CHAPTER 16
NATHAN
Emily’s face fills the stadium screen.
Not the whole match.
Not the tackle she read two touches early.
Not the way she held the line when the entire crowd wanted someone to dive in.
Not Ava’s recovery run, or the second ball, or the final clearance that kept Canada’s lead alive.
Her face.
One half-second of pain.
Huge above the pitch.
Bright under stadium lights.
Slow enough for everyone to see.
The crowd noise keeps moving around me, but my hearing narrows until there is only the thud of my pulse and the low electronic hum of the replay board changing angles.
The clip runs again.
Emily rotates into the challenge. The ball leaves her foot clean. The attacker’s shoulder catches her awkwardly. She lands, pushes up, smiles through the celebration.
Then the wince.
Small.
Fast.
Private, if the world had any decency.
The stadium gives it back to her at forty feet high.
My hands close around the railing.
Hard.
Morgan is beside me. Colton on her other side, suddenly quiet. Darius stands one row down with Sienna near the media aisle, her phone already in one hand and her mouth set in a line I recognize from people who know a story is about to get ugly.
On the pitch, Emily is still moving.
Clapping toward the Canada supporters. Hugging carefully. Saying something to Ava that makes Ava nod too hard. Captain’s face on. Shoulders square. Every inch of her refusing to become the thing on the screen.
The replay cuts to the scoreboard graphic.
CANADA 1
OPPONENT 0
The crowd roars again.
I take one step toward the aisle.
Morgan’s hand closes around my sleeve.
Not hard.
She does not need hard.
“Nathan.”
“I’m not going onto the pitch.”
“Did she invite you?”
The question lands like a boot through the ribs.
I look at Emily.
She is still with her team.
Still upright.
Still walking.
Still captain.
No signal. No glance toward me. No request. No invitation.
No.
The answer is no.
My body hates the answer.
My heart hates it more.
“She’s on the giant screen,” I say, because apparently fear would like to file a legal objection.
Morgan’s voice stays low. “And if you rush the tunnel, she becomes a bigger story.”
I grip the railing until my knuckles ache.
“I’m not rushing.”
“You took a step.”
“I stopped.”
“I know.”
The words are quiet.
They should help.
They do not.
Because the screen has moved on, but phones have not. Around us, people are already looking down. Thumbs moving. Clips being captured. Captions being born in real time by strangers who don't know Emily’s name beyond the number on her back and the half-second where her face told the truth.
I feel sick.
Not because she is hurt.
Because now everyone gets to discuss it.
The stadium smells like spilled soda, rain-cooled concrete, popcorn, and turf beneath the lights. Fans squeeze past us toward the aisle, still buzzing with the win. Someone behind me says, “Did you see that hit?” Someone else says, “She played through it. Unreal.”
Unreal.
As if pain becomes better when a stranger admires it.
Colton’s voice is unusually careful. “Online’s going to be a mess.”
Morgan looks at him.
He lifts one hand. “I’m not checking. I’m just stating the obvious in a supportive tone.”
Sienna steps closer, eyes on her phone.
Darius looks at her. “How bad?”
She does not answer immediately.
That is worse than an answer.
Her thumb scrolls once. Twice. “Fast.”
The word drops into the space between us.
Fast is bad.
Fast means the clip has already left the stadium and found all the people who make a living turning one angle into a question mark.
I pull out my phone.
Morgan says, “Nathan.”
“I’m only looking.”
“That’s what people say before commenting.”
“I’m not commenting.”
“Good.”
I open the first sports feed I see.
There it is.
Already cropped.
Already slowed.
Already stripped of the defensive sequence before it and the leadership after it.
CANADA CAPTAIN HURT?
EMILY SMITH WINCES AFTER LATE CONTACT IN CRUCIAL WIN
Another account below it:
Warrior captain or injury concern? Smith powers through visible pain as Canada advances.
My jaw locks.
Warrior captain.
Injury concern.
Two lazy boxes, both too small for her.
Another post has a photo from the stands.
Me.
One hand on the railing, body half-turned toward the pitch, face apparently doing absolutely nothing to hide what I felt.
The caption reads:
Nathan Bellows saw it too. Kings defender looked worried before replay even aired. Did he know something?
I stare at the screen.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Colton leans in, sees it, and mutters, “Oh, come on.”
Morgan reaches for my phone. “Do not go into the comments.”
I do not hand it over.
I also do not open the comments.
This is growth and possibly a medical miracle.
Darius steps beside me. “Put the phone down.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“I know.”
“It’s implying I did.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t say anything to anyone.”
“Nathan.”
My head snaps toward him.
Darius does not flinch.
“That anger is real,” he says. “Don't hand it the wheel.”
The words hit too close to where my breath is trying to work.
I look back at the pitch.
Emily is disappearing toward the tunnel now, surrounded by teammates and staff. Ava stays at her shoulder. Coach Ramirez walks close behind them, head slightly bent as she says something to an assistant.
They have her.
They have her.
They have her.
The phrase should calm me.
It does not.
Because the story has her too.
Sienna’s phone rings.
She answers before the second buzz. “No.”
That is the whole greeting.
I turn.
So does Darius.
Sienna steps away from the crowd flow, one finger pressed to her free ear. “No, we are not using injury crisis.”
A pause.
Her mouth tightens.
“We can say visible discomfort after late contact. We can say Canada has not issued an injury update. We can say Smith finished the match and Canada won. We are not saying crisis.”
Another pause.
The person on the other end must be arguing.
Bad choice.
Sienna’s expression goes cold in a way I have only seen once or twice, and both times someone deserved it.
“Because crisis is not a fact. It’s bait.”
Colton’s eyebrows lift.
Morgan’s arms fold.
Darius watches Sienna like he is trying very hard not to smile.
Sienna listens again. “Then use the soccer. Canada adjusted late. Ava’s cover mattered. Smith organized the final ten minutes under pressure. The replay is one piece of footage, not the whole match.”
She turns slightly, lowering her voice. “No, Maren. I understand what will get clicks. I also understand what we can verify.”
A beat.
“Good. Then we agree.”
She ends the call and exhales once through her nose.
No triumph.
No performance.
Just irritation and a job that apparently requires wrestling headlines away from idiots.
Colton raises a hand. “I know this may not be the correct time, but that was terrifying and excellent.”
Sienna looks at him. “Thank you, I think.”
“It was a compliment. I’m emotionally sincere after playoff-adjacent stress.”
Morgan says, “Please stop before sincerity becomes a strain.”
Colton nods. “Good point.”
I look at Sienna.
The first thing that comes to mind is decent.
I don't say decent because I enjoy living.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
Sienna studies me for half a second, probably remembering the version of me who once trusted reporters about as much as Colton trusts hamstring limitations.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “But I’m not protecting her.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Darius’s hand brushes mine once.
Warning.
Sienna sees it anyway.
Of course she does.
“I’m protecting the story from becoming lazy,” she says. “Emily can handle pressure. She just shouldn’t have to answer for things people invented because they liked the clip.”
That lands.
Hard.
Because it is exactly the difference I keep trying to learn.
Not rescuing Emily.
Respecting the truth around her.
Sienna glances toward the tunnel. “Canada’s media team will keep her away from the worst of it tonight if they’re smart.”
“They are,” Morgan says.
“Good.”
My phone buzzes in my hand.
For one dangerous second, I think it might be Emily.
It is not.
Another post notification.
Another photo of me.
Another caption pretending my face is evidence.
I lock the screen and shove the phone into my pocket.
Darius nods once.
Small.
Approving.
Annoying.
Sienna’s gaze flicks toward my pocket. “That will spread too.”
“I know.”
“Your reaction, I mean.”
“I know.”
“If you answer anything publicly, you make yourself part of the frame.”
My mouth tightens. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Sienna’s eyebrows lift slightly.
Fair.
“I’m not,” I say.
“Good.”
She adjusts the strap of her bag and looks toward the media corridor. “Someone is going to ask the ugly version eventually.”
Darius’s expression changes.
So does Morgan’s.
I don't ask what she means because I already know.
Is Emily fit?
Is Canada hiding something?
Should Ava be starting instead?
Is loyalty to their captain clouding tactical judgment?
My hands curl.
Darius sees.
“That one,” he says quietly. “That is the feeling you watch.”
I laugh once, without humour. “Which feeling? There are several.”
“The one that makes you think your anger has better judgment than Emily.”
I look away.
The stadium lights glare off the emptying seats.
On the pitch, staff have begun collecting cones and equipment near the edge. The match is over. The show is already moving on.
But the clip is not over.
The clip is probably just beginning.
Sienna’s credential catches the light as she steps toward the media exit. “I have to go keep people from saying stupid things into microphones.”
Colton nods solemnly. “A noble and impossible quest.”
“It pays poorly in patience.”
Darius says, “I’ll walk you.”
Sienna looks like she might refuse on principle.
Then she looks at his face and apparently decides some principles are flexible after a match. “Fine.”
They head toward the media corridor together, close but not touching.
Morgan turns to me. “Do you need me to take your phone?”
“No.”
“Do you need me to ask again?”
“No.”
Colton studies me. “Do you need a snack?”
I stare at him.
He shrugs. “People overlook blood sugar in emotional emergencies.”