005

THE PROPOSITION

~KADE~

I could not stop thinking about her. Chelsea. The cleaning girl with fire in her eyes who wasn't afraid to stand up to me.

Two days had passed since our encounter in the old gym. Two days of boring classes, fake smiles, and physical therapy sessions that weren't getting me anywhere fast enough.

"You need to focus, Kade," Mike said, pressing down on my leg as I tried to lift it against the resistance band.

We were in the school's medical center, a state-of-the-art facility that most professional teams would envy. Another perk of being at Crawford Elite. Another reminder of how much my father had invested in a future I wasn't sure I wanted.

"I am focusing," I grunted, sweat beading on my forehead.

"No, you're not. Your mind's somewhere else." Mike eased up on the pressure. "Where are you right now?"

I thought about lying, but Mike had been my physical therapist since the injury. He knew me too well.

"Just thinking about someone I met."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "A girl?"

"Not like that." I sat up, wiping my face with a towel. "Just someone who sees right through the Kingston name."

"Ah." Mike nodded knowingly. "Someone who doesn't worship at the altar of your father's money. Refreshing."

"She hates me, actually," I admitted. "Or at least, she hates what my name represents."

"Smart girl." Mike handed me a water bottle. "Ready for the next set?"

I nodded, lying back on the mat. As Mike pushed against my leg again, I thought about Chelsea's face when I'd told her my last name.

The instant shift from wariness to cold anger. The way she'd looked at me like I was personally responsible for whatever grudge she held against Kingston Financial.

"Harder," I told Mike, gritting my teeth against the pain. "I can take more resistance."

"Kade…”

"I need to be ready for the season. Push harder."

Mike frowned but increased the pressure. "This isn't smart, and you know it."

I ignored him, focusing on lifting my leg despite the burning pain shooting through my knee. I needed to be stronger. Faster. Better than before. The only way to silence the doubts was to prove everyone wrong.

"Enough," Mike said after the third rep when he saw me wince. "You're pushing too hard."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're compensating with your hip flexors, which means your knee is in distress." Mike released my leg. "Session's over for today."

"We still have twenty minutes," I protested.

"Which we'll use for ice and assessment." Mike's voice left no room for argument. "If you want to play again, you need to trust the process, Kade. There are no shortcuts."

I wanted to argue, but the throbbing in my knee told me he was right. I'd pushed too far.

"Let me see," Mike said, kneeling to examine my knee. His fingers probed the swelling that had already begun. "This is exactly what we're trying to avoid. Inflammation slows healing."

"How bad is it?"

Mike sighed. "Bad enough that we're taking a step back tomorrow. Light stretching only, no resistance work."

A step back. Another delay. Time I didn't have.

"Coach Marshall's fitness tests are in three weeks," I said. "I need to be ready."

"At this rate, you won't be." Mike grabbed an ice pack and wrapped it around my knee. "Not if you keep pushing like this."

I stared at the ceiling, frustration building in my chest. "Then what am I supposed to do? Just give up?"

"No." Mike sat on the stool next to the treatment table. "You're supposed to heal. Properly. One step at a time."

Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one watching his future slip away with each passing day.

"I'll write up a report for your father," Mike said, making notes on his tablet. "He should know we're adjusting the timeline."

My stomach dropped. "Don't."

Mike looked up, surprised. "Kade, he needs to know."

"I'll tell him." I wouldn't, but that was my problem. "Just... give me a few days to handle it my way."

Mike studied me for a long moment. "This is about more than soccer, isn't it?"

I looked away. Mike was too perceptive sometimes.

"Your father called me yesterday," he said quietly. "Asked for a progress report." Of course he did. Warren Kingston would not trust his own son to tell the truth.

"What did you tell him?"

"That you're working hard but need to be patient." Mike set his tablet down. "He didn't like that answer."

I could imagine. Patience wasn't in my father's vocabulary when it came to results.

"Look," Mike continued, "I know the pressure you're under. But rushing this recovery won't get you back on the field faster. It might keep you off it permanently."

I have heard this before. From Mike, from Dr. Miller, from every medical professional who had looked at my knee. But none of them understood what was at stake.

"I need soccer," I said simply.

"I know you love it…”

"No." I interrupted him. "I need it. Without soccer, I'm just another Kingston heir. Just another suit waiting to happen."

Understanding dawned on Mike's face. "Your father's succession plan."

He knew about it. Everyone knew about it. Warren Kingston’s grand design for his youngest son to take over a significant portion of the family empire alongside his brothers.

A life mapped out from prep school to Ivy League to the executive floor at Kingston Financial.

A life I’d been quietly rebelling against since I was old enough to understand what it meant.

"Just give me a chance to prove I can do this," I said. "I'll be more careful with the training, I promise."

Mike didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Ice for twenty minutes. Then we'll reassess tomorrow."

After he left, I lay back with the ice pack on my knee, thoughts drifting back to Chelsea. What would she think if she knew the truth? That the entitled rich kid she had met was fighting against the very privilege she hated?

Probably would not change her opinion. And why should it? The Kingston name had clearly hurt her somehow. Put food on my table while taking it off hers, maybe.

My phone buzzed with a message. Dad.

"Dinner tonight. 7 PM. We need to discuss your progress." Not a request. A command.

I texted back: "Can't. Team meeting."

His response was immediate: "Reschedule it. This is important."

There was no team meeting. I just couldn't face another lecture about my future. About responsibility and legacy and the burden of being a Kingston.

But I knew better than to ignore a direct summons.

*****

The Kingston estate sat on ten acres just outside town, a sprawling mansion with manicured grounds and a security gate that might as well have been a fortress wall. Growing up here had been like living in a museum, everything perfect, pristine, and cold.

My father's housekeeper, Mrs. Winters, met me at the door.

"He's in his study," she said, taking my jacket. "He's been on calls all afternoon."

"Thanks." I gave her a genuine smile, one of the few I had left these days. Mrs. Winters had been more of a mother to me than my own, who had died when I was twelve, deciding the Kingston lifestyle was not worth the Kingston husband.

I made my way through the house, each room larger and emptier than necessary. The study door was closed, so I knocked once before entering.

My father sat behind his massive desk, phone to his ear. He held up one finger, signaling me to wait, not bothering to look up from the papers in front of him.

I took a seat across from him, studying the man whose shadow I had been trying to escape for years. Warren Kingston looked exactly like what he was…powerful, wealthy, and familiarized to getting his way.

At fifty-eight he still maintained the physique of the college athlete he had. once been, before he had traded sports for spreadsheets.

"That's not acceptable," he was saying into the phone. "I need those projections by Monday morning, or we'll have to reconsider our position." A pause.

"Good. See that you do." He hung up without saying goodbye. Finally, he looked at me, his eyes immediately going to my knee.

"How bad is it?" he asked without preamble.

I straightened in my chair. "It's fine. Just some normal swelling after therapy."

"That's not what Mike tells me."

So much for my request. "You called him."

"Of course I did." My father leaned back. "I need real information, not whatever filtered version you decide to share."

"I would have told you…”

"When? After you'd done more damage?" He shook his head. "Mike says you're pushing too hard, too fast."

I fought to keep my voice steady. "I know my body. I know what I can handle."

"Clearly, you don't." My father tapped his pen against the desk, a habit I knew meant he was restraining his temper. "Dr. Miller says another surgery is possible if you continue this way."

"Dr. Miller is being cautious."

"He's being realistic." My father set the pen down with a sharp click. "This obsession with soccer has gone far enough, Kade. It's time to focus on what matters."

Here it came. The same conversation we have been having since I had first shown talent on the field. Soccer was fine as a hobby, an extracurricular to round out college applications. But it wasn't a career for a Kingston.

"Soccer matters to me," I said simply.

"And what happens when your knee gives out completely? What's your plan then?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The business program at Crawford is one of the best in the country. The internship at Kingston Financial is still yours if you want it."

If I want it. As if I had a choice.

"I need to see how the season goes first," I said carefully.

My father's expression hardened. "There won't be a season for you if you don't start showing improvement. Real improvement."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I've invested too much in your education to watch you throw it away chasing an impossible dream." He leaned forward. "If you can't commit to your recovery properly and focus on your academics, I'll pull you from Crawford."

The threat hung in the air between us. Leaving Crawford meant giving up my last chance at a soccer scholarship, my last chance to chart my own course.

"You can't do that," I said, though we both knew he could.

"I can and I will, if necessary." His voice softened slightly. "This isn't punishment, Kade. This is about your future. The Kingston legacy."

The legacy. Always the legacy.

"I need to get back," I said, standing. "I have a paper due tomorrow."

My father nodded, already turning his attention back to his work. "Think about what I said. I expect better reports from Mike going forward."

I left without another word, the familiar mix of resentment and debt burning in my chest. The drive back to campus was a blur of headlights and dark thoughts.

By the time I reached Harrison Hall, I had made a decision. If I was going to beat this…the injury, my father's expectations, all of it….I needed help from someone who wouldn't report back to Warren Kingston.

I needed someone who didn't care about the Kingston name or legacy.

I needed Chelsea.

Denver was waiting in our usual spot in the common room, laptop open to the calculus assignment we had both been avoiding.

"How was dinner with the overlord?" he asked as I dropped into the chair across from him.

"Same as always. Threats wrapped in concern." I lowered my voice. "I need a favor."

Denver closed his laptop. "Name it."

"Find out everything about her," I told Denver, my most trusted friend. "The night cleaner. I want to know what makes her so goddamn fearless."