CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
I look at the screen again because looking at her is a problem. The footage shows Nathan with kids, Colton juggling badly on purpose, Morgan pretending to scold him while smiling at the ground. Coach Miller wiping his face with a napkin and pretending it is because of allergies.
Briarwood looks loved.
Not polished.
Not quaint.
Loved.
“You got it right,” I say.
Sienna looks away fast.
Too fast.
She picks up the coffee cup and puts it down without drinking. “I was trying to.”
“No.” I lean one hand on the back of a chair. “You did.”
The room changes.
Small space. Blue screen glow. Printer warmth. The faint smell of toner, stale coffee, and whatever cleaning product hotels use when they want a room to smell like productivity.
Sienna turns back to the laptop. “There’s something you should know.”
Every muscle in my body tightens.
She sees it.
“It’s not bad,” she says.
Then winces. “No, that’s not true. It’s not great.”
“Sienna.”
She closes the laptop halfway.
This time, I let her.
“Maren wants the knee.”
The words are simple.
Still, they take the air out of the room.
I look at the half-closed laptop. At her hand resting on the lid. At the pulse jumping once near her wrist.
“She knows?”
“She suspects. She saw some of the same things I did. Training clips. Briarwood. Diner.”
“Diner,” I repeat.
Sienna’s mouth tightens. “I didn’t use it.”
“Yet?”
Her eyes flash.
Anger is better than guilt.
“No,” she says. “Not yet. Not planned. Not hidden in the timeline waiting for dramatic music. No.”
I take that.
I deserve the edge.
“The pressure is real,” she continues. “Maren thinks the story needs the sharper angle. She thinks the knee explains the weight.”
“And you?”
“I think it’s part of the weight.” She meets my eyes. “I also think it’s not mine to use without context. And not mine to turn into a hook before you’ve even had the chance to talk to your own team about the Final plan.”
The answer is not clean enough to be comfort.
That is why I trust it.
A little.
More than a little.
I sit in the chair across from her.
Not too close.
Enough that the table between us feels like a decision both of us are making.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me for the bare minimum.”
“I’m not.”
Her expression shifts.
“I’m thanking you for giving me the truth before someone else turns it into a weapon.”
The words sit between us.
Sienna’s eyes soften and sharpen at the same time.
That shouldn’t be possible.
“It might still become one,” she says.
“I know.”
“And I may not be able to stop every version of it.”
“I know that too.”
She looks down at her hands. “I’m trying to build the better story fast enough that the worse one doesn’t swallow it.”
“What’s the better story?”
Her laugh is small. Tired. “You’re going to hate the title.”
“I reserve the right.”
She opens the laptop again and turns the screen toward me.
The title card sits over a wide shot of Briarwood under fading light.
THE CAPTAIN WHO CARRIES EVERYONE
I stare at it.
The words should feel like exposure.
They don’t.
Not entirely.
They feel like someone noticing the weight and refusing to call it weakness.
My voice comes out rough. “That’s not terrible.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Glowing praise.”
“I’m known for warmth.”
“You’re known for weather systems.”
That gets me.
A laugh, low and unexpected.
Sienna smiles.
Actually smiles.
Then looks at the screen before the moment can get too easy.
“The final version is shifting,” she says. “Briarwood. Team trust. Tactical pressure. What captaincy costs. Not hiding the fact that the Final is physically demanding, but not turning your knee into a scandal.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is absolutely not simple.”
“No.”
Her gaze returns to mine.
Silence.
Not a tactic.
Not a trap.
A threshold.
Colton’s word comes back.
Choice.
I stand because sitting feels suddenly impossible.
Sienna’s eyes follow me.
“Darius?”
I walk to the window of the business centre. The hotel parking lot is mostly empty now. Rainwater shines in thin lines across the asphalt. One media van sits under the light, windshield reflecting the hotel sign.
I should say goodnight.
I should thank her and leave.
I should carry my knee, my team, my Final, my wanting, and my fear to my room like I have carried everything else in my life. Quietly. Efficiently. Alone.
Instead, I turn back.
“You should know something too.”
She goes still.
“The thing tonight. At the stadium.”
Her fingers curl around the laptop edge.
“I wasn’t caught off guard.”
She says nothing.
“I knew exactly where I was. I knew there was a camera downfield and a staffer somewhere in the tunnel. I knew you were working and I’m the subject of the feature. I knew we’re leaving tomorrow and that New York/New Jersey will have more eyes than either of us can count.”
Her throat moves.
I take one step closer.
Not enough.
Too much.
“I also knew I wanted to kiss you.”
The room goes very quiet.
The printer, mercifully, stays dead.
Sienna stands.
The chair slides back softly against the carpet.
“That’s exactly why this is dangerous,” she says.
“I know.”
“If we cross a line, people won’t question your credibility first.”
“I know.”
“They’ll question mine. My judgement. My access. Whether every question I ask you means something else.”
“I know.”
“Darius.”
“I know,” I say again, quieter. “And I’m not asking you to pretend that risk is small.”
Her eyes search mine like she is looking for the catch.
I give her none.