Chapter Thirty-Four
Dylan
I shift in my seat, the leather of the conference room chair squeaking softly beneath me. The space is sleek and impersonal—glass walls, polished chrome, the Redwood Larks logo stamped everywhere like a reminder of exactly where I am and what this moment represents.
Ray Upton sits across from me, relaxed, confident, his sharp eyes scanning the stack of papers laid neatly in front of him.
My agent sits beside me with his marked-up copy of the contract, while two members of the Larks’ legal team wait across the table.
I stare down at the contract in front of me, pages of crisp black ink outlining the next several years of my life. I try to focus, really focus, but my thoughts keep slipping.
“So, Dylan,” Ray says, looking up at last. “Everything looking good so far? We were surprised you slipped through the draft, but the moment it ended we knew we wanted you here.”
I nod. My agent has walked me through every clause twice, but seeing the terms printed beneath the Larks logo makes everything suddenly real.
I’ve dreamed about this moment for as long as I can remember—signing a pro contract, stepping into the league—but sitting here now, with Ray Upton and his legal team waiting on me, it feels different than I expected. More permanent.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Looks good. I think.”
One of the lawyers gives a polite nod. “We’ll walk through each section,” he says evenly. “Just to make sure there are no surprises.”
I appreciate that more than he probably realizes. Still, part of me wants to sign my name and get it over with, to stop hovering in this in-between space.
One of the lawyers taps next page. “This section covers off-season training expectations. Facilities, trainers, resources. You’ll have everything you need to hit the ground running.”
“Sounds great,” I say, managing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
Ray’s eyebrow lifts. “It’s more than great. We’re investing in you because we believe in you, Dylan. You’ve got discipline and drive. Not everyone can handle this level of pressure, but you can.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, eyes drifting back to the contract.
Everything I’ve worked for is right here. Numbers. Terms. Commitments. All of it spelled out clearly.
And yet something feels missing.
Lucy.
She’s out there somewhere, probably tucked into a corner of the library, a book open in her lap, while I sit here making a decision that’s supposed to be just about football, just about me. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’m choosing for both of us… without her in the room.
“Any questions?” Ray asks.
I look around the table. At everyone waiting. At the contract. At the future staring me down.
“No,” I say finally, steady despite the chaos in my head. “No questions.”
My agent gives me one final nod. I pick up the pen and sign where the tabs mark my name.
The final stroke should feel like victory. Instead, it feels like a door is closing somewhere behind me.
Ray stands and offers his hand. “Welcome to the Redwood Larks.”
I shake his hand, even as something inside me resists. And I can’t tell if I’m fighting the contract or the path that led me here.
“Dinner?” Ray adds. “My treat.”
“Sure,” I say.
***
The restaurant is just as polished as Ray’s office—glass, low lighting, white tablecloths, the kind of place that makes reservations feel mandatory. Ray calls it perfect for discussing the big picture.
We sit by the window. Jazz hums softly in the background. Ray looks perfectly at home. I don’t.
“You’ve got big shoes to fill,” Ray says, lifting his glass. “But I have no doubt you’ll rise to it.”
“Thanks,” I reply, reaching for the breadbasket mostly to have something to do with my hands. “It’s just… a lot to take in.”
“That’s normal,” he says. “You worked your whole life for this. Now it’s real.”
I nod, but my thoughts drift anyway, to Lucy’s smile, the warmth of her lips, the way our ending came too fast, too sharp.
I stare into my water glass, hoping clarity might be waiting there.
Ray watches me for a moment, then speaks again. “You’re stepping into a new chapter, Dylan. New city. New career. Bigger world.”
I swallow. None of it feels right without her.
“Something on your mind?” he asks.
I look up, surprised by the directness. “Yeah,” I admit. And before I can think, I blurt out, “Lucy was important to me. It feels weird doing this without her.”
Ray considers me carefully. “Relationships are complicated,” he says. “This world changes things. Distance, schedules, expectations. Sometimes relationships adapt to it, sometimes they don’t.”
His words hit clean and logical.
That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I want to nod. I want to agree. But everything inside me pushes back hard against his words.
There’s this persistent, aching conviction that Lucy isn’t just someone I got close to.
She was the first person who made me believe there was more to my life than football.
More than drills and schedules and seasons that bleed into each other.
She saw me—really saw me—when I didn’t know how to look beyond the field myself.
And I know that if she were sitting here now, she’d be telling me not to get swept up in Ray’s polished confidence. She’d tell me to listen to the part of myself that already knows the truth.
“The league changes the shape of your life,” Ray says. “Distance, travel, constant evaluation. Relationships either adapt or they don’t.”
“Lucy never held me back.”
“Then maybe the question isn’t whether she belongs in this life. It’s whether both of you are willing to build around it.”
I fall silent after that, eyes dropping to my plate as Ray pivots the conversation back to football—training plans, expectations, strategy.
I nod where I’m supposed to, but I’m barely there.
My thoughts keep circling back to Lucy. She was never just a phase or a convenience.
She was home in a way no stadium ever has been.
When dinner finally ends, Ray claps a firm hand on my back. “Stay focused, Dylan. Everything else will fall into place.”
I force another nod, even though the words feel empty.
Outside, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Gemma’s name lights up the screen. I hesitate—she’s never been one to sugarcoat anything—but I answer anyway.
“Hey, Gem.”
Her voice is sharp. “Why isn’t Lucy answering me? She’s gone completely silent over the past few months. She’s not emailing Mom back anymore, either.”
I’ve dodged every question Mom and Gemma have asked about Lucy for months, answering vague comments about school and conflicting schedules.
“I’m done accepting your terrible excuses, Dylan. Why isn’t she answering?”
I lean against the brick wall and stare at the dark sky. “Gem… Lucy and I broke up.”
There’s a pause. Then a sharp inhale. “What?”
“It’s complicated,” I say quietly. “She ended things.”
“What did you do?” she snaps.
“It’s not like that,” I mutter. “She found out I was thinking about turning down the Larks to stay closer to her. She said she didn’t want to be the reason I gave up my dream.”
Silence stretches.
“Dylan, you are such an idiot,” she groans.
“Appreciate the support,” I say dryly.
“Did Lucy ask you to quit?”
“No.”
“Did she ask you not to go?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly did she ask for?”
I don’t answer because Lucy never asked me to choose. I just assumed I had to. Her or football.
I’m quiet for a long moment.
“So, what do I do?” I ask finally.
“Go get her back.” She pauses. “If you don’t at least try, I’ll disown you.”
Getting her back won’t be as simple as showing up and telling her I signed. I hurt her by turning our future into a choice she never asked me to make. Then she hurt both of us by making another choice alone.
This time, if she’ll listen, we have to decide together.
“I’m serious,” she continues. “Mom’s halfway to adopting Lucy already.”
I look down at the Larks folder in my hand.
For months, I believed there were only two choices. Football or Lucy.
I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out I’ve been wrong.