CHAPTER 13 #2
He comes to stand beside me.
Not too close.
Of course.
He is getting disturbingly good at distances.
The heat of him still reaches me, which is unreasonable and probably illegal under tournament rules.
Sienna raises the microphone again. “You both have spent the week breaking down defensive trust for young players. What has stood out to you about the way the other reads the game?”
That is not one question.
That is a loaded cross into the box.
Nathan looks at me first.
Not asking permission to speak.
Asking if I want the first touch.
I take it.
“Nathan reads people before he knows what to do with the information,” I say.
His eyebrows lift.
The camera light hums.
Sienna’s expression does not change, but I see the alertness arrive.
I continue before the silence gets ideas. “On the field, that makes him quick to see danger and quick to adjust. The trick is making sure the adjustment helps the shape instead of breaking it.”
Nathan’s mouth moves.
Just once.
“That’s accurate,” he says.
“Generous of you to admit.”
“I’m growing under professional supervision.”
Sienna’s smile twitches. “Nathan?”
He looks at me, then the camera.
“Emily reads danger before it becomes danger,” he says. “She sees the pass before the passer trusts it. She sees the young player starting to panic before the mistake fully lands. That’s rare.”
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass.
Nathan keeps his gaze on the camera now.
“She makes people around her better because she gives them the truth cleanly,” he says. “Not softer than they need. Not crueler than they deserve. Clean.”
The ballroom noise fades.
Clean.
That word finds a place in me I would rather not discuss under sponsor lighting.
Sienna lets the silence breathe for half a second, then says, “That’s a strong note to end on. Thank you both.”
The camera light goes off.
I take a sip of sparkling water.
The lime tastes sharper now.
Nathan turns toward me. “That came out more intense than planned.”
“Did you have a plan?”
“A loose one.”
“Unwise.”
“Clearly.”
Sienna steps back, eyes moving between us with professional restraint and personal curiosity.
Before she can become more dangerous, Colton’s voice lifts from the refreshment table.
“Excuse me. As a forward-adjacent injured person, I would like to propose that defenders demonstrate proper spacing.”
Morgan says, “Colton.”
“For educational purposes.”
“No.”
A few people laugh.
A sponsor’s wife near the small dance floor clasps her hands. “Oh, that would make a lovely photo after the feature. The defender pair. Very on theme.”
Absolutely not.
The jazz trio shifts into a slower song at the exact wrong time, because music is also petty.
Piano. Brushed drums. Something soft enough to make people sentimental and dangerous.
Nathan looks at me.
Not hopeful.
Not demanding.
Just asking.
Silently.
I could refuse.
I should refuse.
The room has cameras. Sponsors. Teammates. Ava looking over with her eyebrows halfway to the ceiling. Morgan pretending not to watch. Colton absolutely watching.
“One photo,” I say.
Nathan’s shoulders ease by one treacherous inch.
“No dancing,” I add.
“Terrible news,” he says. “I’m an excellent terrible dancer.”
“I believe half that sentence.”
“The important half.”
We step toward the edge of the dance floor where the sponsor’s photographer is already delighted. This is how mistakes happen. One person says lovely photo, and suddenly you are standing under chandelier light beside the man who almost said something in a shuttle bay last night and did not.
Nathan positions himself beside me.
A safe angle.
A camera angle.
Then another couple shifts behind us, laughing, and someone bumps lightly into my shoulder.
My weight changes.
The pull under my ribs flashes.
Not sharp.
Enough.
Nathan’s hand lifts.
Stops.
Does not touch.
The question is there in the pause.
My lungs forget the first half of their job.
I give the smallest nod.
His palm settles at my back.
Light.
High enough to avoid the wrap. Low enough to look natural in a photo. Warm through the fabric.
Careful.
So careful I almost hate him for it.
“Okay?” he asks, barely moving his mouth.
“Photo,” I say.
Which is not an answer.
Which we both know.
The photographer counts down.
“Three. Two. One.”
Flash.
I smile.
Nathan smiles.
His hand stays exactly where I allowed it.
One second more.
Then he moves it away before I have to ask.
That might be the most dangerous thing he has done all night.
The photographer checks the screen. “Beautiful. Just one more?”
“No,” I say.
Nathan says, “She means no.”
Not rude.
Not apologetic.
Just clean.
The photographer steps back. “Of course. Thank you.”
I move away too fast.
My side catches.
I keep walking.
Barely.
Nathan’s voice follows me, low. “The hallway has better air.”
I stop.
I should say I’m fine.
I should say I do not need hallway air, better or otherwise.
Instead, I say, “This room does have aggressive flowers.”
“Possibly a tactical hazard.”
“Lily-based warfare.”
“Very underreported.”
I walk toward the side corridor.
Nathan follows.
Not beside me.
Not until I slow and let him.
The hallway outside the ballroom is quieter, carpeted, and lined with framed hotel art that looks like someone tried to paint fog from memory.
The ballroom music filters through the doors, softened by wood and distance.
Somewhere nearby, a service door opens and brings in the smell of rain on pavement.
I lean one shoulder against the wall.
Only for a second.
The carpet swallows the sound of Nathan stopping a few feet away.
“Better?” he asks.
“The flowers were plotting.”
“I suspected.”
“Good awareness.”
“I’ve been praised for reading danger before it becomes danger.”
I glance at him.
He looks different out here. Less polished. Less champion defender under chandelier lights. More Nathan.
The real one.
Which is not safer.
My side aches.
The support wrap holds.
My pulse does not.
Nathan’s hands are loose at his sides.
He says nothing.
That is the problem.
He is waiting again.
Waiting like the space belongs to me.
Waiting like whatever happens next has to be my call.
I look toward the ballroom doors.
I should go back in.
Ava is in there. Team Canada. Sponsors. Cameras. Reasons. Very sensible reasons with excellent shoes.
My feet do not move.
“Nathan,” I say.
His expression changes before the rest of him does.
No title.
No Bellows.
Just Nathan.
The hallway seems to narrow.
Music slips through the ballroom wall, soft and slow. Rain ticks against the service door window. A laugh rises inside the party, then fades.
Nathan takes one breath.
I see it.
The restraint.
The want.
The choice not to make either my problem.
His hand lifts slightly.
Stops.
Again.
He does not step closer.
That undoes me more than moving would have.
My hand tightens around my glass until the bubbles tremble.
“This is a bad idea,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You answered too quickly.”
“I wanted to be honest.”
“That is becoming a habit.”
“I’m trying it out.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
The distance between us is not far.
Half a step.
Maybe less.
It feels like half the summer.
I move first.
Not a lot.
Half an inch.
A terrible, visible, irreversible half inch.
Nathan’s eyes drop to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
Still waiting.
Of course.
Of course now he learns patience.
I set my glass on the narrow hallway table beside me because I do not trust my hand.
“Nathan,” I say again.
This time it is not a warning.
His breath catches.
Barely.
Enough.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through the hallway like a referee whistle.
I close my eyes.
Of course.
Of course the universe has a substitution plan.
I look down.
Coach Ramirez.
Match review. Now.
I do not answer for one ring.
Nathan’s gaze drops to the screen.
Then to my face.
The moment pulls tight.
Then tears.
I answer the call. “Coach.”
Her voice is brisk. “Emily, match review moved up. Ten minutes. Conference room B.”
“Of course.”
“Bring the training notes from this afternoon.”
“I have them.”
“Good.”
The call ends.
I lower the phone.
Nathan has not moved.
Neither have I.
The hallway still smells like rain and lilies and almost.
I pick up my glass because my hands need assignments.
“Match review,” I say.
“I heard.”
“Very glamorous.”
“Extremely.”
I should leave.
This time, I do.
I step away from the wall. My side pulls, but I keep my face still. Nathan sees. He does not comment.
Good.
Infuriating.
Good.
At the turn back toward the ballroom, I stop.
I do not know why.
That is a lie.
I know exactly why.
I look back at him.
He stands in the corridor under soft hotel light, navy suit, open hands, the unfinished sentence from the shuttle and this unfinished moment both waiting between us.
“Don’t follow me,” I say.
His mouth curves faintly. “I wasn’t going to.”
That should not make my chest hurt.
“Good.”
I take two more steps.
Then stop again.
This is a terrible idea.
I say it anyway.
“Also?”
He lifts his eyes to mine.
“If you almost kiss me again, make sure you mean that too.”
His face changes.
Not triumph.
Not relief.
Something quieter.
Something that makes me turn before I can look too long.
I walk back into the noise, the flowers, the cameras, and the match review waiting behind all of it.
My phone is warm in my hand.
My side aches under the dress.
And behind me, in the hallway, the almost follows like a second heartbeat.
***