After a few minutes of walking, Julian and Coach Owen pushed through the doors of The Final Whistle once again.
Warm light spilled over the bar and tables, the low hum of chatter weaving with the faint sound of a match playing on the mounted TV. The sll of grilled at and spices drifted from the kitchen, clinging to the air.
"Everything alright?" Crest’s voice carried from the corner.
She sat across from Tawny, a half-finished plate of food in front of her, a cold beer in Tawny’s hand. Both won looked far too comfortable for Julian’s sense of reality.
"Yeah," Julian said, his face steady now—resolved, no trace of hesitation left.
"Good. Then sit," Tawny grinned, waving them over. "Co on, both of you."
Julian and Owen moved to the table.
"This is Lydia Crest—my friend, my comrade," Tawny said with a kind of pride in her voice.
Owen reached across the table, offering his hand. "Henry Owen. Tawny’s husband."
"Lydia Crest," Crest replied, her grip firm as her eyes locked with his. "Julian’s guardian."
Tawny leaned back, a smirk tugging at her lips. "It’s been forever since I’ve seen Lydia. You know, she could take down ten n like you without breaking a sweat."
Coach Owen let out a low whistle.
Crest chuckled, an awkward crease forming at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe. But Tawny could win over a whole battalion with her cooking. Best in our division."
Julian blinked. He had always suspected Crest’s military background—her discipline, her sharpness—but Tawny? She carried no such aura. The revelation hit him harder than he expected.
It was almost surreal. Crest had always been steel, a blade honed sharp.
But Tawny? Warm, playful, a woman whose greatest weapon seed to be a wooden spoon.
And yet here they were, laughing like old soldiers, revealing a past drenched in blood and fire. For the first ti, Julian glimpsed the depth of their bond—not friends, not just comrades, but survivors.
"Wait... you were both—?"
Coach Owen’s laugh cut through his confusion. "Explains a lot, doesn’t it?"
Tawny only winked and slid a platter closer. "Eat. I already made this for you guys."
The four of them dug in, steam rising from the dishes—savory roasted at, garlic bread warm enough to burn fingers, vegetables rich with herbs.
Julian took a bite, his eyes widening. He swallowed, then let out a low breath.
"This... might be the best food I’ve ever had."
Even Crest gave a small nod, her usual stoic expression softening as she ate.
The flavors hit harder than he expected. The at was smoky, tender enough to lt on his tongue. The bread crunched at the edges but stead in the middle, garlic and butter coating his lips.
The vegetables snapped fresh with every bite, the herbs sharp and earthy. For once, Julian didn’t eat like a soldier fueling himself for war—he ate like a boy, savoring each mouthful.
For the first ti in a long while, Julian felt the battlefield of football and the silence of ho blur into sothing different—sothing warr
"Thank you, Tawny. It’s been so long... it feels good to see you again," Crest said softly, pulling her old comrade into another embrace.
This wasn’t just a hug. It was the kind of hug shared by family—by people who had bled and endured together.
When they finally pulled apart, Crest turned to Coach Owen. Her sharp, disciplined air gave way to sothing more sincere. She extended her hand.
"Thank you for taking care of my friend, Owen."
Coach Owen clasped it firmly, his eyes just as steady. "And thank you for taking care of Julian."
Their handshake lingered longer than necessary. Not just politeness—an agreent. Two guardians acknowledging each other, silently promising to protect what the other valued.
Julian sat there watching, the weight of their grip sinking into him. He wasn’t just a player, not just a boy with a dream—he was soone they had both decided was worth standing behind.
No more needed to be said.
...
Later, the night air brushed against Julian’s face as he and Crest walked back to the car. The tal door creaked open, the engine’s low rumble filling the silence as Crest guided them into the street.
"So," Crest asked, her eyes fixed ahead, hands sure on the wheel. "No more hesitation?"
Julian leaned back against the seat, pulling out his phone. His gaze sharpened. "No more."
His thumbs tapped quickly.
[I’m in.]
A simple ssage. But powerful.
The mont the words left his screen, a strange stillness filled his chest. He had been circling this decision for days—doubting, weighing, hesitating.
Now it was done. No going back. The choice locked into place like a blade finally sheathed. His fate shifted with a single tap of his finger.
It didn’t take long before the reply ca.
[Nice. Let’s et tomorrow after your practice. We’ll talk contract.]
Julian read it, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes. "Copy that," he muttered, sending the reply.
He glanced at Crest. "Tomorrow I’ll et David. Probably... talk about signing."
Crest’s eyes didn’t leave the road. The streetlights flashed across her face, painting her in stripes of light and shadow.
"Have him co to the house. If he’s serious, he won’t object. We need to make sure your contract is clean and manageable."
Julian typed quickly, forwarding the new instruction. Seconds later, David’s answer ca back—a simple thumbs-up sticker.
"Done, Crest," Julian said.
"Good." Her voice was calm, but the faintest steel lay beneath. She pressed the accelerator, the car gliding smoothly down the road.
Julian leaned his head back against the seat, the vibration of the engine humming through him.
Tomorrow wasn’t just another eting. It would be the first step into the unknown—the beginning of a path that stretched far beyond Lincoln, far beyond CIF, maybe even far beyond Arica. His chest burned with both fear and hunger.
Back toward ho.
Back toward tomorrow.
And into the storm that waited—fate, football, and fire—Julian was ready to walk forward unflinching.
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