CHAPTER TWENTY
DARIUS
By the time we board the plane to New York/New Jersey it’s full of athletes pretending not to read headlines about me.
Nobody says it at first.
That’s how I know everyone has seen it.
As we prepare for take-off the charter plane hums around us, cool air blowing from vents above leather seats, overhead bins thumping shut, staff moving down the aisle with travel bags and tablets.
Outside the oval window, Charlotte sits under a glowing evening sky, runway heat bending the distance.
Inside, my team has all of a sudden become suspiciously interested in everything except their phones.
Mateo stares at the safety card like he is preparing for an exam.
Colton keeps opening and closing a bag of pretzels without eating any.
Nathan sits beside me, jaw tight, thumbs still on his black screen.
Morgan stands in the aisle with her tablet tucked against her ribs and the expression of a woman who knows exactly which athletes are lying to themselves before takeoff.
The headline isn’t on my phone anymore.
I closed it ten minutes ago.
It’s still burned behind my eyes.
Questions Swirl Around Kings Captain’s Fitness Before Global Cup Final
Questions swirl.
Convenient phrase.
Nobody has to accuse. Nobody has to confirm. Nobody has to understand the difference between a managed knee and a crisis. They just let the questions swirl and call it coverage.
Anonymous source.
Managed minutes.
Load concerns.
Captain availability.
No document posted.
No context.
Enough.
The article doesn’t say I can’t play. It doesn’t say the Kings hid anything. It doesn’t even say injury with confidence.
It doesn’t need to.
The questions do the damage for it.
Nathan leans toward me. “It’s garbage.”
I keep my eyes on the window. “Not entirely.”
“That is not the same as fair.”
“No.”
“Then stop saying it like you’re helping them.”
I look at him.
He gives me the stare he used to give me in Briarwood when I tried to take blame for things that weren’t mine because it kept the room easier.
Apparently his face hasn’t matured as much as the rest of him.
Across the aisle, Colton says, “For the record, I also think it’s garbage. I just didn’t want to interrupt the brooding duet.”
“Your restraint is inspiring,” Nathan says.
“I’m growing.”
Morgan looks up from her tablet. “That would require rest.”
Colton points at her. “Medical slander.”
“Medical fact.”
The team gives a weak laugh.
Weak, but real.
I take it.
The flight attendant starts the safety announcement.
Most of the guys look forward. A few pretend harder not to check phones.
Coach is two rows ahead, talking quietly with the assistant coach.
His shoulders are set in the way they get when he is calculating five problems at once and refusing to show which one is burning hottest.
My knee sits under the compression sleeve, wrapped and managed. Not bad. Not good. Present.
Everything is present now.
My body.
The headline.
The note I still have not seen.
Sienna’s face near the media van when I asked if she leaked it.
The way she said no.
The way I still let suspicion stand between us like a third person.
Nathan bumps my elbow. “You asked her, didn’t you?”
I stare at the seat in front of me.
His sigh says enough.
“Darius.”
“What?”
“You asked if she leaked it.”
I do not answer.
Colton leans over the aisle. “Oh, Captain.”
“Do not.”
“Was it at least phrased better than that?”
Silence.
Colton winces. “So no.”
Nathan turns in his seat. “She warned Morgan. She told you she didn’t use it. She has been choosing not to use things all week.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The same question again.
Morgan. Nathan. Sienna. Everyone keeps handing me the same mirror from different angles.
I don’t appreciate the team effort.
“I saw cameras tracking my knee before any article went live,” I say.
Nathan’s voice lowers. “I know.”
“And she knew a story was moving.”
“She told you that.”
“She didn’t tell me what it was.”
“Because she has a job.”
“And I have a team.”
“And both can be true without her being the villain.”
I look at him.
His face softens by one irritating degree.
“Look,” he says. “I’m not saying you had no reason to panic. I’m saying you took that panic and aimed it at the nearest person who mattered.”
The plane starts moving.
Slow at first, then turning toward the runway.
I grip the armrest.
Not because of flying.
Because Nathan is right and the runway offers no convenient exit.
Colton reaches across the aisle and taps the back of my hand with one pretzel.
I look at it.
He says, “Peace pretzel.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is now.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You need carbs and humility.”
Morgan says, “He does need carbs.”
“See?” Colton says. “Medical endorsement.”
I take the pretzel only to end the conversation.
It tastes like salt and defeat.
Nathan smiles slightly, then looks down at his phone. His smile fades.
Emily, probably.
I catch only the top of the notification before he turns the screen away.
“You all right?” I ask.
His jaw shifts. “We are discussing your disasters right now.”
“That sounded like no.”
“It sounded like boundaries.”
“Fair.”
He pockets the phone, but his thumb stays pressed against it through the fabric. Whatever is going on with Emily has hooks in him.
Not today.
But soon.
The plane lines up.
Engines build.
The whole cabin holds that strange pre-takeoff breath.
I close my eyes as the runway rush begins.
The force presses me back into the seat. My knee stays still. My hand stays on the armrest. The article stays where it is, somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
Then we lift.
Charlotte drops away beneath us.
The city shrinks to blocks, roads, roofs, fields.
Briarwood is somewhere beyond it.
The hotel curb. The banner. Tyler’s cape. Sienna by the media van, looking at me like I had taken the one fragile thing she tried to hand me and checked it for sharp edges.
The seatbelt sign stays on.
Morgan appears anyway.
She braces one hand on the seat in front of me and looks down with absolutely no interest in aviation law.
“Compression comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Hydration?”
“I have water.”
“That was not my question.”
I lift the bottle.
She waits.
I open it and drink.
“Happy?”
“Rarely.”
Colton snorts across the aisle.
Morgan ignores him. “Every forty minutes, you stand and walk the aisle. Controlled steps. No sudden heroics on a plane.”
“What would heroics on a plane look like?”
Colton raises his hand. “I could invent some.”
“No,” Morgan says.
Nathan says, “That was fast.”
“I know my athletes.”
She looks back at me. “Pain level?”
“Three.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Three and a half,” I say.
“Location?”
“Same.”
“Sharp?”
“No.”
“Tight?”
“A little.”
“Swelling?”
“Not that I can feel.”
She keeps looking.
I sigh. “Minimal.”
“Better.”
“This is a very public medical review.”
“This is a very public consequence of private stubbornness.”
Colton whispers, “She’s on fire today.”
Morgan turns her head.
He studies the pretzel bag like scripture.
She looks back at me. “No macho nonsense.”
“I know.”
“I want you saying it, not knowing it.”
I lower my voice. “No macho nonsense.”
“Good.”
She starts to move away, then stops. “Also, if a reporter asks about load management, we answer with context. We do not deny reality. We do not create mystery where discipline belongs.”
We.
The word lands.
Not you.
We.
I nod once.
Morgan’s face softens just enough to be dangerous. “You followed the plan after I pulled you in training.”
“Mostly.”
“You followed it enough that I didn’t tape you to a chair.”
“That was an option?”
“It remains one.”
She continues down the aisle, stopping to scold Colton’s pretzel intake, remind Mateo to breathe, and tell Nathan that clenching his jaw does not improve flight time.
The cabin settles into air.
Some players sleep. Some watch film. Some pretend not to refresh their phones.
Coach stands once the seatbelt sign turns off and speaks to us from the front.
“Listen up.”
Phones lower.
“We knew Final week would bring noise. It arrived early. That does not change the work. We land. We go to the hotel. We clear arrival media by the book. No casual comments about player availability. No speculation. No jokes that can be clipped by people who don’t understand your sense of humour.”
His eyes go to Colton.
Colton lifts both hands. “Unfair but wise.”
Coach continues. “Darius will address what needs addressing in official settings. Medical staff will manage medical realities. Everyone else keeps the focus where it belongs: the Final.”
A few nods.
I feel the team trying not to look at me again.
This time, I let them.
“Questions?” Coach asks.
Mateo raises a hand, then lowers it.
Coach sees. “Mateo.”
The rookie swallows. “What if they ask us about Darius?”
The cabin stills.
I turn toward him.
He looks like he wants the floor to open.
Coach answers before I can. “You say the truth. Darius is our captain. We trust our medical staff. We trust our preparation. Then you stop talking.”
Colton adds, “Especially the stop talking part. That’s where interviews go to die.”
A few guys laugh.
Mateo nods.
I catch his eye. “You’ll be fine.”
His shoulders ease.
There’s the reflex, again.
Comfort the room.
Carry the moment.
Maybe that part is not wrong.
Maybe the mistake is thinking I have to do it alone.
My phone buzzes on airplane Wi-Fi.
Team communications thread.
I expect schedule updates.
Instead, there is a link from media relations.
NORTHLINE PREVIEW PACKAGE APPROVED FOR FINAL-WEEK COVERAGE
Title: The Captain Who Learned the Next Right Pass
I stare at the title until the words blur slightly.
Not Captain Under Pressure.
Not Fitness Questions.
Not Hidden Concern.
The Captain Who Learned the Next Right Pass.
Sienna’s fingerprints are all over it.
Not because it is soft.
Because it understands.
Nathan leans close enough to see. “That hers?”
“Yes.”
“You going to watch it?”
“Not here.”
“Why?”
Because if she told the story well, I have to face what I did.
Because if she did not, I have to face that too.
Because there are thirty people on this plane and not one place to put my face if it changes.
“Later,” I say.