Emerson's POV He looked at the photograph for exactly two seconds. Two seconds was enough. The balcony one was the worst possible one she could have. Clear light, clear angle, no ambiguity available. He ran a quick calculation — deny, deflect, reframe — and arrived at the same place every route ended up. There was no version of this he could talk his way out of. He picked up her phone and locked the screen and held it out to her. "Not here," he said quietly. She looked at the phone in his hand. At his face. At the six players near the entrance who were doing an unconvincing job of pretending to arrange their kit while their ears pointed in this direction. She took the phone. He grabbed his jacket off the bench and moved. He put his hand on her arm — not roughly, just directing — and guided her back through the dressing room door and out into the corridor before anyone could pull out a phone or lean in close enough to catch something worth repeating. He kept them moving. Pas
Read more
LOGIN
