Chapter 19
Diane shut the conference room door and set two identical manila folders on the table.
Sasha sat in the chair directly across from mine.
Her hair was pulled back into the exact same flawless braid she’d worn during our interview, but she’d torn the cardboard sleeve from her coffee cup and was systematically folding it into narrow, accordion strips.
The squeak of a dry-erase marker drifted through the drywall from the adjacent meeting room.
“It’s down to the two of you,” Diane said.
Neither of us reacted immediately. On the wall-mounted screen, a map of New York remained frozen, marked with six blue nodes and projected launch dates beneath each borough. The HVAC vent blew cold air directly across my knuckles.
“That explains the exceptionally cozy invitation,” I said.
Sasha stopped folding the cardboard.
“I was personally hoping for a sword duel.”
“Legal rejected that proposal,” Diane replied. “I asked them to reconsider.”
It was our only joke. Diane took the seat at the head of the table and opened her copy of the document.
“The selection committee wants a final implementation proposal by Friday. They aren't looking for another presentation of your capabilities. Leadership already knows both of you can do the job. What they want to know is how you’d execute it, and what structural conditions you need to sustain the operation.”
Need. The word grated on me far more than the reality of competing against Sasha.
Diane walked through the parameters. The candidate selected would start three weeks after accepting.
New York would be the required base for the first six months; after that, the committee would review the presence requirement based on clinic openings.
The four monthly trips to Seattle could be used on any day, but couldn't roll over.
The extension to fourteen months remained tied to results.
The entire set of terms fit onto a single printed sheet. Not one line mentioned what happened to a home, a relationship, or a body that played rugby every Saturday in a different time zone.
“Either of you can withdraw without prejudice to your current roles,” Diane concluded. “And both of you have the right to request adjustments. I can't promise the committee will grant them.”
Sasha picked up her folder.
“The decision is strictly between the two of us?”
“Yes.”
The folded cardboard rested beside her hand—a neat row of irregular rectangles. I’d assumed Sasha was as bulletproof as ever. The evidence on the table told a slightly different story.
“Any questions?” Diane asked.
I had several. How much did a demand cost before you started looking less committed? How much ambition could you protect while asking an opportunity to change shape? Which of the two of us would be easier to send away?
“Not right now,” I said.
Sasha echoed the exact same answer.
We walked out together. In the hallway, the floor-to-ceiling glass reflected a city washed in bright summer light—small ferries carving white wakes across Elliott Bay, construction cranes suspended motionless above high-rises.
Sasha walked with me toward the espresso machine and pressed the hot water dispenser.
“I’m not dropping out,” she said.
I looked over at her.
“I didn't ask you to.”
“No. But you’ve spent the last three minutes holding that folder like it’s about to bite someone.”
“That’s a rather aggressive reading of my body language.”
“You’re remarkably easy to read whenever you try to look like a statue.”
The machine gave a low hiss. Sasha dropped a tea bag into her paper cup.
“I grew up in Queens,” she continued. “My parents are still there. I moved out here at twenty-four because I was convinced success had to happen in another zip code. Moving back wouldn't be a sacrifice for me.”
She hadn't mentioned any of that over the weeks of interviews. I hadn't told her that four monthly flights could easily amount to four lonely returns to an empty apartment.
“Is that why you want the role?” I asked.
“I want the role because I’ve spent six years watching Halcyon buy solutions and then demand Operations make them work with duct tape.” She fished the tea bag out and set it on a paper napkin. “Being close to my family is a bonus. It’s not a sentimental argument for the committee to pick me.”
“I never assumed it was.”
“Good. And I don't want you stepping aside just because your personal life got complicated.”
The hit landed cleanly because it was entirely devoid of malice.
“I’m not stepping aside.”
Sasha held my gaze for a second, then gave a single, respectful nod.
“Then may the proposal that requires the least amount of duct tape win.”
She walked off with her tea. I returned to my office and set the manila folder beside my keyboard, leaving it slightly askew from the desk edge.
Cole had texted eleven minutes ago.
Cole: Seattle agreed to open transfer talks. Have terms. Call me when you get a second.
The word agreed left the palms of my hands ice-cold.
I dialed his number before I could talk myself into checking my calendar.
* * *
Seattle’s Director of Rugby slid a single sheet across the conference table, and Rick trapped it under his hand before it could reach me.
The office smelled of reheated coffee and the liniment drifting in from the physical therapy corridor. Framed photographs of past teams lined one wall; on the other, a whiteboard displayed the projected lineup for Saturday’s semifinal. My name was inked beside the number seven.
Rick scanned the first page without sitting down.
“Postseason release, contingent on passing San Diego’s physical exam,” Rick said. “No transfer compensation if Seattle declines to match the terms. That’s what we requested.”
The director crossed his arms over his chest.
“That’s what we’re granting. Doesn't mean we want to see him walk.”
“It means you aren't offering an extension,” Rick shot back.
“It means we aren't locking in two guaranteed years until we see how that shoulder holds up through the postseason.”
My left shoulder throbbed beneath the layers of elastic tape even while resting flat against my leg. I’d spent the morning running limited-contact drills, pretending each collision dissipated before the next one landed.
“And if I turn San Diego down?” I asked.
The director looked directly at me for the first time since the meeting started.
“We talk after the season. One year, most likely, loaded with match-day appearance incentives. I’m not going to blow smoke about that.”
A probable one-year deal. Two guaranteed years down south. The mathematical difference didn't require a spreadsheet to calculate.
Rick slid the paperwork in front of me.
“San Diego needs the signed transfer release by Monday to schedule your physical. If you sign, Seattle won't block the move once the season wraps.”
“If we make the final,” the director added, “you don't fly until afterward.”
“That’s already in the language,” Rick said.
I turned the page with my right hand. The evaluation window was forty-eight hours.
The shoulder clause remained, but was strictly restricted to the third-year club option; the first two seasons were fully guaranteed if I passed the initial baseline screen.
Seattle agreed to release complete medical logs.
It was an exit. Not a theoretical discussion, not a pressure tactic. An actual door with a date stamped on it.
“I need to talk to Kate,” I said.
Rick checked his watch.
“How long?”
“Until tomorrow.”
The director leaned back in his leather chair.
“Saturday’s semifinal doesn't change because of this, Cole.”
“I know that.”
“I need you locked in.”
That sentence would have worked on me for most of my life. This afternoon, it just made me tired.
I stacked the pages neatly and tucked them back into the folder.
“I’ll be on the pitch Saturday,” I said.
In the concrete hallway outside, Marcus was walking out of the weight room with a gray towel draped around his neck. He looked at the folder in my hand, then at my face.
“Do you want me to ask, or should I pretend that’s the catering menu?”
“It’s the San Diego paperwork.”
Marcus leaned a shoulder against the cinderblock wall.
“It’s real now?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
The question hung between the dull thud of tackle bags and the distant hiss of the locker room showers.
“It’s secure,” I said.
Marcus wiped the back of his neck with the towel.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I didn't have a better answer for him. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I saw Kate’s name on the screen before the ringtone hit its second beat.
“Hey, trouble.”
“It’s down to Sasha and me,” she said without greeting me. “And Seattle agreed to talk.”
I stopped outside the physical therapy door.
“Yeah.”
“Come over tonight. Bring everything.”
“I’ll head over after my treatment.”
“To your place,” she added. “We need space.”
I looked at the heavy steel door, the tape peeking from the sleeve of my T-shirt, and the folder pressed against my ribs.
“Okay.”
* * *
Cole’s printer spat out the third flight comparison table and began flashing a rapid red error light.
“It’s out of paper,” I said.
“I think it’s judging us.”
We were in the spare room of his lake house.
The weight bench occupied one wall; a gray filing cabinet supported the printer; through the window, a cedar branch scraped the eaves whenever the wind picked up.
Cole was sitting on the floor with his back braced against the guest bed.
The San Diego folder rested across his right thigh, an ice pack strapped over his left shoulder.
I had my laptop open on the rug in front of me. New York to San Diego: six hours and twenty minutes nonstop, when a direct flight existed. New York to Seattle: six hours and ten minutes, plus the trip from the airport. Four covered trips a month didn't translate into time.
“If I take New York and you take San Diego, we could manage two weekends a month,” I said. “Assuming you aren't playing away games and Halcyon doesn't schedule my flights around midweek meetings.”
Cole checked the Sentinels’ match schedule.