CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
“I’ll handle the story,” I say. “All of it. But I’m not filing that document into the shared system.
I’m not building a package from a leak without comment, confirmation, or context.
And I’m not letting someone turn a medical recommendation into a scandal before the Kings even leave for the Final site. ”
“You are drawing a very expensive line.”
“Then I’ll make it worth the cost.”
Maren makes a sound that could be disbelief or irritation.
Both, probably.
“Noon,” she says. “I need your decision before travel.”
“You have it.”
“No. I have your instinct. I need your plan.”
The call ends.
I lower the phone slowly.
The hotel room becomes too quiet.
My inbox still shows the document.
I click download, then stop.
No shared folder.
No edit folder.
I create a new secure folder on my desktop.
DO NOT USE WITHOUT CONFIRMATION
Then I save the file there, password-protect it, and close the PDF.
The blank screen reflects my face for half a second.
I look awful.
Some choices should show up somewhere.
My phone buzzes.
Not Maren.
A team media reminder.
Lobby access window begins in twenty minutes.
I glance at the bed. At my blazer crumpled near the pillow. At the travel packet on the floor. At the coffee cup from last night.
Then I move.
Fast.
Shower. Hair. Blazer. Makeup that makes exhaustion look strategic. Press credential around my neck. Laptop in bag. Phone in pocket. The secure folder sits closed on my desktop like a locked room with a fire behind the door.
Before I leave, I open a blank document and type three questions.
Not questions I can ask on camera yet.
Questions for Darius if the door opens.
What does honest load management look like before a Final? How does a captain trust medical staff without feeling like he is failing the team? What belongs to the public, and what belongs to the player?
I stare at the last one.
Then save the file.
The hallway outside my room smells like coffee, clean carpet, and someone’s citrus shampoo. A housekeeping cart sits near the elevator. Two crew members from another network pass me arguing about shuttle timing and whether anyone has confirmed fan-zone access in New York/New Jersey.
The world is already moving.
I step into the elevator and press lobby.
The doors close.
My reflection looks put together.
Liar.
By the time I reach the lobby, the Kings are gathering near the side entrance.
Travel day has turned the hotel into organized chaos.
Rolling bags. Equipment crates. Staff with tablets.
Security with earpieces. Players in team travel gear carrying coffees and trying not to look like they are checking every camera angle.
Nathan stands near the luggage carts, laughing too loudly at something Colton says.
Colton has one foot propped on a low bench while Morgan points at it with the weary authority of a woman who has repeated the same instruction six times and is considering medical tape as a communication tool.
Coach speaks with a staffer near the doors, folder tucked under one arm.
And Darius stands by the window.
Team jacket zipped. Bag at his feet. Phone in one hand. His posture calm enough for public use.
Then he looks up.
The lobby noise dulls around the edges.
He sees me.
Not the reporter first.
Me.
The warmth in his eyes is small. Careful. Hidden from everyone else by the angle of his body and the fact that Darius Vale can turn emotion into a barely visible shift of his mouth.
But I see it.
Last night walks across the lobby between us.
Not touching.
Still everywhere.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my laptop bag.
Darius’s gaze drops for one fraction of a second to my hand, then returns to my face.
A question.
Not about the kiss.
About the morning.
About whether I slept. Whether I’m all right. Whether this thing between us has survived daylight.
I have no safe answer to any of that.
Morgan says something beside him.
Darius turns his head, listens, nods.
Then shifts his weight off his right leg.
Small.
Automatic.
Human.
The leaked note becomes a pulse behind my ribs.
Not abstract.
Not line item.
Him.
Morgan looks at him for half a second too long. Her face gives away nothing, but she moves closer and says something low enough I cannot hear. Darius answers. Polished. I know it without hearing it.
Morgan’s eyes narrow.
Fine is banned, I think.
My throat tightens.
Darius looks back at me.
The warmth is still there.
So is the trust I have not earned enough to hold.
I take one step toward him.
Then a camera operator from another network cuts between us, backing up with a shoulder rig as he films Colton pretending not to enjoy attention.
The moment breaks.
Maybe for the best.
I turn toward the coffee station before I do something incredibly stupid like ask Darius Vale, in a hotel lobby full of cameras and team staff, whether he knows his medical recommendation is in my inbox.
I pour coffee into a paper cup.
No lid.
Bad plan.
I add a lid.
Better plan.
My phone buzzes.
MAREN: Noon deadline. I need the injury angle decision before travel.
I stare at the message.
Then type.
ME: I’m working on the responsible version.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
MAREN: Responsible does not mean toothless.
I look across the lobby.
Darius lifts his bag onto his shoulder and grimaces so quickly no one else would call it a grimace.
Morgan sees.
Nathan sees.
I see.
Maren sees nothing except opportunity.
I type back.
ME: I know.
Then I put the phone away.
The elevator doors open behind me, spilling out two production assistants and a rolling case of lighting equipment. One of them nearly hits my ankle. I step aside, coffee sloshing dangerously near my sleeve.
A text thread with Darius sits unopened beneath my recent messages.
His last message from last night is simple.
Goodnight, Sienna.
No heart. No promise. No danger made cute.
Just my name.
I tap the thread.
The keyboard appears.
I type: We need to talk.
Delete.
I type: There is something you should know.
Delete.
I type nothing.
Because telling him now would be a professional line I may not be able to uncross.
Because not telling him feels like standing in front of a moving car and pretending I do not hear the engine.
Because somewhere between access and entitlement, between truth and exposure, between last night’s kiss and this morning’s leaked note, I have lost the easy map.
The team begins moving toward the doors.
The travel day current pulls everyone with it.
Darius passes near me, close enough that the sleeve of his jacket almost brushes my arm.
Almost.
He doesn't stop.
He can't.
Neither can I.
But as he passes, his voice drops low enough for only me.
“Morning.”
One word.
Ordinary.
It nearly ruins me.
I look at him.
“Morning,” I say.
His eyes search mine.
I give him nothing useful.
I hate that.
Then he is gone, swallowed by the line of players, staff, luggage, and security moving toward New York/New Jersey.
I stand beside the coffee station with a cup cooling in my hand and a leaked document locked in my laptop.
The lobby doors slide open.
Sunlight spills in.
So does noise.
I watch Darius step into it.
Then I turn back toward the elevators, toward my room, toward the screen waiting upstairs.
By the time I reach my desk, the coffee is cold.
The secure folder waits.
The Briarwood footage waits.
Maren waits.
The story waits.
I open a blank document and type the first headline.
CAPTAIN UNDER PRESSURE
The words sit there, sharp and easy.
Too easy.
Below it, I type the second.
THE CAPTAIN WHO CARRIES EVERYONE
My fingers hover above the keys.
For the first time in my career, choosing the wrong truth feels worse than missing the story.
***