CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
“What kind of note?” she asks.
“Player availability. Minutes recommendation. Darius.”
Colton’s boxes dip half an inch.
Morgan does not look at him. “Colton, truck.”
He looks at her. Then at me.
For once, no joke comes.
He carries the boxes outside.
Morgan turns back to me. “Who has it?”
“Maren. Me. Maybe whoever sent it. Maybe others. I don’t know.”
“Did it come from you?”
“No.”
Her face gives nothing.
“Did it come from your footage?”
“No. I checked as much as I can. It looks tournament-side, or broadcast logistics adjacent. Not from my notes. Not from my edit folders.”
“Show me.”
“I can’t.”
The air between us turns sharp.
Morgan’s voice drops. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not asking you to confirm it. I’m not making you a source. I’m telling you because the team needs to know a question may be moving.”
She steps closer. “You come into my loading bay, tell me my athlete’s private medical planning is in a producer’s inbox, and then tell me you can’t show me?”
My throat tightens.
“Yes.”
“Bold strategy.”
“I know.”
“Stupid, maybe.”
“Also possible.”
Her eyes flash.
Then, to my surprise, the corner of her mouth almost moves.
Almost.
It doesn’t become a smile.
Good. I’m not emotionally prepared for Morgan approval.
“I’m not using it,” I say.
“Yet?”
The word is Darius’s voice from last night.
My stomach twists.
“No,” I say. “Not in the package. Not without confirmation, comment, and context. Right now, I’ve locked it away from the shared edit folder.”
Morgan watches me for a long second.
“You want credit for not doing damage?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I want you to have warning.”
“Warning without proof.”
“Yes.”
She looks toward the open loading door. Outside, Darius crosses near the truck with Nathan at his side. He is too far to hear us. He’s laughing at something Nathan says, but the laugh stops when he shifts his bag on his shoulder.
Morgan sees the weight change.
Her jaw tightens.
Then Darius looks toward us.
His eyes find me.
The distance is too wide for words.
Not for hurt.
That travels fine.
He turns away first.
My chest aches.
Morgan sees that too.
“I suppose he’s not feeling charitable toward you right now,” she says.
“No.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The word stings.
Morgan’s gaze returns to my face. “Also awful, I imagine.”
I blink.
The one degree of softness.
I don’t know what to do with it.
Morgan saves me by becoming brisk again. “Who is pushing this?”
“Maren. She thinks if I don’t handle the injury angle, someone else will. She may be right.”
“And you?”
“I think if we frame it as a hidden-injury scandal, we punish the athlete and the medical staff for doing the responsible thing.”
Morgan’s expression changes.
Small.
Real.
“You understand that?”
“I’m starting to.”
“Because of Darius?”
The question is not cruel.
It could be.
She chooses not to make it that.
I answer carefully. “Because of all of you. But yes. Because of him too.”
Morgan looks down at the tape in her pocket, then pulls it out and sets it on top of a crate.
“What exactly does the note say?”
“I can’t quote it.”
“Sienna.”
“If I quote it, I make you part of the chain.”
She stares at me.
Then she exhales slowly through her nose. “I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
“I also understand it.”
Relief hits so fast I almost sway.
I lock my knees.
Bad choice of metaphor today.
Morgan notices anyway but lets me live.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes lift.
The loading bay noise seems to lower around us.
I don’t look away.
“Not for this. Not only for this.” My fingers tighten around my bag strap. “For before. The Morgan and Colton angle.”
Her face closes.
I keep going because if I stop now, I will make cowardice sound like timing.
“I said sorry in the café, but that was too easy. Too neat. I saw tension between you and Colton, and I treated it like story fuel before I fully considered whose career might burn. I told myself I was asking fair questions. Maybe some of them were. But the framing gave people room to make your work look smaller than it is.”
Morgan doesn’t blink.
No rescue.
No nod.
No quick forgiveness.
I deserve to stand in the full sentence.
“I was careless with your reputation,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
A cart rattles past us. The staffer pushing it glances our way, then immediately decides there are safer places to look.
Morgan folds her arms.
The tablet rests against her side.
“Producer pressure?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Her face hardens.
I lift one hand. “That is context. Not defense.”
The hardness eases by one careful inch.
“Ambition?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Better answer.”
“It’s the truer one.”
Morgan looks toward the truck again.
Darius is gone now.
The space he left still feels occupied.
“You were careless,” she says.
“I know.”
“You were not the only one who built that narrative.”
“I know.”
“But you had the microphone.”
“I know.”
The third I know sits between us.
This one feels earned.
Morgan uncrosses her arms. “Words are easy.”
“Yes.”
“Choices are harder.”
“I’m learning that.”
She studies me again. “If you want people to believe you’re not the reporter they think you are, this is the moment that decides it. Not when the story is safe. Not when the better choice costs nothing. Now.”
My throat tightens.
“I know.”
“And Darius?”
I brace myself.
Morgan’s mouth flattens. “Darius will assume the worst because he is scared, and scared men with good manners can still be idiots.”
The laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it.
Small.
Almost painful.
Morgan does not smile, but something in her eyes warms.
Then it’s gone.
“He thinks I did it,” I say.
“He thinks he knows how pain arrives. That is not the same thing.”
The line hits.
I look away toward the loading door, where sunlight flashes across the floor every time someone passes.
“What do I do with that?” I ask.
Morgan picks up her tape. “You prove him wrong. Or you don’t. But do not ask him to trust a version of you, that you haven’t chosen yet.”
No one has ever made advice sound more like a medical directive.
“Yes, Morgan.”
Her eyebrows lift.
I almost smile.
Almost.
Then her tablet pings.
She checks it and mutters something that sounds like a threat against hydration compliance.
The moment is over.
But not erased.
I step back. “I’ll keep you updated as far as I can without crossing the line.”
“I’ll inform Coach that there may be media movement around player availability.”
“Thank you.”
“This is not me trusting you.”
“I know.”
“This is me using information.”
“Understood.”
She turns toward the crates, then pauses. “Sienna.”
I stop.
“If you do this right, it will still be hard.”
I nod once.
“Then do it right anyway,” she says.
I leave the loading bay with the smell of concrete, tape, sunscreen, and truck exhaust clinging to me.
Outside, the heat is brighter. The team bus idles near the curb. Staff load the last bags. Media crews gather behind a temporary barrier, restless and hungry. Every camera seems pointed at the wrong thing.
Or the right thing, depending who is selling it.