"Goodbye, Crest. Take care — and if they ask anything stupid, call imdiately," Julian said, pulling her into a brief hug.
By they, he ant his parents.
Just in case.
They’d promised to give him full freedom — no interference, no pressure — but Julian had learned long ago that promises could break faster than glass.
Crest smiled faintly, her usual composed tone softening. "I will. Take care of yourself, okay? I expect good news from your next match."
Julian nodded, and for a fleeting second, he saw sothing motherly in her gaze — pride, mixed with quiet worry. Then she turned toward the terminal, her silhouette fading into the airport crowd.
Her departure felt quieter than he expected — like a door closing softly on one part of his life.
The airport noise dimd behind the glass, leaving him alone with that familiar silence he wore like armor.
The mont lingered in silence.
Then David clapped a hand on Julian’s shoulder. "Co on. We’ve got soone to et."
Julian blinked, following him back toward the car. "Soone?"
"Yeah," David said, unlocking the doors with a chirp. "I’ll introduce you."
They got in — Julian in the passenger seat, David behind the wheel — the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Outside, Hamburg’s sky stretched wide and pale, the early light reflected off the wet tarmac from last night’s drizzle.
"Who are we eting?" Julian asked as they pulled out of the airport.
David smiled, that businesslike glint in his eyes. "Let’s just say she’s the next piece in your rise. Soone who’ll help shape what cos after the football."
Julian raised an eyebrow. "After football?"
"Not after," David corrected with a grin. "Alongside. You’re not just a player anymore, Julian. You’re becoming a brand — and the world’s already watching."
Julian’s expression didn’t change, but his mind flickered. "A brand." The word tasted strange.
He’d fought for survival on muddy pitches, bled for minutes that no one promised him. Now people wanted to wrap that in gloss and headlines. Still — he knew better than to reject it outright. Every empire needed a face.
Julian leaned back, watching the skyline sar into motion outside the car window. His reflection stared back at him — calm on the surface, but beneath it pulsed that quiet fire that had carried him through every battlefield so far.
David started the engine, the low hum blending with the soft percussion of drizzle against the windshield.
"So, where are we eting them?" Julian asked, voice steady but curious.
"In a café," David replied, smiling. "One of the best in Hamburg."
Julian turned slightly toward him. "Any hint about who they are?"
David’s grin widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Let’s just say... after last night, you didn’t just beco a professional footballer. You beca a story."
Julian’s gaze drifted back to the rain-slick streets outside. "A story, huh?"
"Yeah," David said, chuckling. "And a damn good one. Your clips are everywhere — German Y, TokTok, Roddit. They’re calling you Der Kaiser von der Jugend."
Julian arched a brow. "The Emperor of Youth?"
David nodded. "Fits, doesn’t it? Three goals, debut match, seventeen years old. You’re trending in three languages, kid."
Julian let out a quiet breath that almost beca a laugh. "That’s... dramatic."
David smirked. "So was what you did on that pitch."
The light ahead turned green. The car eased forward through the heart of Hamburg, past cobbled streets and riverside glass towers. The Elbe shimred faintly under the gray morning sky — a city between old stone and new steel.
David glanced over, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Get used to it, Julian. Germany loves a myth — and right now, you’re the new one they’re building."
Julian didn’t answer right away. He thought of how easily myths rose — and how easily they burned.
But if this one had to exist, he would be the one to control it. Not his parents. Not the clubs. Not the press. Him.
Julian let out a small exhale, eyes still on the city beyond the window. The rain had softened to a mist, blurring the edges of everything — people, lights, reflections. Hamburg felt alive, moving with quiet pulse and rhythm.
"Der Kaiser von der Jugend..." he murmured under his breath. "Sounds heavy."
"It is heavy," David said, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "But that’s what we’re here for. To make sure you carry it right."
They turned into a narrow street lined with cafés and boutique stores, the sll of roasted beans and wet pavent seeping through the air vents.
"So this café," Julian said. "What’s special about it?"
David smiled knowingly. "It’s where stories begin — and reputations are built. You’ll see."
He parked beside a small, glass-fronted café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The sign above the door read Kaffeehaus Morgenrot in elegant script, golden letters glowing faintly against the morning gray.
Julian unbuckled his seatbelt, pushing the door open. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of coffee and rain.
David locked the car and walked beside him. "She’s already inside. Been waiting since early morning."
"She?" Julian asked, brow raising.
"You’ll recognize her," David said, that sly smile returning. "You’ve probably seen her na in headlines — Sabrina Weiss. One of the biggest PR strategists in German football. She’s worked with half the Bundesliga."
Julian blinked. "And now she’s here for ?"
David grinned wider. "Told you — you’re not just a player anymore."
The café door chid softly as they stepped in, warmth and low chatter greeting them.
Inside, the café glowed with amber light. Steam curled above coffee cups, jazz played faintly from hidden speakers, and the windows caught the reflection of rain streaking down in slow trails.
The scent of espresso and fresh bread wrapped around Julian like a quiet reminder that the world moved on — even when you didn’t.
At a corner table by the window, a woman with a sharp suit and calm confidence looked up from her tablet, her gaze steady — assessing, but not unkind.
David gestured toward her with a small, knowing smile. "Julian," he said, voice carrying that note of pride only a ntor could have. "et Sabrina Weiss."
...
Sabrina rose gracefully, extending her hand across the table.
"Julian Ashford," he introduced himself, standing to et her.
"Sabrina Weiss," she replied, her grip firm, professional — the kind that ca from years of boardrooms and negotiations.
They both sat again. David remained just long enough to speak.
"What’s happening here," he began, "is simple. Sabrina’s here to talk with you, Julian — to evaluate, get a sense of who you are. If she likes what she sees, we move forward with a formal contract."
He gave Julian a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "So, I’ll let you two handle it from here."
With that, David excused himself, heading back toward the car.
Silence lingered for a mont as Julian and Sabrina studied each other — two very different worlds quietly asuring the distance between them.
Julian’s gaze flicked over her: immaculate posture, sharp gray suit, neat blonde hair, and eyes that didn’t miss much.
Sabrina, in turn, observed the calm confidence behind Julian’s stillness — the composed focus of soone who had seen storms and survived them.
Then she tilted her head slightly. "Ashford," she said, as if testing the na. "The Ashford family, correct? I saw you at the New Year’s gala."
Julian froze for a heartbeat — surprised. He hadn’t noticed her there. Then again, he’d spent most of that night avoiding everyone with that last na.
His expression cooled. "Are you interested in because of them?" he asked, his voice low, edged with a warning.
Because if she was — if this eting had anything to do with the Ashfords — the conversation would end here.
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