Chapter 102: Chapter 102: The Agent
Prittttttt!
The referee’s whistle cut through the winter air.
The war was over.
Lincoln High 1 – Riverside 0.
Julian straightened, chest still burning from the battle, sweat dripping into his eyes. Across from him, Silas Malik approached with that calm aura that never seemed to fade, even in defeat.
"Looks like I lose once again," Silas said quietly, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the sting.
Julian studied him for a long second, then extended his hand. His grip was firm, not mocking, not gloating—just respect carved into the moment.
"Don’t be like that. We’ll meet again, in the future. Maybe by then we’ll both be professionals."
For the first time that night, Silas’s lips curved into something like a smile.
"Yeah... I believe you’ll be big in the future. So—" his tone shifted, half-teasing, half-serious, "give me the shirt."
Julian blinked, then smirked. Without hesitation, he tugged his sweat-soaked jersey over his head, muscles glistening under the stadium lights, and handed it over.
Silas peeled off his own, his golden-and-black captain’s kit, and offered it in return. Their hands met again—not in a handshake this time, but in an exchange of battle-scarred armor.
"Let’s see each other once again," Silas said, voice low, carrying weight like a promise.
Julian nodded, tucking the jersey under his arm. No more words were needed.
For a moment, the two captains lingered at the center circle.
The crowd’s cheers faded into a dull roar, the floodlights casting long shadows around them.
It felt less like high school football and more like a pro stage—the kind where legends shook hands before parting ways.
Even in defeat, Silas radiated dignity. Even in victory, Julian carried no arrogance. Two rivals, bound by respect, sharpening each other with every clash
Both captains turned, walking back to their benches, their teammates’ eyes following them. One side walking in victory, the other in silence—but both carrying the fire of what came next.
..
Lincoln gathered on the bench, breath still heavy but spirits burning bright.
Leo walk over from the stands, slipping into the circle with his crooked grin. Cael sat wrapped in bandages, his fire undimmed, eyes sharp as ever.
Coach Owen clapped his hands once, voice cutting through the chatter.
"Nice game. Pack up, cool down, and head home. Rest. Back at it in monday. And take care of your bodies—I mean it."
The players answered in unison, drained but satisfied. The job was done.
They cooled down on the pitch, then drifted away one by one—bags slung, laughter trailing faint in the cold air. The locker room emptied until only Julian remained.
He packed his kit, tightened the strap on his bag, and with a metallic clack, turned the key in the lock. The echo carried down the corridor.
When he stepped into the hallway, the stadium lights still buzzing above, someone was already waiting.
A man.
Young, sharp, with the trimmed frame of someone who lived in gyms and training grounds. Sweatpants, a fitted tee, spotless sneakers. He didn’t have the air of a fan, or even a scout—he stood too calm, too deliberate.
Their eyes met. The stranger smiled, confident and polished, like this was the exact moment he had been waiting for.
"I’m David Mateo," he said, stepping forward and extending a hand. "Agent."
From his pocket, the man produced a sleek, glossy business card, pressing it into Julian’s palm.
Julian raised an eyebrow.
"I have a proposal for you," David said, his tone easy but deliberate. "You’re free tomorrow, right? How about we sit down and talk?"
Julian studied him carefully. A stranger after a game, handing out cards, talking about proposals—it reeked of a scam.
David caught the hesitation in his eyes and smirked. "Relax. I’m not here to trick you."
He reached into his wallet again, this time sliding out a photo—himself standing shoulder to shoulder with a familiar face.
Clinton Drew Dempsey. A legend. Born in Texas, carved his way from New England Revolution to Fulham, one of the most respected American players to set foot in Europe.
Julian’s gaze lingered on the photo. Real. Too real to fake.
"You’ll find my number on the card," David added, tapping it once before slipping it back into Julian’s hand. "Message me the location tomorrow. I’ll be there."
And with that, he turned, walking off with the kind of confidence that didn’t need an explanation.
The sound of his sneakers on the concrete faded slowly, leaving Julian rooted to the spot.
His pulse hadn’t calmed since the final whistle, and now it spiked again for an entirely different reason.
Football had always felt like war—sweat, bruises, victories earned on blood. But this? This was the first taste of something larger. Contracts. Agents. Futures. The world outside the pitch was starting to close in.
Julian stood there, watching him fade into the night, the business card burning cold between his fingers. Weird. Suspicious. But real.
Tucking the card into his pocket, Julian shook his head and walked on, steps falling into rhythm with the night. Toward the bus stop. Toward home.
...
When he pushed open the front door, Crest was already waiting. The faint aroma of tea drifted through the air, sharp and soothing.
"You drank the tea?" she asked, voice calm as ever.
Julian nodded. It had become routine—her tea, brewed with care, grounding him after war on the pitch. More than habit, it felt like fuel.
He sat down, card still in his hand. "I got an offer. From an agent. Can you check him out for me?" He slid the card across the table.
Her eyes flicked over it once. "You need it now?"
Julian nodded. "I’ll eat first, but I need it ASAP."
"Consider it done." Crest’s fingers were already tapping across her phone, the quiet keystrokes precise, surgical.
Julian disappeared for a shower, steam washing away the bruises and dirt of battle. When he returned, Crest was waiting with her verdict.
"Legit," she said simply, sliding the card back. "David Mateo. He checks out. I made calls. He’s real." A rare flicker of light touched her eyes. "So. You got an offer?"
Julian scratched his jaw, lips tightening. "Yeah. But I don’t know the details. I’ll meet him tomorrow." He saved the number into his phone, chose a café at random from the map, and sent the message.
"You want me—" Crest began.
Julian cut her off with a faint smile. "It’s okay. I can handle it. After I hear him out, I’ll tell you everything."
Silence hung for a moment before Crest finally inclined her head. "Fine."
Minutes later, his phone buzzed. A reply.
Okay. Followed by a single thumbs-up emoji.
Julian leaned back, staring at it. Tomorrow would bring answers—or something else entirely