Chapter 114: Chapter 114: Signed in Steel
The final whistle cut through the night.
Julian exhaled, sweat dripping down his jaw as the tension bled from the pitch. Lincoln High gathered near the bench, their bodies heavy but their spirits blazing. Across the way, Leo and D-Lo stood face to face, the battlefield between them now silent.
"Nice game," Leo said simply, extending his hand. His golden eyes no longer shone with fire, but with respect.
"Nice game," D-Lo echoed, gripping his hand firm. Their handshake lingered for a heartbeat, warriors acknowledging each other.
They traded jerseys, then turned back to their benches.
Coach Owen’s voice rose as soon as the team had gathered. His tone wasn’t gentle—it was steel, hammered sharp.
"Nice game," he said. "But listen—what you saw today is the truth of pressure. When it comes, there are only two paths. You crack beneath it... or you rise, and become a diamond."
A fire lit in his eyes, and in every Lincoln player’s chest.
"Yes, Coach!" they thundered together, like soldiers on parade.
Owen nodded once. "Good. Now pack it up. We go home."
Lincoln cooled down, stretching sore muscles, gulping their last sips of water. One by one, bags zipped, boots slid into their cases, and the team marched off the field.
The bus ride home hummed with the quiet after war. The engine rumbled beneath their feet, the night sky blurred outside the windows, and laughter buzzed in tired bursts between teammates.
Someone cracked a joke near the back, a weak laugh scattering across the aisle. Riku leaned against the glass, eyes closed, headphones bleeding faint static.
Aaron was still replaying the match in sharp gestures, describing a tackle with his hands. Noah sat forward, too restless to relax, his knee bouncing to some rhythm only he heard. Leo, silent, scrolled through his phone,
Julian leaned back in his seat, eyes half-lidded, but his mind was already gone from the bus.
It was flying ahead—past the lights of the city, past the roar of the crowd, straight to Crest. Straight to the quiet of his home, where David Mateo was likely waiting already.
The agent. The contract. The future.
Julian’s lips pressed thin. Tonight, they had sealed victory on the field. But tomorrow? Tomorrow, another kind of battlefield awaited him.
And this time, it wouldn’t just be about goals or glory.
It would be about his destiny.
...
The bus rolled into Lincoln, and soon after, Julian was standing at his own doorstep. The night air clung cool and damp against his skin.
He paused, his eyes narrowing.
A car he didn’t recognize sat parked in the driveway—a sleek red Mercedes, polished to a mirror shine even beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. Its foreignness was sharp, out of place against the quiet suburban backdrop.
David’s car.
Julian exhaled, gripped the handle, and pushed open the door.
"Hello," he called out softly, voice steady.
The warmth of cooked food drifted from the dining room. He stepped inside and froze.
David Mateo sat at the table like he belonged there, fork in hand, posture relaxed. Crest was opposite him, her composure unchanged as ever, though her eyes flicked once toward Julian with that silent sharpness of hers.
"Ah, Julian!" David’s grin split across his face, bright and easy. He gestured toward the empty chair beside him. "Come join us."
He spoke as though this were his house. As if the table, the air, even Crest’s presence were his to command.
Julian didn’t bite. He didn’t ask. He didn’t challenge. His body moved with calm detachment—up the stairs, into his room.
The locker room’s scent of sweat and grass still clung to him. He stripped off his uniform, tossed it into the basket, and changed into something clean. Each motion was mechanical, like a soldier preparing for the next mission.
Only once he was reset—once he had shed the weight of the pitch—did he return.
The clink of silverware, the faint hiss of tea still steaming in its pot, Crest’s calm voice against David’s smooth chatter—it all melded into the air.
Julian slid into his seat without a word. He didn’t ask questions. Not yet.
First, he ate.
Because battles, whether on the field or at the table, were never fought hungry.
...
"Delicious," David said at last, leaning back with a satisfied grin. He gestured broadly with his fork like some Italian at a café. "Really—food in the Ashford family is the best."
"Of course," Crest replied smoothly, her tone polite but edged with pride. "We treat our guests as our best."
Julian said nothing. His eyes lingered on them both, his silence sharper than any words.
David’s hands moved constantly when he spoke—fingers drumming, fork spinning. Crest, by contrast, was perfectly still, her presence a silent wall against his theatrics.
Where David was flash, Crest was steel. Julian sat between them, not as a child listening to adults, but as a commander weighing two very different allies.
Eventually, the plates were cleared. A waitress whisked away the empty dishes, the smell of roasted meat and herbs fading into the quiet hum of the house.
That’s when David finally reached into his bag. He drew out a folder, the edges neat, the papers crisp. He slid it across the table.
"You can see it," he said, almost smugly. Then his lips curled into a half-grin as he flicked his gaze toward Crest. "You don’t know how many times she forced me to revise this. Ruthless."
For a brief second, Crest’s presence seemed to loom—like a lioness watching a cub prod too close to her teeth.
Julian ignored the tension. He took the folder and began to read.
The summary was simple:
David would act as his agent for three years.His responsibility: secure Julian’s path toward stardom.David promised playtime, visibility, and that Julian would never be lost in the shuffle—he’d be a focal point wherever he landed.
Julian set the last page down. His hand didn’t tremble. His heart was steady.
"For me... I believe in you. And Crest." His voice was low, firm. "Please, take care of me."
The pen scratched across the page. His name, etched in black.
Crest followed, her signature steady beside his. Guardian, protector, witness. Julian was seventeen—still underage—and by law, her name bound the contract with his.
Julian felt the weight of her signature more than his own. It wasn’t just legality—it was trust carved in ink.
Crest wasn’t just a guardian; she was staking her life’s discipline, her iron, on his future. For someone like her, that meant more than any piece of paper could hold.
David clapped his hands once, grinning wide. "Ohhh, nice! There we go!" He snatched the papers back like treasure, sliding them into his bag with care. "Now we’re official."
Then, without missing a beat, he pulled out his tablet and flicked it awake.
"Which means... next step: the team."
The glow of the screen painted his face as he turned it toward Julian. Country flags lined the display, each paired with notes.
"Four main options," David said, tapping one after another.
Spain: "Hot sun, quick feet, knives hidden in flair."
England: "Rain, mud, tackles that tasted like blood."
Germany: "Steel discipline, engines built to last."
Portugal: "A bridge—small but sturdy, leading to empires."
He leaned back, eyes sharp. "Personally? I think Germany’s the best place to build you from the ground up. But—" he raised a finger, "—I’ll explore all four. Especially after San Dimas. One more big match, one more showcase, and I’ll have the leverage I need to sell your value."
His gaze pinned Julian. "So. Any country you prefer?"
Julian’s fingers curled against his leg. Spain tempted him—Spain meant Adrian, the boy he swore to crush. But saying it now? No. Not yet.
His eyes steadied. His voice cut clean.
"Anywhere that improves me fastest. That’s my only purpose."
David’s lips curled wider, the grin of a man who had just spotted a fire he could stake everything on. "Good. That’s what I wanted to hear."
He tapped the screen off and slipped the tablet back into his bag.
"Alright. Then wait. After San Dimas... I’ll give you the list."
Julian nodded once, his chest burning with quiet resolve. The choice of country could wait. The choice of war could not.