Tress sat down on the nearest bench, her hands gripping her knees as if anchoring herself. Her chest rose and fell, but it wasn’t from the run. It was from the words still echoing in her ears.
For a second, she wondered if she had misheard.
Julian’s eyes softened, like he could see straight into her doubt. "You didn’t hear it wrong. I signed with an agent yesterday—right after the Crenshaw ga."
Her lips parted, but no words ca.
"He’s already working to find a team in Europe," Julian continued, his voice low but steady. "I don’t know exactly when... but most likely after San Dimas."
The silence stretched between them, heavy but fragile.
Tress blinked, her voice finally breaking free. "That’s... great. Really great. But..." Her gaze searched his. "You haven’t told the others yet, have you?"
Julian shook his head, a trace of unease flickering across his face. "No. After San Dimas. That’s when I’ll tell them." His tone carried weight, but also worry—like he feared the mont as much as he longed for it.
Tress’s lips tugged into a small, uncertain smile. "I’m happy for you. Really. But I thought you’d stay until the end of CIF." She laughed softly, though it sounded more like disbelief than humor. "Guess I was wrong."
Julian stayed quiet, sitting beside her on the bench, his shoulders slumped but his eyes still burning with resolve.
And then—smack!
Her palms landed on both his cheeks. Julian’s eyes widened, utterly blindsided.
Tress threw her hands up, tilting her head back, and scread into the morning air. The sound startled birds from the trees and turned a few joggers’ heads.
Julian sat frozen. Shocked. Twice over.
Tress dropped her arms, grinning ear to ear, and gave him a firm thumbs-up. "Nice. I’ll support you forever."
Sothing eased inside Julian. He smiled—not his usual faint curve, but a genuine one that reached his eyes.
The air around them shifted. Not quite confessions, not quite promises, but sothing close. A warmth stretched between them, fragile and alive.
"I’ll be your personal health and sports assistant," Tress declared, poking his arm with mock seriousness. "But before that—I graduate, get my certificate, and call you. Don’t you dare change your number. Keep in touch, always."
Julian nodded, laughing quietly. "Yeah, yeah. You’ve got ."
His stomach rumbled, breaking the mont. He stood, brushing sweat from his forehead. "C’mon. My treat."
Tress rose beside him, her ponytail swaying in the light breeze.
Together, they stepped off the path, leaving the park behind. The dawn still clung faintly to the sky, pale gold stretching across rooftops, but the air between them had shifted—warm, alive, tinged with the sweetness of a bond unspoken.
The streets slled of fresh bread and coffee as early shops opened. The chatter of vendors floated into the air, mixing with the hiss of grills firing up.
Car tires humd faintly in the distance, but for Julian and Tress, it felt like the city moved slower just for them.
That day, they wandered side by side.
From café to café—coffee steaming in porcelain cups, laughter curling in between bites of buttery croissants.
From breakfast stalls to food trucks, where the smoke of grilled at clung to their clothes.
Tress ate with a bright hunger that surprised Julian—snacking, tasting, savoring everything as if the world’s flavors were treasures to be collected.
Julian couldn’t help but smile. Watching her eat was its own kind of wonder.
Her cheeks puffed slightly when she bit into pastries, her eyes lighting up like a child’s whenever she discovered a flavor she loved.
Julian found himself laughing more than he expected—not the sharp, bitter laughter of battlefields, but sothing lighter. Sothing that belonged to this world.
By noon, the sun had risen high, hot light washing the streets in brilliance. Musicians played on the corners, artists painted in strokes of color. That was when they stopped—drawn to a small stand where an old craftsman was carving custom keychains.
Tress leaned forward, pointing at the little samples with childlike delight. "Let’s get one."
Julian agreed, and soon the artist pressed cool tal into their palms.
His: a clean number 7, etched sharp.
Hers: the sa 7, but rotated—so it bent into an L.
Side by side, they matched—separate, yet fitting perfectly when placed together. A single piece split into two.
Julian turned it in his fingers, the silver glint catching sunlight. A simple trinket, but it carried weight.
"Let’s go back," Tress said softly, though her eyes lingered on the streets like she wanted the day to stretch longer.
"Yeah. Let walk you to the bus stop."
They strolled in quiet, the kind that didn’t need filling, until the bus stop ca into view.
Tress climbed the steps, turning one last ti. "Bye, Julian. Rember to call." Her voice carried both teasing and warning.
"Okayyy," Julian replied, lifting a hand in lazy salute.
The bus doors hissed shut, and she was gone.
Julian stood on the curb, the sunlight warm against his face, the keychain cool in his palm. Their day had ended, but sothing lingered—an invisible thread, binding, tugging, promising.
Their date was over. But their story had only just begun.
...
Julian pushed open the door to his ho.
Crest was waiting in the living room, her posture as straight as a soldier at attention, though her eyes softened when they t his.
"How was it?" she asked, her voice cool but edged with curiosity.
Julian smiled faintly, slipping past her. "A nice one."
He didn’t elaborate. Crest didn’t press. That was their rhythm.
He disappeared into his room, the door clicking shut behind him. Soon the sound of training followed—weights thudding, controlled breaths, the steady rhythm of a body refusing to rest. Later, the glow of a screen lit his face as he sank into a few quiet hours of gaming.
The day bled away.
...
Monday ca.
Classes blurred past, the hours dragging yet strangely hollow. When the final bell rang, Julian’s steps carried him to the place where it all began.
The locker room.
He sat on the bench, pulling at the straps of his boots, the familiar scent of grass and linint hanging heavy in the air. The chatter of teammates echoed around him, laughter, the tallic clang of lockers slamming shut.
But for Julian, every sound rang different.
Maybe his last Monday here.
Maybe his last week wearing Lincoln blue.
His fingers paused on his laces. A slow breath filled his chest, steadying the fire that wouldn’t stop burning inside him.
He thought of Leo’s golden eyes, of Cael’s roar in the net, of Noah sprinting until his lungs gave out. He thought of the brotherhood forged through mud, sweat, and pain.
The field was waiting.
And so was the end of this Chapter.
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