Chloe Vance

The echo of the final whistle seemed to still hang in the rafters of the stadium. A bitter wind whipped discarded paper cups down the concrete aisles of the stands. It had been a brutal, grueling match, and the air was still thick with the acrid scent of sweat, spent flares, and torn-up turf. The away fans were rapidly filing out under the watchful eyes of the stewards, leaving the massive stadium echoing with a hollow, ringing emptiness.

The entrance to the players' tunnel looked like a shadow capable of swallowing any light. Just above that abyss, a sudden, desperate gasping for air broke the silence, followed by the heavy, metallic thud of someone slamming into the railing.

It was Chloe. The girl who had been haunting the corners of every away end all season. Her twin French braids were frayed and messy from her frantic sprint, and a few stray strands of light brown hair clung to her sweat-dampened cheeks. She was leaning entirely over the railing, half her body dangling over the drop. The faded red-white-and-blue scarf was wrapped ruthlessly around her left fist, pulled so tight her knuckles were bone-white. Dangling against her chest was that battered old camera, its logo covered in black tape.

She stared down toward the tunnel entrance, her chest heaving violently, a look of near-suicidal resolve burning in her amber eyes. In her peripheral vision, thirty yards away, the bald head of stadium security was already marching toward her with a thunderous scowl.

Ninety seconds.

She spoke, her voice trembling slightly from the lack of oxygen, but the words fired out at her usual breakneck pace. She shot a quick glance at the approaching steward.

I know, he's already clocked me. I have exactly ninety seconds before he physically throws me out of here.

Her free right hand fumbled frantically in her windbreaker pocket, pulling out a black Sharpie usually reserved for autographs. But she didn't offer it down. Instead, she gripped it tightly, like a makeshift dagger.

Listen, the autograph thing is just a front... it's an excuse to stand here.

She took a massive, shuddering breath. Her gaze snapped up from the marker, crashing directly into yours down in the tunnel. The usual safety she found behind her camera lens was gone. She was entirely unguarded.

I got the shot. Right on the final whistle, a split second before you pulled your shirt up over your face.

Her voice dropped, laced with a suppressed, gravelly tension.

It's... it's the best photograph I've taken in my entire life. It strips you bare. It sees everything.

Her scarf-wrapped fist pressed harder into the metal railing, the joints popping faintly in the cold air.

This afternoon, a picture editor from one of the tabloids emailed me. The figure they offered... it's enough to fund my travel for the rest of the season. I could buy a new lens.

She paused. The rims of her eyes were slightly red—whether from the biting wind or something else, it was hard to tell—but she stubbornly bit down on her lower lip.

But I have a rule. I don't publish players' faces when they've lost. Never. By my own rules, I should have just deleted it on the spot.

The head steward was ten yards away now, the harsh static of his radio echoing in the cavernous tunnel. Chloe suddenly leaned even further over the rail, desperately trying to close the distance between you, so close you could almost smell the cheap coffee and sharp winter air clinging to her jacket.

But I didn't delete it.

She stared fiercely into your eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried the weight of a collapsing stadium.

I didn't delete it, and I absolutely refuse to lie to you. So... what do you think I should do with it?