Chapter 105: Chapter 105: The Cage and the Crossroads
Lying in bed, Julian stared at the ceiling of his room. Shadows stretched across the plaster, and yet his mind wasn’t here. It was in that moment when he first opened his eyes in this world, Crest’s voice ringing like a bell inside his skull.
You were never meant for small leagues.
Step further. See the world.
The words clawed at him now more than ever.
He needed more than this town, more than this league. The cage was too small. His soul pressed against its bars, demanding release.
But... leaving Lincoln, leaving the team—
Julian’s jaw tightened. That weight, that loyalty, was still there.
He rolled over, grabbed his phone.
The time blinked back at him. 11:30 PM.
Too late to disturb Coach Owen. Too late for answers.
So he let it go. Closed his eyes.
Sleep dragged him down.
...
Morning.
Julian woke the way he always did—with training. The rhythm of fists against the air, body straining through forms of martial arts drilled into his soul.
Push-ups. Squats. Weights. Then football drills in the backyard, the ball snapping against his shoes, the cold air sharp in his lungs.
The routine centered him. But his mind? Still racing.
Every rep, every strike, every juggle of the ball carried the same question. Europe. Lincoln. Which path would carve him sharper? Which would leave scars he couldn’t heal? By the time he was dripping sweat, shirt clinging to his skin, he still hadn’t found the answer.
When sweat soaked his shirt and his pulse slowed, he picked up his phone. His thumbs moved before doubt could stop him.
[Do you have time this afternoon, Coach? Maybe 17:00?]
He stared at the message, then hit send.
The shower’s steam washed over him. Bacon sizzled on the pan. He sat, fork in hand, trying to quiet the restlessness buzzing in his chest.
Then—
RINGGG.
The vibration rattled across the table.
One glance at the screen. Coach Owen.
Julian swiped the notification. The message was short, clipped, like the man himself.
[Come to The Final Whistle.]
Julian exhaled through his nose. A meeting, then.
[Yes, Coach.] he typed back.
Phone down. Bite of food.
His routine continued, but his mind? Already braced for 17:00.
...
By the time the clock struck 16:30, Julian was already dressed and ready. The weight in his chest felt heavier than usual, like the hour itself carried judgment.
From the living room, Crest’s voice drifted in, calm but sharp.
"You’re going to see your coach?"
Julian adjusted the cuff of his jacket. "Yeah."
Crest rose from the sofa, car keys already dangling from her fingers. Her gaze never wavered.
"Let me come with you. I’ve never seen his bar before."
Julian rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment, hesitation gnawed at him.
Crest in that place? The lines between his world on the pitch and his world at home would blur. But—he saw the firmness in her eyes. She wasn’t asking. She was coming.
"...Okay," he muttered.
Crest nodded once, decisive, and moved to the door. Julian followed, quiet footsteps echoing hers.
The garage light hummed as she slid into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking beneath her.
She started the engine—a low growl filling the space. Julian slipped into the passenger side, the faint scent of her perfume mixing with the sharp tang of gasoline and winter air.
The drive was quiet at first. The hum of tires against asphalt, the glow of streetlamps cutting across the windshield in stripes. Crest didn’t ask questions.
She didn’t pry. But her presence filled the car, steady, grounding, like a silent promise that whatever storm waited, she would stand in it with him.
Julian glanced sideways once—her hands gripped the wheel firm, her posture straight, the faintest reflection of the streetlights glinting in her sharp eyes.
The world outside blurred into motion as the car pulled out. Streetlights flickered on, one by one, as the sky deepened into dusk.
And so, together, they drove toward The Final Whistle.
...
When Julian pushed open the door of the restaurant, the first thing that struck him was the air—warm, faintly rich with grilled meat and old wood. It wasn’t crowded yet, only scattered patrons at the tables, the calm before the nightly rush.
The floorboards groaned faintly under his boots. The low hum of a match playing on the TV above the bar mixed with clinking glasses.
Somewhere in the back kitchen, a pan hissed, the smell of garlic and pepper wafting out. It was comfort and battle all at once—the kind of place where men came to eat, drink, argue about football, and live it like religion.
"Mm," Crest murmured, scanning the interior. Her voice carried that rare softness. "A good restaurant. You can see the love of football in the air."
Julian followed her gaze. The walls were lined with framed jerseys, photographs of players mid-celebration, trophies polished to a quiet gleam. The entire place breathed the game.
At the far end, near the bar, Coach Owen stood waiting. His sturdy frame looked almost too casual in that setting, but the sharpness in his eyes never faded.
"You made it," Owen said.
"Just now," Julian answered, stepping forward.
Crest lingered, her eyes still tracing the room. That’s when a voice rang out from behind the bar.
"Lydia?!"
Crest froze, her head snapping toward the sound.
"Tawny?"
The next second, the two women were rushing across the floor, colliding in a hug that looked far too tight for two people who were supposed to be composed adults. They even bounced on their heels like overexcited teenagers.
"What—how long has it been?!" Crest laughed, her normally sharp voice unrecognizably warm.
"Too long!" Tawny beamed, her own arms squeezing tighter. "Way, way too long!"
Julian blinked at the sight, then turned slowly to Coach Owen.
Coach Owen blinked back.
"...What?"
"...What?" Julian echoed flatly.
The women didn’t let go, still laughing like they had just rediscovered a missing piece of their lives.
"Well," Crest said between laughs, "we’re old friends."
"Yes," Tawny agreed, grinning ear to ear. "Very, very old friends."
Julian could only stare.
Finally, Crest waved him off, still locked in Tawny’s arms.
"You can do your thing. Go."
"Yes, yes, give us space," Tawny added with a teasing smile.
Coach Owen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Come on. Let’s talk."
Julian followed, still glancing back as the two women hugged like they’d never let go.