Chapter 21 — The Media Blackout Cracks
The media blackout wasn’t a formal thing.
It was a vibe.
A silent agreement everyone followed because no one wanted to be the reason soccer turned into a circus again.
Max left the facility through the side exit, hood up, headphones in, pretending he was invisible.
He almost made it.
“Max Delgado!”
The voice cut through the air like a whistle.
A reporter stepped out from behind a parked SUV, phone already recording, mic flag bright with a local station logo. She moved fast—trained fast—closing space like she’d done this a hundred times.
Max stopped.
Not because he wanted to.
Because his body reacted before his brain could smooth it out.
His shoulders went rigid. His jaw locked.
He pulled one earbud out slowly, eyes flat and sharp. “What.”
The reporter smiled like she’d just won something. “Just a quick comment about the suspension. People are saying it’s a pattern. Are you worried—”
Max’s eyes flashed.
Not loud yet. Not explosive.
But Sabrina saw the first spark, the one that usually made the rest inevitable.
She moved without rushing.
She didn’t touch him. Didn’t grab his arm. Didn’t “calm him down.”
She stepped into the space between them like a door closing.
Clipboard in hand. Lanyard visible. Neutral face. Steady voice.
“No comment,” Sabrina said, calm and firm. “Follow the department policy. If you have questions, contact athletics communications.”
The reporter’s smile thinned. “And you are—”
“Support staff,” Sabrina replied. “No comment.”
Max stared at the reporter for one beat longer than he should have, nostrils flaring like he could taste the trap.
Sabrina didn’t look at him.
She didn’t need to.
She gave him the exit without making it personal.
Max’s hand clenched at his side, then unclenched.
He inhaled.
Three breaths—quiet, controlled—like he was counting them with his teeth.
Then he turned and walked.
No words.
No gesture.
No headline-worthy moment.
The reporter called after him anyway, voice bright with frustration. “Max, are you saying you regret it?”
Max didn’t look back.
Sabrina stayed between the reporter and the door until Max was gone, then gave one final, polite sentence.
“Please email communications,” she repeated.
She walked back inside with her heartbeat loud in her ears and her posture locked into professional calm.
In the hallway, Max was leaning against the wall near the water fountain, hood still up, eyes fixed on the floor like he was holding himself together with pure spite.
Sabrina stopped a few feet away.
“You did it,” she said quietly.
Max’s laugh was short and humorless. “Did what. Didn’t murder a microphone.”
Sabrina’s mouth twitched, barely. “You didn’t explode.”
Max swallowed. His voice came out rougher than he wanted. “Felt like I was about to.”
Sabrina nodded once. “And you didn’t.”
Max exhaled, slow, like the air had been stuck behind his ribs. His eyes lifted to her for half a second—too honest, too raw—then dropped again.
It wasn’t thanks.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Later that night, the gossip feed did what it always did—turned someone’s restraint into entertainment.
“Reporter tried Delgado. Delgado didn’t explode. Riverview is evolving.”
Sabrina read it once.
Then she locked her phone and went back to her notes.
Because the truth wasn’t “evolving.”
The truth was Max had been standing on the edge, and for the first time, he’d stepped back.