CHAPTER SIX
DARIUS
The bus leaves Atlanta with a police escort, forty-seven unread messages on my phone, and Sienna Voss’s voice stuck in my head like a song I didn’t ask to learn.
Not her broadcast voice.
That would be easier.
The other one.
The one from the hallway outside the media room.
I know the difference between seeing something and taking it.
The bus lurches forward, and a duffel bag slides out from under the seat across the aisle. Mateo catches it with one foot before it can hit Nathan’s shin.
Nathan points at him. “That was veteran behaviour.”
Mateo blinks. “I stopped a bag.”
“Leadership starts small.”
Colton leans around the seat in front of me. “Careful. Nathan thinks everything is leadership if you say it with enough seriousness.”
“I am a thought leader,” Nathan says.
“You once locked yourself out of the locker room while still wearing one cleat.”
“That was a footwear transition issue.”
“Thought leader,” Colton repeats.
The bus driver eases us through the service exit beneath the stadium while security vehicles move ahead of us, blue lights flashing against the concrete walls.
Outside, fans line the barricades even though the match ended hours ago.
Jerseys, signs, phones raised high. Some people slap the side of the bus as we pass.
The sound hits in quick bursts.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Someone starts chanting Kings. Someone else takes it up. For a moment, the whole side of the bus seems to pulse with it.
I sit near the front because I always sit near the front.
From here, I can see who is too quiet, who is too loud, who has headphones on to avoid the world, who is scrolling when they should be sleeping, who is pretending not to favour a leg.
It is possible I have a problem.
Morgan would call it a pattern.
Coach would call it leadership until it became inconvenient.
Nathan would call it emotionally suspicious.
My phone buzzes again in my hand.
I don’t look.
Nathan drops into the seat across the aisle, still half-turned so he can see everyone behind him. His phone is on speaker for exactly two seconds before I reach over and mute it.
“Hey,” he says.
“No yelling relatives before noon.”
“It was Coach Miller.”
“Especially yelling relatives before noon.”
Nathan un-mutes it just long enough for Coach Miller’s voice to burst through.
“Darius, tell him we need a quote for the town page!”
I close my eyes.
Half the bus cheers.
Colton immediately yells, “Use ‘Briarwood built me and also Nathan is my favourite.’”
Nathan points at him. “Accurate.”
I take the phone from Nathan. “Coach Miller.”
“Captain Vale!”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“I have earned the right. I coached you when your feet were too big for the rest of you.”
“That was one summer.”
“It was a memorable summer. Listen, the kids made a banner. Tyler painted the last S sideways, but we’re calling it artistic.”
“I saw it.”
“You did?”
My grip tightens on the phone.
Across the aisle, Nathan’s grin softens.
“I did,” I say. “Tell them it’s perfect.”
Coach Miller goes quiet.
Always suspicious.
“Are you crying?” I ask.
“No. It’s pollen.”
“You’re indoors.”
“There can be indoor pollen.”
Nathan mouths, He’s crying.
I hand the phone back before Coach Miller can say anything else that makes the space behind my ribs tighten.
Nathan unmutes properly now and takes over, giving the bus a live report from Briarwood that no one requested and everyone listens to anyway.
The youth club is already planning a send-off.
The diner wants to name a sandwich after the Kings.
Someone’s mother is sewing blue and gold ribbons onto every fence within a three-block radius.
Coach Miller has apparently found a projector for the Final watch party, which means half the town will be pretending they understand how cables work.
I look out the window.
Atlanta gives way slowly. Stadium service roads. Police motorcycles. A cluster of hotel shuttles. A media van turning in behind us.
Then another.
Then the Northline Sports shuttle.
I see her before I decide not to look.
Sienna sits near the front, laptop open on her knees, one earbud in, head bent as if the entire world has narrowed to whatever is on that screen. The shuttle hits a bump. She catches the laptop with one hand, keeps typing with the other, and doesn’t look up.
She’s not laughing with the other reporters.
She’s not checking the tunnel clip that has been reposted at least a hundred times by now.
She’s working.
A strand of hair falls against her cheek. She tucks it back without taking her eyes from the screen.
The bus brakes at a security checkpoint.
Her shuttle stops two vehicles behind us.
She looks up.
Not at me.
At the barricades. The fans. The police escort. The tournament signage still clinging to the edges of the road.
Then she writes something down.
“Captain.”
Colton’s voice comes from the seat across the aisle.
I turn.
He is leaning over the armrest with the face of a man who has discovered free entertainment.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed like commentary.”
Nathan leans forward. “He did. I heard it.”
Colton smiles. “I was going to ask how exclusive access with Miss Voss is going.”
“Don’t.”
“That bad?”
“That off-limits.”
Morgan appears in the aisle before Colton can reply. “What’s off-limits?”
Colton sits back so fast his seat squeaks. “Darius’s emotional life.”
Morgan looks at me.
Then at Colton.
Then back at me.
“Good,” she says. “Both of you are underqualified.”
Nathan laughs so hard he drops his phone.
Morgan crouches beside Colton’s seat and points to his leg. “Elevate.”
“It’s already elevated in spirit.”
“Colton.”
“It’s on my bag.”
“It is beside your bag.”
He sighs and lifts his leg onto the duffel with all the drama of a man offering a kingdom.
Morgan checks the angle, presses once near his hamstring, and looks at his face.
He smiles down at her.
Too brightly.
She presses again.
The smile cracks.
“Thought so,” she says.
“I was being brave.”
“You were being predictable.”
Nathan leans toward Mateo. “That’s their love language.”
Morgan doesn’t look away from Colton. “I can tape your mouth too.”
Mateo looks horrified.
Colton says, “She can. I’ve seen the tape.”
I turn back toward the window before they notice me watching them.
Too late.
Morgan’s hand appears on the back of my seat.
“Your turn.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Bus aisle is not a clinic.”
“It is when athletes lie in transit.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You haven’t said anything yet.”
“Exactly.”
She steps into the space between seats with her tablet tucked under one arm. “Pain scale.”
Colton makes a sympathetic sound.
I give him one look.
He studies the ceiling.
Morgan waits.
The bus hums beneath us. Air conditioning blows too cold against my neck. The smell of travel coffee, sports drink, and damp turf clings to everything.
“Three,” I say.
Morgan lifts her eyebrows.
“Four after the session. Three now.”
“Stiffness?”
“Some.”
“Sharp pain?”
“No.”
“Instability?”
“No.”
“Swelling?”
“Not that I can feel.”
“We’ll check when we get back to Charlotte.”
“I assumed.”
“And you’ll do the flight plan I send.”
“I also assumed.”
“And you’ll stop pretending managed load is an insult.”
That one gets the attention of the three rows behind us.
Nathan goes quiet.
Colton becomes fascinated by the window.
I keep my eyes on Morgan. “I’m not insulted.”
She gives me the same look she gave Colton’s hamstring.
“I’m aware,” I say.
“Good.” She taps something into the tablet. “Stay aware.”
She moves down the aisle, stopping near Mateo to ask about his calf tightness. He answers too fast. She waits him into honesty.
Nathan looks at me across the aisle.
I know that look.
Briarwood look.
The one that says he is about to walk into a room I locked.
“Don’t,” I say.
He holds up both hands. “Didn’t say a word.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is expressive. People enjoy that about me.”
“Debatable.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “You know you don’t have to prove you can play ninety on one leg, right?”
“I have two legs.”
“One is filing paperwork.”
Colton snorts from across the aisle.
I ignore him. “My knee is fine.”
Morgan calls from three rows back, “That word is banned.”
The bus laughs.
I look out the window again.
Sienna’s shuttle is still behind us.
She’s typing again.
Maybe she’s building the segment around my knee right now. Maybe she’s cutting the small hitch into a slow-motion package with urgent music and a lower-third graphic her producer will adore.
Or maybe she’s writing down what Mateo looked like when he walked away taller.
That thought doesn’t belong in my head.
I put my phone face-down on my thigh.
It buzzes immediately.
Nathan points at it. “You’re not going to look?”
“No.”
“What if it’s important?”
“Then it will become important again later.”
Colton leans over. “That is either wisdom or avoidance.”
“It can be both,” Nathan says.
The phone buzzes again.
I turn it over.
A team schedule update fills the screen.
Final Week Logistics.
Coach has sent it to the full travel group.
I open it.
The bus noise lowers as other players see the same message. One by one, phones come out. Thumbs move. Jokes fade.
The schedule is no longer theoretical.
Charlotte recovery and media window. Kings facility training. Briarwood community send-off. Travel to New York/New Jersey three days before the Final. Official training session. Media day. Fan-zone appearance. Tactical walkthrough. Global Cup Final.
The words line up too neatly for something that will feel anything but neat.
Mateo reads his screen two rows back and swallows.
Nathan stops smiling.
Colton’s foot stills on the duffel.
Even the rookies who have been loud since we boarded go quiet.
New York/New Jersey.
The Final.
The giant stadium. The police escorts. The cameras. The fan zones. The interviews. The kind of pressure that crawls into your sleep and waits for you there.
Coach turns in the front passenger seat and looks back at us.
No speech.
Just one long scan down the aisle.
Then he nods once.
Enough.
The phones lower.
Someone starts the playlist again, softer this time.
Nathan looks at his schedule for another second, then turns his screen toward me. A photo from Briarwood pops up, sent by Coach Miller. Kids standing behind the crooked banner. One of them is holding a cardboard cut-out of my face, which should be illegal.
Nathan grins. “Town wants a send-off before New York.”
“I saw.”
“You going to survive that?”
“No.”
“Good. Me neither.”
I take the phone and zoom in on the photo despite knowing better.
Tyler Gibson stands at the end of the banner, paint on both hands, giving a thumbs-up. Behind him, the old clubhouse leans a little to the left in the background. The grass looks patchy. The goal net has been tied at one corner with something that might be shoelace.
Home doesn’t look impressive.
It looks like itself.
My throat tightens.
I hand the phone back.
“You’ll say a few words,” Nathan says.
“I will not.”
“You will.”
“I’ll wave.”
“Coach Miller has a microphone.”
“Then we destroy the microphone.”
“This is why people call you guarded.”
“This is why people call you loud.”
Nathan laughs, but he pockets the phone carefully.
My own phone buzzes again.
This time, it is not the schedule.
It’s the clip.
The tunnel interview.
Northline Sports has posted a shorter cut, just twenty-two seconds, with captions and dramatic timing because apparently subtlety has been ruled offside.
Sienna asks: “Captain as shield?”
I answer: “Captain as teammate.”
Then she says something about gates. I say something about closing space. The edit catches both of us smiling.
Not the warnings.
Not the blade under the words.
Just the spark.
The caption reads:
Final week begins with tension between Kings captain Darius Vale and Northline’s Sienna Voss.
The comments have multiplied.
I shouldn’t open them.
I open them.
That chemistry though. She’s the only reporter who makes him answer. He looks annoyed. I'm invested. Protect Morgan and Colton at all costs. Darius Vale could tell me to drink water and I’d apologize. Sienna Voss is coming for the captain’s secrets.
My thumb stops on the last one.
Colton leans over far enough that I can see his grin without turning.
“Reading nice things about yourself?”
I lock the screen. “Reading reasons to throw my phone out the window.”
“Wasteful. Phones are expensive.”
“Peace is priceless.”
Nathan reaches across the aisle. “Show me.”
“No.”
That means Colton has already pulled it up on his own phone.
He reads aloud in a dramatic whisper, “‘He looks annoyed. I'm invested.’”
The row behind us laughs.
I reach for his phone.
He jerks it away. “Injured man. Be gentle.”
“Morgan,” I call.
Colton immediately lowers the phone. “I've chosen maturity.”
Morgan does not turn around. “Unlikely.”
Nathan looks back at me, quieter now. “It’s just comments.”
“No, it’s not.”
He understands before Colton does.
His grin fades.
The clip is already doing what clips do. Taking one moment, cutting away context, giving strangers room to build whatever version they prefer.
Sienna knows that world. Works inside it. Benefits from it.
And this week, she has access.
To me.
To my team.
To Briarwood.
To the parts of the story that don’t survive being flattened.
A horn sounds behind us.
The bus slows in traffic.
I glance back before I can stop myself.
The media shuttle is coming up beside us.
Sienna’s head is bent over her laptop again. Her mouth is set in a straight line. No smile. No victory lap. No sign that the clip has become exactly the kind of online spark producers love.
She reaches for a coffee cup beside her, misses it, looks irritated at the cup, then grabs it without taking her eyes from the screen.
Something in my chest loosens before I can stop it.
Colton’s voice drops low enough that only I hear.
“Careful, Captain.”
I look at him.
His grin is gone now. That’s worse.
“Sometimes the person holding the microphone is still a person.”
The bus rolls forward.
Outside, Atlanta sun flashes off the windows of the media shuttle. For a second, Sienna disappears behind the glare.
I turn back in my seat.
“And sometimes,” I say, “the person holding the microphone knows exactly how to use it.”
Colton leans back.
Nathan says nothing.
The bus quiets into the low, uneasy hum of post-win travel. Players doze. Staff type. The police escort peels away as we merge onto the highway toward the airport and the long route home.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Kings media coordinator.
SIENNA VOSS CONFIRMED FOR FACILITY ACCESS TOMORROW. SHE REQUESTED TACTICAL OBSERVATION.
I stare at the message.
Tactical observation.
Not player lifestyle access. Not tunnel tension follow-up. Not “exclusive captain chemistry,” which I’m sure some producer has already said in a meeting with too much confidence.
Tactical observation.
I glance back again.
Sienna is still working.
I should be relieved.
I am not.
Because if she understands the game, she will know where to look.
And if she knows where to look, my walls may not be as useful as I thought.
***