20. Chapter 19 #3
"Pleasure," I say, giving him the firm-but-not-trying-too-hard handshake. The one Declan drilled into me when I was fourteen.
God, even here, my brother's fingerprints are on me.
"And this is Shane Webb, our director of player development," Greg says, nodding to the man beside him.
Webb grabs my hand and shakes. Solid grip. Eye contact that says I've watched your tape and I liked what I saw. "Really glad you're here, Beck. We've been looking forward to this."
"Uh, thanks."
Philip clears his throat beside me, and I settle back in my chair, glance at the charcuterie board, and resist the urge to immediately go for the prosciutto.
"So. Beck Morrison." Greg leans back, coffee untouched. "Let me save us all the dance. We watched what your team looked like last night without you. And we've watched your market get very interesting, very fast."
"I have that effect on markets."
He smiles.
And you know what? It looks absolutely genuine.
"So here's what we see. We want you in a city that builds stars.
Instead of borrowing them." He taps the table.
"In Beachside, you're one of three Morrisons.
Here, you'd be the only one. You'll be the face on the billboard.
The headline each and every week." He leans in closer, looking me dead in the.
"Beck, you sign for us, and I promise you, you'll be the guy this whole town shows up for. "
And there it is.
Everything I've ever wanted, plated and served with the good silverware.
Not the baby brother. Not the bundle deal. Not the punchline waiting for someone else's decision.
The guy.
Proper ice time, the spotlight, a franchise saying we choose you before I've had to earn it, charm it, or joke my way into it.
Last night, I'd have signed right here on the tablecloth.
But my brain keeps going sideways.
They keep talking around me, with Philip searching for numbers, a defined role, and a development plan with my name on the top line instead of the bottom.
And it's good. It's genuinely, legitimately good.
Philip is glowing beside me like a man watching his commission do jumping jacks.
But I can't stop the images flashing through my mind.
To a black lace G-string on the floor of Goldie's and me throwing my body over it like a grenade.
To her laugh echoing in the back kitchen of a gala, both of us hiding from four hundred people in tuxedos.
To her swimming into my arms at dawn, hair plastered to her cheeks, grinning up at the sunrise because for the first time in her whole Spreadsheet life, she'd figured out how to float.
To every version of her — buttoned-up Darcy, jogging Darcy, furious Darcy.
It's all just… Darcy, Darcy, Darcy.
And you know what?
All of it leads to the one question I still can't answer.
So where does that leave us?
The meeting winds down with handshakes and the assistant GM saying "we're serious, Beck," and me saying "I can tell," and then it's just Philip and me and the ruins of the charcuterie board.
"That was the best pitch I've heard in ten years, Beck." Philip studies me over his cold espresso. "What do you think?"
"I'm excited. Really excited, actually."
He puts the coffee down and plants his forearms on the table. "So what's with the frown?"
I sigh. "There's a woman."
Philip looks at me like Biscuit did after he pissed on Declan's gym bag and somehow expected me to fix it.
"Beck…"
"I know, man. I know." I turn my water glass in a circle on the white tablecloth. "The problem is, she's smart. Terrifyingly smart. She has a spreadsheet about me and everything. It's not flattering, but she said she loves me last night. Mid-argument, which honestly, was kind of hot."
"And you're telling me this because…"
"Because I walked in here thinking choosing myself meant leaving Beachside. That the only way to stop being a Morrison brother was to go somewhere nobody's met the other two."
I look out at the desert, all that open, empty gold. It's like a treasure chest out there, just waiting for me to dive in and help myself.
"But sitting here, listening to everything I thought I wanted? All I kept thinking about was everything I already have."
Philip watches me silently. He's been my agent for a long time now. He's seen me sign things drunk, sober, and once, memorably, inside a giant inflatable bear costume while two children repeatedly punched me in the stomach.
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Keep talking to them. Get the full offer on paper. I want to know exactly what my choices are." I stand, buttoning my rumpled jacket. "But Philip? Don't let anyone rush me. Not Vegas, not Colin, not the deadline. For the first time in my life, this decision is mine."
He nods slowly, and there's something in his face that looks almost like pride. "You know, you sound different."
"Yeah." I grin, heading for the door. "I've been professionally assessed."
I step back out onto the Strip, ready to cross the street and re-join my teammates as we board the plane back to Beachside.
But here's the thing I've learnt:
Choosing myself doesn't automatically mean leaving everything I love.
Maybe that's the part I've been getting wrong.