CHAPTER 13
EMILY
The dress hides everything.
That is the point.
Red. Tailored. Clean lines. Sponsor-approved without looking like I was dressed by a committee, though I absolutely was. The support wrap sits flat beneath it, invisible unless someone is looking for war crimes against fashion.
I turn half an inch in front of the hotel mirror.
Nothing.
Good.
Half an inch the other way.
Still nothing.
Better.
The woman in the mirror looks polished. Ocean Cup captain in formalwear. Hair pinned low. Earrings small. Lipstick confident. Posture grateful to attend this important tournament sponsor event.
My left side says rude things I choose not to repeat in formalwear.
A knock comes in three quick taps.
“Ava,” I call, “if you’re here to ask whether heels are a scam, the answer is yes.”
The door opens. Ava steps in wearing a navy dress, silver earrings, and the expression of someone who has just discovered formal events require standing still without shin guards.
“Heels are absolutely a scam,” she says. “But that’s not my question.”
“Concerning start.”
She smooths both hands down her dress. “Do I look like I borrowed someone’s adult life?”
“You look like a national team defender attending an event with excellent posture and mild panic.”
“So, yes.”
“So, normal.”
She comes closer, then stops before she reaches me.
Her eyes do the thing.
Not obvious. Not pitying. Worse.
Learned.
She reads my shoulders, my balance in these ridiculous shoes, the tiny pause before I turn back to the mirror.
I regret mentoring observant people.
“You okay?” she asks.
I reach for my clutch. “Define okay.”
“That sounds like something you’d make me define.”
“I’m managing.”
She folds her arms.
Apparently my captain stance has been weaponized against me.
“Managing can mean many things,” she says.
“It means the wrap is doing its job, the dress is hiding it, Coach Ramirez knows the plan, and I will not be sprinting through the ballroom unless someone attacks the dessert table.”
Ava studies me for another beat.
“Do you want me nearby tonight?”
The question lands gently.
Not, Do you need help?
Not, Should I watch you?
Nearby.
Tactical.
Acceptable.
“You have your own gala to survive,” I say.
“I can survive mine near yours.”
I glance back at the mirror.
The woman there still looks untouched.
Lucky her.
“Nearby is fine,” I say.
Ava nods once, like I have given an instruction on set pieces. “Good.”
“Do not hover.”
“I would never.”
“You are already emotionally hovering.”
“I’m emotionally maintaining defensive shape.”
I turn toward her fully. “That was almost clever.”
Her grin flashes. “I’m growing.”
“Yes. Tragically.”
The gala ballroom is all warm lights, gold walls, and flowers arranged tall enough to challenge for headers.
The air smells like lemon polish, lilies, sparkling water with lime, and money. Sponsors cluster near branded backdrops. Tournament staff move through the room with tablets and smiles. Camera flashes pop bright enough to turn every conversation into something that might be used later.
I enter with Ava and two midfielders, all of us wearing our public faces.
Mine is getting a workout.
“Smile less like you’re about to tackle someone,” Ava whispers.
“I am smiling like a leader.”
“You are smiling like a leader who knows where the bodies are buried.”
“That is leadership.”
Ava presses her lips together hard enough to keep from laughing.
A photographer calls my name.
“Emily, one here.”
I turn.
Smile.
Flash.
Another.
“Captain Smith, just one more.”
Smile.
Flash.
My left side pulls when I shift my weight, a quiet thread under the wrap.
I keep the smile steady.
The dress hides everything.
The room does not.
I spot Morgan near the refreshment table first. She is wearing a soft blue dress and the sharp-eyed expression of a woman supervising a buffet for medical hazards. Colton stands beside her with a small plate already loaded with three tiny desserts.
Morgan points at the plate.
Colton looks offended.
I cannot hear them over the room noise, but I do not need to.
Beside them, Darius talks with a sponsor in that calm captain way of his. Sienna stands at his side in a green dress, microphone nowhere visible, eyes still catching everything.
Then Nathan walks in.
My body notices before I give it permission.
Of course it does.
He enters with the Kings group, navy suit, white shirt, no tie. Polished, but not stiff. His hair is combed back and already refusing discipline at one side.
Annoying.
The suit fits him too well.
Also annoying.
His gaze moves across the room.
Finds me.
Stops.
Not long.
Long enough.
He looks at my face first. Then my dress. Then back to my face fast enough to be respectful and not fast enough to be unnoticeable.
Good.
No.
Not good.
Bad.
Extremely bad.
His mouth softens like he is about to smile, then he seems to remember we are in public, I am in formal armour, and he has an unfinished sentence burning somewhere between us.
He gives one small nod instead.
I return it.
Captain to champion.
Professional.
Adult.
Ava leans toward me. “You okay?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because your face changed.”
“My face is doing its job.”
“Your face did overtime.”
I take a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray. “You’re too young to be this observant.”
“You trained me.”
“Poor decision.”
“Very.”
I take a sip.
Lime. Bubbles. Regret.
Nathan stays across the room for the next ten minutes.
That should help.
It does not.
I give a sponsor quote about youth development.
I compliment the event design. I thank a donor for supporting girls’ soccer pathways.
I stand through two photographs, one handshake, and a short conversation with a woman who calls defending “such a selfless position,” which makes me smile with my teeth.
All the while, Nathan remains at the edge of my awareness.
Not staring.
Not crowding.
Just present in a way my body keeps registering, like a defender tracking an unmarked runner.
I end up near the refreshment table because apparently my feet hate me.
Morgan is there, taking a tiny tart off Colton’s overloaded plate.
“Medical theft,” Colton says.
“Load management,” Morgan says.
“That tart was part of my emotional recovery.”
“Your emotional recovery has chocolate mousse and two mini cheesecakes.”
“And now a tart-shaped wound.”
Morgan places the tart on her own napkin. “You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
I pause beside them. “Should I intervene?”
Morgan turns, smile warming when she sees me. “Only if you’re certified in pastry triage.”
“I have international experience.”
Colton brightens. “Captain Smith understands high-level competition.”
“I understand dessert rationing in hostile conditions.”
Morgan points at him. “See?”
Colton looks at me like betrayal has entered formalwear. “I expected better from defenders.”
“Defenders prevent unnecessary indulgence.”
“That is not in the coaching manual.”
“It’s in the advanced edition.”
Morgan laughs.
The sound is easy. Comfortable.
Colton says something else ridiculous, and Morgan’s hand touches his wrist, a quick correction and affection in the same motion. He settles without losing the joke. The room around them softens.
It is strange, seeing Morgan like this.
Not because I thought she would not love someone. More because the version in my memory is younger, smaller, the sister Nathan was always rushing home to help, the weight in his explanations, the reason with a name attached.
This Morgan is not a burden.
She is sharp, funny, bossy, loved, and clearly capable of making Colton Myers behave approximately forty percent of the time.
Nathan glances toward her from across the room.
Morgan lifts the stolen tart in a tiny toast.
Nathan shakes his head, smiling.
There is history there I was not part of. Hard years. Family years. A life that went on while my phone stayed silent.
My anger shifts.
Not away.
Just into a shape with more corners.
Sienna approaches with a small camera crew and a careful expression. “Emily, do you have two minutes for the approved gala spot?”
I straighten. “Of course.”
Her eyes flick to my glass, my stance, my face. Not invasive. A quick professional check, then gone.
“Leadership and youth development,” she says. “No replay questions.”
I look at her.
She holds my gaze.
“No replay questions,” she repeats.
“All right.”
We step near the sponsor backdrop, where the lighting is softer and the floral arrangements threaten to swallow the left side of the frame. Sienna positions herself so I am angled toward the room instead of trapped against the wall.
Smart.
The camera light clicks on.
“Emily,” she says, “tonight’s event is about the next generation. We’ve seen you working closely with Ava through this tournament. What matters most when you’re helping a young defender grow under pressure?”
There it is again.
The clean pass.
No trap in it.
No medical bait.
I take it.
“Specific trust,” I say. “Young defenders don’t need vague encouragement. They need to know exactly what you trust them to do. Hold the line. Read the runner. Cover the second ball. When you give a player a real job and then believe she can do it, she starts believing faster too.”
Sienna nods. “And what has Ava shown you this week?”
I glance across the ballroom. Ava is trying to explain something to one of our midfielders using both hands and half her drink.
“She’s learning not to punish herself for the first mistake,” I say. “That matters. Defending is mostly the art of recovering before regret gets comfortable.”
Sienna smiles slightly. “That sounds like something you learned the hard way.”
I should be annoyed.
I am not.
Because the question still leaves the answer with me.
“Most useful things are learned the hard way,” I say.
Sienna’s eyes sharpen, but she does not push.
Good reporter.
Dangerous reporter.
Maybe both.
“Thank you,” she says.
The camera lowers.
I exhale.
Then Sienna looks past my shoulder. “Nathan, can we get you for one approved question on the defender series?”
My spine does not change.
I deserve an award.
Nathan steps into my peripheral vision. “Sure.”