My entire body is trembling, just one breath from turning around, running straight into his arms, and pretending none of this ever happened.I almost say fuck it.
But I don’t.I summon the courage to keep walking.
Chapter 29
Reece
I’veneverbeenthisnervous in my life.Not before a game.Not even the first time I kissed Red.
My hands won’t stop sweating.My heart’s pounding so damn loud I’m sure Coach can hear it through the wall.I’ve been standing outside his office for over a minute, staring at the handle as if it might burn me.I should’ve gone in already, walked in confident, cocky, sure of myself.
But I feel frozen because this isn’t just a meeting; it’s my future.
Twelve o’clock sharp.That’s what they said.This is the moment I sign with Mayfair—the shot I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid tossing a football against my dad’s shed.
“You can do this,” I remind myself.
But there’s the other voice.The one that whispers maybe they changed their mind.Maybe I’m not what they wanted after all.
I shake it off.That voice won’t win today.
I grab the handle, nerves still running high, but I turn it anyway and step inside before I can back out.
Coach is sitting behind his desk, arms crossed, with his mouth set in that firm line he wears when he’s not willing to give anything away.
To my left is the Mayfair guy—Collins, based on the card he gave me.Sharp suit, straight tie, hair neat enough to suggest he doesn’t sweat.His eyes flick to me the second I walk in.He scans me from head to toe, as if I’m already secured.A product with the tags ripped off.Something he’s already bought and boxed.
And there’s my dad.
Slouched in the chair closest to the desk, legs spread wide, arms resting heavily across his chest.He lifts his chin when I enter, one brow raised.
“You’re late,” he says.
Coach doesn’t hesitate at all.“He’s not.He’s exactly on time.”
I nod once at Coach in quiet thanks and take the empty seat across from Collins.My palms are still sweaty.My throat is dry.I take a slow breath, but my leg betrays me.It bounces once, twice, quickly enough that I have to plant my heel to stop it.
Collins moves a folder in front of him and meets my eyes with that same tight smile that doesn’t reach his.Corporate.Polished.Practiced.
“Reece,” he says, voice smooth, like he’s done this a hundred times, “we’ve seen everything we need.All that’s left now is your signature.”
He slides the contract across the table toward me.The pages land with a soft thud that still manages to make my stomach twist.
“You’re being offered a full ride.Tuition, housing, training, medical.Everything’s covered.Four years,” he adds, tapping the paper with his pen.“Pre-season camp starts in August.You’ll need to report before then for summer conditioning.Is that all good with you?”
I nod.“Yeah.”It comes out rough but clear enough.
Collins shifts slightly in his chair and looks at my dad.“Are you both happy with that?”
My dad leans back slowly and lets out a low hum, as if he’s weighing his options, even though we all know he’s already made up his mind.He taps a finger against his knee, relaxed as ever, but there’s something tough behind his eyes.
“It doesn’t sound terrible,” he says, dragging out the words.“Though I thought maybe Westbrook might have something better.They’ve got a stronger program...more exposure.”
Of course he fucking did.Trust him to twist it.To take something good and beat it into the ground.To turn this into a consolation prize instead of the damn miracle it truly is.
My fingers tighten around the arm of the chair.I don’t look at him because if I do, I’ll lose the thin grip I have on my temper.
I’m fortunate to be sitting here, looking at a contract with my name on it, after walking away from the sport last year.And still, he can’t simply say he’s proud or give me a pat on the back or even a quiet “well done.”
