CHAPTER THREE #2
The words put heat under my ribs.
New York/New Jersey.
That’s where the story gets big.
Not hotel corridors and controlled quotes. The Final bubble. Fan zones. International media. Sponsor walls. Security checkpoints. Teams trying to look calm under lights bright enough to melt paint. The whole Global Cup machine turning small-town roots into prime-time mythology.
Darius watches my pen move.
He sees the exact second my interest sharpens.
I hate that.
“So,” Coach says, “access is scheduled, not open. Training observation from approved areas. Sit-down interview windows. No medical access. No private team meetings. No filming players who opt out.”
I nod. “Understood.”
Morgan looks at me like she expected an argument and is mildly disappointed not to get one.
Darius leans back. “That’s all?”
“For now,” I say.
His eyes narrow.
I flip a page in my notebook. “I want Briarwood.”
Nathan stops chewing.
Morgan’s gaze flicks to Darius.
Coach’s pen stills.
Darius does nothing.
That is his tell, I think. Stillness.
Not dramatic. Not enough for a camera. But the room notices anyway.
“You have footage from last night,” he says.
“I have footage of a tunnel and a win. That’s not roots.”
“Roots make nice B-roll?”
The words are mild.
The room is not.
I set my pen down. “Sometimes.”
Nathan’s muffin lowers.
Darius’s eyes sharpen, but I keep going before he can decide what kind of answer that is.
“Kids on a field. Old signs. A coach who knew you before you became Captain Vale. Yes, that looks good on camera. I’m not going to insult you by pretending it doesn’t.”
His jaw moves once.
“But it looks good because it matters,” I say. “The Final will be loud. Expensive. Polished. Huge. If viewers only see that version, they’ll miss why people care. Briarwood gives the story a heartbeat.”
Silence settles around the table.
The air conditioner clicks on overhead.
Nathan glances at Darius, then at me, then back at his muffin like it suddenly has tactical value.
Darius folds his hands on the table. “My town isn’t a hook.”
“No.”
“It isn’t proof that the Kings are humble.”
“No.”
“It isn’t there so a producer can put slow music over peeling paint and make people feel sentimental between commercials.”
I look at him.
There he is.
Not the polished captain. Not the tunnel warning. Not the man with a boundary list.
The boy protecting the field.
“No,” I say again, softer.
His gaze stays on mine. “Then why do you want it?”
The honest answer is complicated.
The professional answer is easy.
I choose something in between.
“Because the best sports stories are never only about the final score.” I pick up my pen, then set it down again. “They’re about what people carry onto the field with them.”
Something shifts behind his eyes.
Small.
But there.
Maren would tell me to push.
I don’t.
Not yet.
Darius looks toward the window, though the frosted glass shows nothing but blurred lobby shapes.
Nathan breaks first.
“Coach Miller will cry.”
Darius exhales. “Coach Miller cries at weather reports.”
“He’s sensitive to cloud systems.”
Morgan says, “He cried when the snack bar freezer broke.”
“That was a community tragedy,” Nathan says.
A corner of Darius’s mouth moves.
There.
A crack.
I write nothing down.
Darius sees that too.
His attention returns to me, and the tiny almost-smile disappears. “One Briarwood visit.”
Coach glances at him. “Darius.”
“One,” Darius repeats. “Youth club. Community send-off. Approved crew size. No turning kids into props. No digging into private family history. No asking Coach Miller questions designed to make him accidentally tell you things I didn’t agree to share.”
Nathan raises a hand. “Coach Miller cannot be legally responsible for Coach Miller.”
“Noted,” I say.
Darius points one finger toward him without looking away from me. “And him.”
Nathan lowers his hand. “Rude.”
I write the terms down. Slowly. Clearly. Not because I need every word. Because Darius needs to see me take them seriously.
“One controlled Briarwood visit,” I say. “No private family history. No kids without parent consent. No sentimental poverty montage. No baiting Coach Miller.”
Nathan leans toward Morgan. “She’s good.”
Morgan murmurs, “She’s taking notes.”
“Still.”
Darius keeps his eyes on me. “And New York/New Jersey?”
“I need the Final atmosphere.”
“You’ll have tournament access.”
“I need more than wide shots.”
“That depends what you call more.”
“Media village. Fan zone. Official training. Stadium arrival. The transition from small-town team to global stage.” I pause. “That contrast is the story.”
“No,” Darius says.
I wait.
“The contrast is part of the story.” His voice stays even. “The team is the story.”
“Then show me the team.”
His gaze holds mine.
Not hostile now.
Not friendly.
Something worse.
Considering.
The room fades at the edges for one beat. Morgan’s tea. Nathan’s muffin. Coach’s folder. The hum of the air conditioner. All of it sits around us like stage dressing while Darius decides how much of the door to open.
“You can observe training from the approved line,” he says. “You can attend official media windows. You can film the fan zone and stadium atmosphere under tournament rules. You can interview me during scheduled slots.”
I nod. “And off schedule?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“You answer fast.”
“You ask predictable follow-ups.”
That gets me.
A small laugh slips out before I catch it.
Darius notices.
The room notices too, which is deeply inconvenient.
Coach closes his folder. “Okay. We have a framework.”
I glance at him. “I’ll send a written confirmation.”
“Please do.”
Morgan steps forward and slides a second document across the table. “Updated medical privacy restrictions.”
The title alone could freeze soup.
I accept it. “Thank you.”
Her eyes hold mine for a moment.
Not warm.
Still not nothing.
The meeting breaks after that. Nathan escapes with two muffins. Coach takes a call before he’s fully out of the room. Morgan waits at the door long enough to give Darius one look that appears to mean three separate things about his knee, none of them pleasant.
Then it’s just Darius and me beside the conference table.
Not alone, alone.
The frosted glass wall shows blurred movement from the lobby. Anyone could walk in.
Still, the air changes.
Darius picks up his folder. “You got what you wanted.”
“Some of it.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Ambitious.”
“Frequently.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’ve learned to accept it as one.”
He looks at me in that careful way again, as if he’s trying to decide which part of me is camera-ready and which part is not.
I close my laptop and tuck it under my arm. “You know, polished answers won’t carry a full feature.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have a short feature.”
“Viewers can feel a wall.”
“Maybe the wall is part of the story.”
My pulse kicks once.
Another real thing.
He hears it too. I can tell by the slight tightening of his mouth, the way he reaches for the folder even though he already has it.
I should push.
I don’t.
Instead, I step toward the door.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe the story is why you built it.”
His eyes stay on mine.
For a second, I think he’ll answer.
Then the lobby noise swells as someone opens the door outside, and the moment folds itself away.
Darius walks to the conference-room door and holds it open.
Professional.
Polite.
A wall with manners.
As I pass, he leans just enough that his voice reaches me and no one else.
“You can ask anything you want, Miss Voss.”
I stop with one foot in the lobby.
His expression is calm. His eyes are not.
“Doesn’t mean I’ll give you the answer you came for.”
The hallway smells like coffee, hotel soap, and warm muffins.
My notebook presses against my ribs.
I smile.
Not for the camera this time.
For him.
“Good thing I’m patient.”
Darius looks at me for one long, unreadable second.
Then he walks away toward the elevators, carrying his folder, his perfect posture, and every locked room I have just been invited not to enter.
I watch him go.
Only for professional reasons.
Mostly.
My phone buzzes before he reaches the elevator.
MAREN: How did it go?
I type back with one thumb.
ME: We have Briarwood.
Her reply comes fast.
MAREN: And Darius?
I look up as the elevator doors open.
Darius steps inside, turns, and catches me watching.
The doors start to close between us.
ME: Working on the wall.
***