CHAPTER TWELVE #2
She doesn’t smile.
She doesn’t look away.
Then Scott says something to her, and she turns, professional again.
I run the set-piece block without overextending. That’s the official version.
The unofficial version is that I hear Morgan’s voice every time I want to take one extra hard step.
No extra sprints to prove a point.
I let Nathan command the defensive reset once when I would usually step in. He glances at me, startled, then does it.
Well.
Very well.
I pretend not to notice his grin.
During attacking corners, Colton curls one ball to the back post with exactly the right pace and exactly the wrong amount of smugness.
Mateo misses the finish.
“Again,” Mateo says before anyone can correct him.
Coach grins. “Good.”
The session ends with shirts soaked, legs heavy, and the kind of tired that feels useful instead of reckless.
Then media time begins.
Staff set up the shaded interview area near the sideline. Sponsor backdrop. Microphones. Cameras. Clipboards. Questions waiting with their teeth hidden.
I drink half a bottle of water before the first reporter reaches me.
Standard questions first.
Final preparation.
Underdog narrative.
Travel to New York/New Jersey.
How the Kings are handling pressure.
I answer in full sentences and give them nothing breakable.
Then Sienna steps forward.
The temperature changes by absolutely no measurable amount.
My body notices anyway.
She has her microphone in one hand, notebook tucked beneath her arm. Scott stands behind her with the camera. The red light is on, but not live. Recorded segment.
“Captain Vale,” she says.
“Miss Voss.”
The greeting is familiar now.
Too familiar.
Her mouth almost moves at the corner, then settles.
“You spent much of today’s tactical block dropping deeper than expected when the scout team triggered the press,” she says. “Is that about protecting possession, or creating a release valve for younger players under pressure?”
There is no knee question.
Not first.
Not hidden inside the first.
Not dressed as concern.
A soccer question.
A good one.
I shift the water bottle from one hand to the other.
“Both. The press wants the second touch. If the first trapped player has no exit, the ball gets forced into the centre. That’s where turnovers become chances.
If I drop into the right lane early, the pass back doesn’t kill momentum. It changes the angle.”
She nods. “And Colton checking into the half-space?”
“Pulls their defensive midfielder out of the lane if the timing is right.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Then Colton gets reminded by several people, loudly.”
Her eyes flick to Colton, who is juggling a ball near the bench and absolutely listening.
“Fair,” she says.
The camera hums softly.
The air smells like turf, sunscreen, and warm plastic from the media equipment.
Sienna glances at her notes. “When a team plays through pressure, everyone has to trust the next pass. Is captaincy the same thing?”
There it is.
Not the knee.
The bruise beneath it.
I look at her for a beat too long.
She holds the microphone steady, but her thumb shifts once against the handle.
Nervous?
Maybe.
Good.
That makes two of us.
“Trust isn’t blind,” I say. “Blind trust gets you exposed. Real trust is trained. Repeated. Built in sessions like this when nobody is cheering and everyone is tired.”
Her pen does not move.
She’s listening again.
That’s becoming a problem.
“So it’s not about believing someone will always get it right?”
“No.” I look toward Mateo, who is now practicing the missed back-post finish again with Nathan feeding him balls. “It’s believing the mistake won’t end the conversation. That the next pass is still there.”
The words come out too honest.
I hear it.
So does she.
Sienna lowers the microphone a fraction.
Not off.
Just softer.
My pulse changes.
The knee question is sitting right there. I can feel it between us. Coach’s conversation. Morgan’s tablet. The visible moments she could stitch into something sharp and easy.
She looks down at her notes.
Then back up.
“What do you want viewers to understand about this team before you arrive in New York/New Jersey?”
I blink.
That’s it.
That is the turn.
She had the opening.
She chooses another door.
Behind her, Scott shifts the camera, almost imperceptibly. Waiting for the answer.
The pitch noise thins.
A ball pops against a foot. Someone opens a cooler. Nathan laughs. Coach calls to an assistant about travel timing.
I look at the team.
Colton with a ball under one foot, finally resting because Morgan is watching him.
Nathan feeding crosses to Mateo, patient enough to make me proud and irritated.
Morgan near the bench, tablet in hand, eyes on all of us, carrying care like armour.
The younger players. The staff. The people who made this run more than one captain and one story.
I look back at Sienna.
“We’re not one miracle,” I say. “That’s the thing people get wrong about teams like us.
They want one hero, one headline, one perfect explanation.
But this group is a lot of people choosing the next right pass.
Over and over. When it’s boring. When it’s ugly.
When the stadium is loud. That’s how you get to a Final. ”
Sienna’s eyes hold mine.
The microphone stays steady.
“Thank you,” she says.
Scott lowers the camera.
The red light goes dark.
Neither of us moves.
Then the media coordinator calls her name, and she turns to gather her notes.
I should leave.
I don’t.
I walk with her toward the facility entrance, keeping a safe distance because safe distance is becoming the only sensible thing I can still manage.
She slips her notebook into her bag. “Good answers.”
“Good questions.”
Her step falters by half an inch.
Compliment landed.
Interesting.
She keeps walking. “Careful. If you say that too often, I’ll put it on my résumé.”
“Already too full?”
“Painfully.”
We reach the hallway near the equipment doors. No cameras here. Not private. Staff moving in and out. Players passing. Sound everywhere.
Still, the moment narrows.
I stop beside a stack of travel crates marked NY/NJ FINAL WEEK.
She stops too.
“Why didn’t you ask?” I say.
Sienna’s hand tightens on her bag strap.
She doesn’t pretend not to understand.
“That wasn’t the story I was telling today.”
“But it is a story.”
“Yes.”
The clean answer hits harder than denial would have.
Her gaze meets mine. “Not every true thing belongs to me.”
The hallway noise fades to the edges.
I have heard her say versions of that before.
This time, I believe she knows what it costs.
A staffer rolls a crate past us. The wheels squeak on the concrete. Sienna steps back to make room, and I do the same. The movement puts us closer for one brief second, shoulder almost brushing shoulder.
Not touching.
Close enough.
She looks up.
I look down.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
I step away first.
Self-preservation may still have a pulse.
“Careful, Miss Voss,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift. “About?”
I pick up one of the travel bags before my hands do something less intelligent.
“You keep making it hard to distrust you.”
The words land between us.
This time, she does smile.
Small.
Unsteady.
Dangerous.
Then Morgan’s voice cuts in from behind me.
“Darius, recovery. Now.”
Sienna’s smile deepens by one heartbreaking degree.
I turn toward Morgan, who is holding an ice wrap and wearing the expression of a woman who has seen enough nonsense for one lifetime and suspects more is coming.
“Yes, Morgan.”
Colton calls from the hall, “Look at him listening. Growth!”
Nathan adds, “I’m emotional.”
Morgan points at both of them without looking. “Recovery room. Everyone.”
Sienna steps back, still smiling, and lifts her microphone bag higher on her shoulder.
“Good luck surviving medical authority, Captain.”
I look at her one last time.
“Good luck surviving your producer.”
Her smile fades.
Not much.
Enough.
Then she walks toward the media exit, and I stand there with the travel crate in one hand, an ice wrap waiting, and the sudden certainty that whatever Sienna Voss is choosing not to take from me might be the very thing that gives me away.
***