CHAPTER 25 #2
My side aches as if trying to join the discussion.
Rude.
I ignore it, which is not the same as hiding it.
“And right now,” I say, “with the shape Ava just mapped, my minutes help.”
Coach looks at the board.
Then at Lena.
Lena nods once. “With strict management, I agree.”
Coach turns to the room. “Questions from the unit?”
Marta raises one. Smart. Specific. Priya asks about the second-half press. Solène adjusts the keeper call. Ava asks whether she should trigger the shift if I don't.
“Yes,” Coach says.
Ava glances at me.
I answer before she can soften it. “Yes.”
Her shoulders settle.
Good.
Coach takes the marker and writes across the top of the board.
MANAGED START; HALFTIME REVIEW; SIGNAL THRESHOLD; AVOID DEAD-SPACE RECOVERY; AVA COVER RESPONSIBILITY
There it is.
Not a cage.
A plan.
Still irritating.
But not a cage.
Coach caps the marker. “Emily starts.”
No applause.
No dramatic speech.
The room settles.
That is better.
A decision that needs cheering is sometimes less stable than a decision that simply clicks into place.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket.
I do not check it.
Not here.
Not now.
This room is mine.
Ours.
No one else gets into it.
Training is controlled and deeply annoying.
Which means it is probably smart.
No contact. No full-speed emergency turns. No unnecessary hero nonsense, as Ava calls it under her breath exactly once before I threaten experimental unpleasantness.
We work through the semi-final shape under grey afternoon light. The rain has stopped, but the pitch still carries dampness in its scent. Grass, rubber, wet earth, sunscreen, and pressure. The sky hangs low over the stadium, heavy with more weather deciding whether to commit.
I lead from the back line.
Not by doing every job.
By calling them.
That difference keeps showing up uninvited.
“Ava, hold.”
She holds.
“Marta, not yet.”
Marta waits.
“Priya, screen now.”
Priya slides inside.
“Solène, call the drop earlier.”
“I did call it,” Solène says.
“Call it louder.”
“I am a goalkeeper. Loud is my primary language.”
Ava snorts.
I point at her. “Focus.”
“Focused, Captain.”
Her grin says otherwise.
We reset.
Run it again.
My body complains in manageable vocabulary. Tight on rotation. Tug under the ribs when I plant too hard. Hip trying to volunteer for extra drama. Nothing sharp. Nothing outside the plan.
I report once to Lena when she checks in at the sideline.
“Stable. Tight on left rotation. No spike.”
She nods. “Good.”
That is it.
No collapse.
No punishment.
No one confiscates my armband.
Accurate information goes in. The plan adjusts. We keep working.
Imagine that.
During a water break, I see Nathan.
Not close.
Not near the Team Canada staff.
Not talking to Coach.
Not hovering by the media barrier.
He stands on the public side of the spectator rail with Darius two steps away and Morgan beside him, both positioned like emotional guardrails dressed as people.
Nathan’s hands are in his jacket pockets.
His face is not neutral.
Nathan’s face is rarely neutral no matter what he claims.
But he doesn't move when I look over.
Does not gesture.
Does not tap his heart this time.
He only stands where anyone could ignore him.
Visible.
Avoidable.
Outside the room.
Something under my ribs shifts.
Not pain.
Not forgiveness.
Something more inconvenient.
Recognition.
He stayed out.
I look away before my face admits anything expensive.
Ava appears beside me with two water bottles.
“You saw him,” she says.
“No, I saw the spectator rail. He was in the way.”
“Very inconvenient placement.”
“Deeply.”
She hands me a bottle. “Are you okay?”
I give her a look.
She lifts both hands. “Tactical context. Pain scale. Leadership function. Emotional weather optional.”
I take the bottle. “Stable. Tight. Annoyed.”
“Physical or emotional?”
“Yes.”
She nods seriously. “Good report.”
“Do not become Lena.”
“I could never. I fear tablets.”
“Wise.”
A media staffer approaches from the tunnel side with Talia beside her. Talia carries her phone and the expression of someone delivering a package that may contain either flowers or explosives.
“Emily,” she says. “Briarwood FC sent support sign photos for approval.”
I blink. “Briarwood?”
“Coach Miller routed them through tournament media. He said Nathan told him nothing should go public without your approval.”
There it is again.
Recognition, sharper this time.
Ava’s eyes flick toward the spectator rail.
I do not follow them.
Talia turns her phone toward me. “You can say no to all of them. No explanation needed.”
Good.
Clear.
Invited.
I take the phone.
The first photo shows five kids in mismatched jerseys holding a sign that reads CAPTAIN SMITH, brIARWOOD BELIEVES. Coach Miller is blurry in the background, apparently mid-cry.
Of course.
The second sign is CANADA DEFENDS TOGETHER, with a maple leaf that looks like it had an argument with a soccer ball.
Cute.
The third says EMILY STRONG.
My stomach tightens.
No.
Not wrong. Not cruel. Not useful.
Strong is the word people use when they don't want to understand the cost.
I swipe.
The fourth photo stops me.
Three kids kneel on the Briarwood FC grass, holding poster board with crooked blue and red letters.
DEFENDERS DECIDE