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“We wish her the best, but we believe we have better options,” Caleb says. “And we’re confident that our new striker, Ingrid Vasseur, will be a valuable addition to the team.”

He gestures to a screen behind him, where a picture of a tall, blonde, blue-eyed woman appears. She’s beautiful, but she looks cold. I don’t know much about her, except that she’s French, she’s twenty-six, and she scored a lot of goals in France.

But she’s not Mia. She’s not a Tider. She’s just a product.

Caleb goes on, praising her skills, her potential, her marketability. I tune him out, my mind drifting.

I tried to get the club back before the rebranding, but it didn’t work out. Jared hasn’t returned my calls since the consortium died, and the lawyers tell me I don’t have a case anyway. Apex owns the team, fair and square, and it’s all my fault.

I don’t even know what Izzy is up to. Apart from the night she told me to call the girls back, I haven’t talked to her since we signed the divorce papers. She’s probably busy with her new team and her new life. But I still love her and I miss her every day.

I miss the way we used to be, the way we used to work together. We built something special, something meaningful. And now it’s gone, replaced by this soulless corporate machine. It’s not what I wanted, but I brought it on myself.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and I snap out of my reverie. It’s Declan, who’s come around from the far end of the table, looking at me with a smirk.

“Are you okay, Ewan?” he asks. “You seem a bit distracted.”

“I’m fine,” I reply coldly. “What did I miss?”

I turn toward the front where Caleb has the presentation going.

“Heritage Night is scheduled for the twelfth match of the season,” Caleb says. “It was calculated carefully to fall on our November derby.” He looks at me. “It will also be the day we reveal the statue.”

I clench my jaw, my hands curling into fists. The statue. That’s his idea of honoring me, of acknowledging my contribution. A bronze figure of myself standing outside the stadium, for the fans to take pictures with. It’s a joke.

“I’m flattered,” I force myself to say.

“Wouldn’t it be better if we set our new Heritage Night event on the match with real potential?” Declan says. “Why go for the Breakers when it’s Miami that’s a real competitor?”

“Two reasons,” Caleb says, counting on his fingers. “First, Dawnbreak Athletic comes from the same city as the Predators, hence the derby.” He lifts another finger, his lips curling up into a smile. “Second, it’s a family against family match. Imagine the headlines.”

I hate every second of this. But I don’t say anything. I just sit there, seething.

He is right about one thing. It will be a spectacle. And I have to be a part of it.

I have to stand there, smiling and waving, while they strip me of my dignity and my pride. It’s the price I have to pay for my sins.

“The first match of the season is here, against them,” Caleb continues. “By rights the return should be at their stadium, except their stadium only holds six thousand people. I’ve spoken to the league and I’ve spoken to Isabella’s board. We play the return here as well. Fifty thousand seats instead of six, and Dawnbreak takes half the gate.” He smiles at me. “It’s more money than that club has seen in a season. They said yes in about two minutes.”

Of course they did. Half a gate at this stadium pays their wages until Christmas. I’d have said yes in one.

I nod, pretending to agree. Inside, I’m dying.

The meeting ends, and I stand up, eager to get out of here.

I shake Caleb’s hand, and he tells me how much he appreciates my presence and my input. I tell him I’m honored to be a part of his vision, even though I want to punch him in the face.

I leave the room, feeling drained and defeated. I walk to the elevator, my steps heavy. I press the button and wait for the doors to open.

As I step inside, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look old, tired, unhappy. I wonder if this is how I’ll be remembered, as a sad old man who lost everything. I don’t know anymore.

The elevator goes down and I step out of the building. I turn to look at it. It’s nothing like the Scarlet Tide’s headquarters I remember. The colors are all wrong, the signs are different, the vibe is off. It’s like looking at a stranger.

Across the lot, on the side of the east stand, the letters are finished. THE DELVAUX STAND, fourteen feet tall. You can read it from the freeway. I know, because I drive past it most mornings and I’ve stopped being able to not look.

CHAPTER 11 – Lexa

Sunday, September 7