Chapter 29
Reece
I’ve never been this nervous 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.”
Nope. Not him. Because it’s never enough. I’m never enough.
He leaves the sentence hanging there.
Collins shifts in his seat, trying not to react. Coach doesn’t bother hiding his annoyance. His shoulders stiffen, and he shoots my dad a look so sharp it could cut glass.
“Mayfair is giving him a full scholarship,” Coach says. “That’s not nothing.”
My dad shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s nothing.”
I clench my teeth.
Collins clears his throat and turns back to me. “It’s a strong program. And you’ll be a cornerstone in their new lineup. They’re banking on you, Reece.”
My dad scoffs softly, amused. “Let’s hope he delivers.”
The room falls silent.
I stare at the paper in front of me, seeing my name printed in bold at the space waiting for my signature.
This is mine. No matter what crap my dad throws at it or how many jabs he takes.
Coach hands me the pen, and I sign my fucking name. This is my decision, not my father’s.
That’s it. I’m heading to Mayfair.
I set the pen down. This is the first time in my entire life that I’ve done something this big. This one’s mine.
I glance up when I hear Coach’s voice.
“Proud of you, kid.”
That one hits harder than I expected. I nod, swallowing past the lump forming in my throat. My eyes burn slightly, and fuck, I wasn’t ready for that—not from him. Not today.
“Big day,” Collins says, sliding the signed papers into his briefcase. He stands, smooths down his expensive jacket, and smiles. “Congratulations, Reece. We’re excited to have you.”
He pulls out a Mayfair cap and hands it to me. The weight of it feels unreal. He turns to Coach and shakes his hand. It’s a firm grip and a respectful nod.
He turns to my dad.
“Mr. Wilson,” he says, extending his hand.
My dad takes his fucking time. Simply leaves Collins hanging there like an idiot before finally lifting his arm and giving him the coldest, limp handshake I’ve ever seen.
“You better keep him in check,” he mutters.
Collins doesn’t bite. “I’ll be in touch, Reece.” He nods, turns, glances at Coach, and then he’s gone.
The door closes, and silence falls over the room.
Coach leans back, arms crossed, jaw clenched. My dad avoids looking at him, just taps his fingers on the chair as if he has somewhere else to be.
“You could’ve dialed it back,” Coach says after a second.
My dad snorts. “I don’t coddle.”
Coach raises an eyebrow. “No. You don’t.”
That silence returns, thicker now.
I sit there, cap still in my hand, feeling the weight of both of them pressing down on me. Coach’s quiet defense. My dad’s cold dismissal. The two of them couldn’t be more different. One sees me. The other sees the version of me he wishes I’d be.
My dad stands, still wearing that half-disappointed look he always keeps in his back pocket. He stares down at me for a beat too long, to make sure I’m ready for whatever shitty parting words he’s about to throw my way.
“Don’t fuck it up,” he says flatly. No warmth. Just pressure, like always.
Then he turns and walks out without saying another word, the door swinging shut behind him.
Coach exhales and gets up from his seat and walks around the table. “Reece,” he says, calm but firm, “you don’t owe him anything. You’ve earned this.”
I exhale. “It’s always been this way, Coach.”
He nods. “I know. Perhaps it’s a good thing you’re leaving that house next year. That place hasn’t been good for you in a long time.” He points to the Mayfair cap. “This is your chance to figure out who you are. Not just a player. But a person.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I walk toward the door, cap in my hand.
The hallway is lively, buzzing like always during lunchtime, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, voices echoing off the walls in a chaotic, messy rhythm that’s just part of school life.
I weave through the crowd, still riding the high.
My fingers curl around the brim of the Mayfair cap in my hand, brushing over the stitched logo. It’s real. It fucking happened.
But then I hear it.
“Guess he needed practice, huh?”
Sweet on the surface, rotten underneath. That voice could peel fucking paint off the walls.
Nicole.
She’s standing dead center in the cafeteria, right under the harsh fluorescent lights, with her small audience gathered around her. Every eye in the room begins to turn toward her, feeding off the tension it always does.
Her voice rings out again, this time louder.
“Poor Sam. She gave up her virginity for a two-hundred-dollar bet and didn’t even get a thank you.”
Laughter erupts around her, ugly and harsh—the kind that makes your skin crawl.
I freeze in the doorway, my vision narrowing until all I see is her.
Red.
She’s standing there, caught in the spotlight of every stare in the cafeteria. Frozen. Exposed.
Nicole is positioned directly in front of her, with all her minions surrounding Sam, blocking any escape routes.
Sam’s face is pale, eyes wide, lips slightly parted as if she wants to speak, but no words come out.
And the worst part is no one is fucking stepping in or stopping it. They’re all watching it unfold.
Nicole keeps moving, eyes fixed on Sam.
“Tell me, was he any good, Sam? Or was it part of the assessment, you know extra credit for cock?”
My stomach turns.
Nicole’s minions laugh loudly and forcibly, as if it’s the funniest joke they’ve ever heard. They soak it up, playing their role, eager for her approval.
But the rest of the cafeteria doesn’t join in. They simply stare— silent and uncomfortable— because they all know exactly what Nicole is like.
And ever since Tia was knocked off her throne, Nicole has been worse. Meaner. Louder. Crueler in ways that aren’t even subtle anymore, to remind everyone she wants to run the room.
This isn’t gossip; it’s a public execution.
I see Noah and Aubrey rushing in from the far side of the cafeteria, eyes wide with horror as they take in the chaos Nicole’s created.
Aubrey’s already moving, breaking into a run as she heads straight for Sam, her face etched with panic. Noah’s locked in, his gaze focused on Nicole as if he’s two seconds away from losing control. I’ve seen that look before. He’s done acting nice. Done warning her to back the fuck off.