MORGAN KNOWS BEST. COLTON SOMETIMES CONTRIBUTES.
Morgan stands behind the table in sunglasses, arms crossed, looking like a woman who has accepted victory but not nonsense.
Colton stands beside her, grinning, with a roll of stickers in one hand and a soccer ball under one foot.
“Sienna Voss,” he says. “Reporter of truth. Slayer of bad headlines. Maker of Darius emotionally verbal.”
“Do not call me that.”
“Too late. It’s on the imaginary plaque.”
Morgan looks at me over her sunglasses. “Ignore him. We all try.”
“I hear the campaign is going well.”
“Children have learned more about ankle support in one hour than Colton did in twenty-seven years.”
Colton places one hand over his heart. “Wounded.”
“Not medically.”
Darius picks up one of the stickers. “Stretch first, hero later?”
Morgan points at him. “You’re welcome.”
“I feel targeted.”
“You were.”
I laugh, and it feels easy.
That is new too.
Morgan’s gaze shifts to me. “The network series launched?”
I nod. “First episode went live last week.”
“Human stories behind elite sport?”
“That’s the one.”
“Good numbers?”
“Good enough that Maren texted me three exclamation points, then claimed it was a typo.”
Morgan’s mouth twitches.
Darius squeezes my hand.
He knows what that series means.
Not just a career step.
A choice that held.
After the Final, the network gave me a new segment series: real pressure, real athletes, real context. Not soft pieces. Not scandal pieces. Stories that ask better questions.
Maren still pushes.
I still push back.
The difference is, now she expects me to.
Sometimes she even enjoys it.
Probably.
Secretly.
With limited facial movement.
“You look happy,” Morgan says.
The words catch me off guard.
“I am.”
She nods once, like that is clinically acceptable. “Good.”
Colton leans across the table. “And if Darius becomes difficult, I offer consulting.”
Darius says, “You are not qualified.”
“I have survived love, sport, injury, and Morgan. I’m overqualified.”
Morgan looks at me. “Do not take relationship advice from a man who once called chocolate milk a recovery beverage.”
“It had calories,” Colton says.
Darius and I say together, “Morgan said calories.”
Morgan closes her eyes. “I regret introducing nutrition.”
We are still laughing when Nathan arrives late.
Very late.
Very casual about it.
Which means not casual at all.
He crosses the grass in a navy Kings shirt, sunglasses on, phone in hand, expression arranged into the kind of neutrality only emotionally chaotic people think looks convincing.
Darius sees him first.
Then I see the phone.
Then Nathan sees us seeing the phone.
“No,” he says.
“I haven’t said anything,” Darius says.
“You had a face.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Your face is smug.”
“My face has won a Global Cup.”
“Unbearable,” Nathan says.
His phone buzzes.
He does not look.
Then looks.
Immediately.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Darius lifts his eyebrows.
Nathan points at both of us. “Do not start.”
“Still silent,” I say.
“Journalist silence is suspicious.”
“I’ve been told.”
He glances at the screen again.
The name flashes before he tilts it away.
Emily.
Then a parent near the snack table gasps loudly enough to turn half the field.
“She’s on!” the parent calls.
Someone props a phone on a stack of napkins. A small group gathers around the screen. The volume is low, but the video is clear.
Women’s Ocean Cup training coverage.
A blonde defender in a white training kit steps into frame, claps twice, and organizes a back line with the kind of authority that makes everyone else immediately look smarter.
Emily.
She moves like focus.
Sharp. Calm. Fierce.
She points one player wider, drops another two steps, then intercepts a pass before it becomes dangerous. No wasted movement. No hesitation. No apology.
Nathan goes very still.
Darius does not say a word.
I do not say a word either.
I am growing.
Painfully.
Colton appears behind Nathan and looks over his shoulder. “Oh.”
Nathan turns slowly. “No.”
Colton raises both hands. “I only said a vowel.”
“Say fewer.”
Morgan, who has also noticed because Morgan notices everything, looks at me, then at Darius, then at Nathan.
Her expression says: later.
Nathan clears his throat. “I’m going to move cones.”
“There are no cones near you,” Darius says.
“I will find some.”