Chapter 138: Chapter 138: Lincoln’s Promise
The celebration rolled on.
Plates never stayed empty, trays of food kept coming, and glasses clinked—even if for the players, it was all soda and juice. The room pulsed with warmth, laughter, and the hum of too many voices in too small a space.
Steam rose from trays of roasted meat, the sharp tang of sauce cutting through the heavier scent of fries and cheese.
Somewhere, a soda hissed open, foam spilling down a can as someone laughed too hard to care. Boots tapped against the wooden floor in rhythm with the jukebox music, the entire restaurant alive with sound.
Then— tap, tap, tap.
A sharp thud against the mic echoed through the restaurant.
"Hello, hello, hello."
Heads turned. The chatter dimmed.
Up front, Coach Owen stood, mic in hand, grinning like he’d just pulled one over on the world.
"We hear you, Coach!" one of the parents called, earning chuckles from the crowd.
Owen gave a theatrical nod. "Good. Saves me from shouting."
The laughter swelled, easy and genuine. He let it ride for a beat, then leaned forward, eyes sweeping over players, families, classmates, and the odd stranger who had joined the party.
"Now listen," he began, voice steady. "This is just qualifying for CIF. That’s it. Nothing more."
He paused, letting the words settle. Then his grin widened.
"And yet..." his voice boomed, "if anyone walked in here tonight, they’d think we’d just won the damn national championship."
The room erupted. Laughter. Cheers. Even the clapping of forks against tables.
Julian sat back in his chair, watching the noise swirl around him. For anyone else, it was just celebration. For him, it felt heavier. Like the laughter was already echoing from a memory.
Coach Owen’s voice cut through the din.
"This school..." he paused, lifting the mic, "...for ten years hasn’t even qualified. Ten years." His gaze swept the room, steady and proud. "And yesterday, these boys didn’t just qualify. They qualified without a single loss."
The room erupted.
Cael let out a roar, Aaron pounded the table, Leo whooped so loud it rattled glasses. The noise was wild, unrestrained, alive.
"Yeah, yeah," Owen chuckled, letting them scream. Then his eyes sharpened, landing squarely on one figure. "But I think we can all agree on this."
The mic turned. The spotlight followed.
"Our MVP. Our new weapon. The one who dragged us here with blood and fire." His voice rose, booming across the restaurant. "Julian Ashford!"
The name slammed through the room.
Every head turned. Cheers swelled, rising like thunder.
Julian didn’t flinch. His chest rose once, steady, his face calm even as the heat of every gaze pressed down on him.
Owen lifted his glass high, the amber liquid catching the light.
"A toast to him."
Every parent, teacher, and stranger mirrored the gesture. The players raised sodas and water instead, but their eyes burned no less bright.
"To Julian!"
The shout shook the walls.
Owen downed his drink in one gulp and slammed the glass onto the table with a grin. "Now—let’s enjoy tonight. And tomorrow, we bring this spirit to CIF!"
The room roared again, wild and unbroken.
And Julian sat among them, smiling faintly... even as the weight in his chest grew heavier.
...
The celebration rolled on. Laughter. Plates clinking. Jokes flying louder than the music.
But for Julian, each sound only sharpened the knot in his chest. The longer he sat, the heavier it pressed.
Someone started an arm-wrestling match in the corner. Cael lost on purpose just to make Ricky laugh.
Aaron tried to balance three glasses at once and nearly dumped soda down Riku’s lap. For a while, it felt endless, like the night itself would stretch just to hold them all here.
People began trickling out, parents leading kids home, leaving the core Lincoln players still clustered around the table. The heart of the team. His brothers.
Julian’s hand curled into a fist. His jaw tightened. Then—
"Arghhh!"
He smacked his own cheek, hard enough to draw every eye.
"Yo—what the hell, dude?" Leo blinked, halfway between alarm and a laugh.
Julian pushed his chair back and rose. His pulse pounded like war drums.
"I..." His voice cracked once, but he forced it steady. "I’ve got something to say."
The table stilled.
Across the room, Crest’s gaze locked on him, unreadable but sharp. Tress froze, glass halfway to her lips. Coach Owen leaned back, exhaling slow through his nose. They knew. But even knowing, the moment still carried weight.
Julian swallowed. His heart hammered. Then—he ripped the words out.
"I’m leaving Lincoln. I’ll be playing abroad. In Germany."
Silence slammed down. The kind that hollowed out a room.
Julian’s palms went slick. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them—his friends, his brothers. Not when the air was this heavy. He’d fought monsters on the pitch, demons in his dreams... but this—this silence—was worse.
For a heartbeat, all he could hear was the fizz of soda in half-empty cups. The scrape of a chair somewhere in the back.
The dull roar of blood in his ears. He braced for anger. For disappointment. For betrayal.
And then—
"Pfft—"
A snort cracked the stillness. Then a laugh—loud, carefree. Leo leaned back in his chair, head thrown back.
"Hahahahaha! That’s it? That’s what’s got you looking like you’re about to confess a murder?"
Julian’s head snapped up, stunned.
Leo grinned at him, eyes burning bright. "You idiot... what’s so scary about chasing the next battlefield?"
"Yeah, you think we’d be pissed?" Cael leaned forward, smirking. "C’mon, man. This is you."
"Nice, Julian," Ricky added, rare smile breaking across his face. "You’ll take Lincoln to the world stage."
"Congratulations," Noah said quietly, but his voice carried.
"Let’s gooo! We’ve got a world athlete from our team!" Aaron whooped, fist pumping the air.
One by one, voices rose around the table. Not anger. Not betrayal. Celebration. Every Lincoln player throwing their weight behind him.
Leo shook his head, laughing softly, before his tone sharpened with sincerity. "We always knew, man. The way you improve... it was only a matter of time. Scouts were bound to come knocking."
He stood, lifting his glass, gaze fierce. "And we already promised, didn’t we? The day you leave—no one here holds you back. So go. Soar, Emperor. Conquer another pitch. Become the greatest."
He stepped forward, wrapped Julian in a crushing hug.
The others followed, piling in, one by one—Cael, Ricky, Noah, Riku, Aaron—arms thrown around him until he was swallowed by his brothers.
The weight of them pressed against him—sweat, laughter, the raw heat of their bodies. For once, it wasn’t a tackle, wasn’t a fight for the ball. It was love. Unity. A bond forged in every sprint and bruise and goal.
Julian tried to laugh, tried to bite it back—but his eyes burned hot. He blinked, hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
This wasn’t weakness. This was war. A promise carved into his chest.
He swore to himself then—he would conquer the world. And when he did, Lincoln’s name would be carved into every victory.