CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
My heart does something deeply unprofessional.
Then he takes one step closer.
Only one.
There is still space between us. Plenty of space. Enough space for good judgement, in theory.
The theory is struggling.
“What changed?” he asks.
I could say the story.
I could say the feature.
I could say Briarwood, Morgan, the kids, the leaked note, the way the better angle has been sitting under the sharper one all along.
All of those would be true.
None of them would be the whole thing.
I look at him.
His hoodie is dark, soft-looking at the edges. A drop of water clings to one strand of hair near his temple. His eyes are not calm now. They are steady, but steady is different. Steady takes effort.
“You did,” I say.
His breath shifts.
I regret it immediately.
Not because it’s false.
Because it’s naked.
Darius’s gaze drops to my mouth.
The stadium goes impossibly quiet.
Scott is downfield, filming the empty net. The camera is pointed away. The tunnel behind us is dark. The nearest staffer is far enough away to be a shape, not a witness.
Darius steps closer again.
This time, I feel the warmth of him.
Not touch.
Worse.
Almost.
“Sienna,” he says.
My name in his voice has become a problem.
I should step back.
I do not.
He looks at me like he is asking something he does not want to take.
“If we do this,” he says, “it can’t be because I forgot what you do.”
The words should cool the moment.
They don’t.
They make it real.
“And it can’t be because I forgot what you’re carrying,” I say.
His eyes stay on mine.
“Or because the stadium is empty,” he adds.
“Or because the week is heavy.”
“Or because we’re tired.”
“Or because there are no cameras pointed this way.”
His mouth almost curves.
Almost.
“Especially that,” he says.
The space between us thins until it is no longer space. It is choice waiting for someone to move.
My hand is at my side. His hands are out of his hoodie pocket now, loose and still. Not reaching. Not pushing.
The restraint is worse than touching.
It gives me room to want.
“If not any of that,” I whisper, “then what would it be?”
Darius looks at me, and for the first time since I met him, there is no captain between us.
No wall.
No polished answer.
No carefully controlled distance pretending to be manners.
“A choice,” he says.
My breath catches.
I hate that he hears it.
I love that he waits anyway.
One beat.
Two.
I move half an inch.
So does he.
Not enough.
Too much.
Then a voice echoes from the tunnel.
“Lower level locks in five minutes!”
I step back so fast the cool air hits my face.
Darius turns his head toward the sound, jaw tight, eyes closing for half a second like he has just been given a foul he can’t appeal.
A stadium staffer appears near the tunnel entrance, keys jangling at his belt. “Sorry. Security’s closing this section. You folks almost done?”
“Yes,” I say.
My voice sounds normal.
A miracle.
Darius’s does too. “We’re done.”
The staffer nods and disappears back into the tunnel.
Scott looks over from the corner flag, camera lowered, one eyebrow raised.
I give him a look that promises job insecurity if he asks a question.
He turns back to the empty net with impressive survival instincts.
I bend to pick up the notes I dropped.
I didn’t know I had dropped them.
Darius reaches at the same time.
Our hands hover over the paper.
Neither touches.
We both stop.
Then he pulls back and lets me take them.
That small act lands harder than it should.
I straighten. “I should finish the wide shots.”
“Of course.”
Professional words.
Thin ice.
We walk toward the tunnel with three feet between us and everything unsaid walking closer.
Scott packs up behind us. The stadium lights buzz overhead. The empty seats watch like they know exactly what almost happened and are choosing not to report it.
At the tunnel entrance, Darius pauses.
I stop too because apparently self-preservation has left the building ahead of me.
He looks down the dark corridor, then back at the field.
“Tomorrow we leave for New York/New Jersey,” he says.
“I know.”
“Final bubble. Official training. Media village. Bigger cameras. Less privacy.”
“I know that too.”
He turns to me.
The maintenance light catches his face unevenly, half shadow, half gold.
“Then we should both decide what we’re willing to carry before we get there.”
My fingers tighten around my notes.
Not because I don’t understand.
Because I do.
The story. The risk. The almost-kiss. The fact that I want to kiss him when I should be thinking about lower thirds and export times and how to keep Maren from smelling blood in every quiet moment.
“What are you willing to carry?” I ask.
Darius looks at me for one long second.
Then Scott’s equipment case snaps shut behind us, loud enough to break whatever answer might have come.
Darius steps back.
The wall does not return fully.
That might be the worst part.
“Goodnight, Sienna.”
Not Miss Voss.
Sienna.
I stand there while he disappears into the tunnel, footsteps fading against concrete.
The stadium staffer locks a gate somewhere behind him. Metal clicks into metal.
Scott comes up beside me with the camera bag over his shoulder. He says nothing.
Smart man.
I look back at the empty field.
The sideline where Darius almost kissed me.
The centre circle where I cut the camera.
The dark curve of seats waiting for noise.
My phone buzzes again.
Maren.
I do not look at it.
Because the story I came to tell is no longer the one keeping me awake.
***