Chapter 10: The Contract Signing
The air in the Monza boardroom was colder than Hyukjae had expected. It smelled of lemon polish, rich leather, and the faint, powdery scent of old money. It was a smell that meant business, not passion, and it made the sweat drying on his skin feel illicit. He stood, feeling exposed and too young, in the center of the room as the club executives examined him like a piece of thoroughbred livestock. He’d showered at the stadium after the derby, but a stubborn streak of grime still clung to his ankle, a muddy testament to the sliding tackle that had saved the game in the final minutes.
The derby. The memory was a blur of roaring sound and searing pain in his lungs. He’d played possessed. Every sprint was fueled by the image of Gabby’s face, pale and strained as she was led away by her stone-faced father after their confrontation. Every pass was threaded with the desperation of her texts, which had grown less frequent, more strained, over the past four weeks. And the goal—the winning, soaring strike from thirty yards out—that had been for the tiny, grainy sonogram photo now hidden behind the laminated playsheet in his training journal. The scouts from Atalanta had watched, nodded, made notes. But it was Monza’s sporting director, a sharp-eyed man named Rossi, who had approached him after the final whistle, his handshake firm, his Italian rapid-fire. An invitation. A private flight. A medical. All within forty-eight hours.
Now, here he was. Shirtless under the clinical lights as a club doctor probed his knees, listened to his heart, and measured the contractile power of his thighs. He kept his eyes fixed on a faded black-and-white photo on the wall—a Monza squad from the 1960s, their smiles timeless, their futures secured.
“The physio report is excellent,” the doctor said in heavily accented English, stepping back. “Cardiac efficiency, superior. Muscle recovery rate, impressive. You are a healthy animal, Mr. Lee. You may dress.”
Hyukjae pulled his jersey back on—not his college one, but a Monza training top they’d given him, soft and emerald green. The fabric felt alien against his skin. He sat down at the vast, empty conference table opposite Signor Rossi and two other men in impeccably tailored suits. The contract lay between them, a dense stack of paper that seemed to suck all the sound from the room.
“Your performance was… compelling,” Rossi began, steepling his fingers. “We see a raw discipline we can shape. We are building something here, not just buying something finished. We think you can grow with us.”
Hyukjae nodded, his throat dry. His eyes kept drifting to the large window behind Rossi. Beyond the manicured gardens, the private training pitch was lit by evening floodlights, casting long, distorted shadows. He imagined Gabby there, sitting on a bench, tracing the hem of his shirt. He could almost smell the faint, lingering trace of her jasmine perfume on the collar of his own packed bag, a ghost in the sterile room.
“The terms,” said another man, sliding a summary sheet across the polished table. “Five-year contract. Salary as discussed. Performance bonuses. A club apartment. Italian lessons provided.”
The numbers were astronomical. Life-changing. More money than his parents had ever dreamed of. It was the key. The only key.
He picked up the pen offered to him. It was heavy, silver, cold. His hand, which had been rock-steady taking a penalty kick three days ago, trembled. The tremor was microscopic, but he felt it travel up his arm, a live wire of tension. He saw Rossi’s eyes flick down to his hand, then back to his face, a faint curiosity there.
Just sign, a voice in his head urged, Coach Park’s voice. Open the door.
But another image overlaid the contract: Gabby’s father, his voice dripping with contempt. Where is he right now? Is he here, facing me?
He was here. He was facing this. This was the first part of facing him.
With a final, steadying breath that felt like pulling his soul back into his body, Hyukjae bent and signed. Lee Hyukjae. The characters, normally fluid, looked stark and deliberate on the Italian document. The executives smiled, a row of perfect white teeth. They stood, shook his hand again. Congratulations were offered in a blend of Italian and broken English. Champagne appeared, crystal flutes catching the light.
He smiled, he nodded, he accepted a glass. The bubbles felt like needles on his tongue. His mind was already screaming through the logistics. The contract was in his bag. The advance would hit his new account in seventy-two hours. And in the inside pocket of his jacket, folded carefully over his passport, was a one-way plane ticket to Incheon, purchased online during a sleepless night in the club’s provided hotel room. It burned against his chest like a brand.
Rossi clapped him on the shoulder. “We will have a press conference tomorrow. Then you begin. The future is green, eh?” He gestured to the jersey.
“Green,” Hyukjae echoed, his voice hollow.
He was escorted out, his bag slung over his shoulder. The corridors of the villa were quiet, lined with glass cases holding dusty trophies. He was alone for a moment, the sound of his own footsteps echoing. He stopped, unzipped his bag with frantic hands, and pulled out his training journal. His fingers, still shaky, found the edge of the laminated playsheet. Behind it, not taped but carefully tucked, was the photo. The first ultrasound. A grainy, greyish-black smudge, like a tiny bean in a cosmic sea. Gabby had sent it three weeks ago, captioned only with a heart. He traced its outline with his thumb, the noise of the boardroom, the champagne, the future, receding into a dull roar.
“Ready, kid?”
He snapped the journal shut. Coach Park was there, having flown in with him for the negotiations. The old man’s face was carefully neutral, but his eyes held a quiet, fierce pride.
“Yeah,” Hyukjae said, slipping the journal back. “Ready.”
They walked out into the soft Italian twilight. The floodlights from the training pitch were the only illumination now, carving white islands out of the gathering dark. Coach Park lit a cigarette, the smoke curling into the cool air. “You did it. You really did it.”
“It doesn’t feel real.”
“It will when you’re puking your guts out after your first double session with their fitness coach.” Coach took a drag. “Got everything you need?”
Hyukjae’s hand went to his jacket pocket, feeling the crisp edge of the boarding pass. “Almost.”
Coach followed the gesture. His expression softened, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Ah.” He was silent for a long moment. “You know you can’t just storm the castle. You have a contract now. Responsibilities here. A medical scheduled. Media training.”
“I know,” Hyukjae said, the words tight. “But I have to see her. I have to let her see this.” He gestured back at the grand villa, the symbol of everything he’d just achieved. “He can’t say I have nothing now.”
“No,” Coach agreed, grinding out his cigarette. “He can’t.” He looked at Hyukjae, really looked at him. “You gonna be okay? Walking in there?”
Hyukjae thought of Gabby’s laughter, the soft sound it used to make, and how he hadn’t heard it in weeks. He thought of her fingers trembling as she traced the hem of his shirt. He thought of the tiny grey smudge in his journal.
“I have to be,” he said.
He left Coach at the hotel and took a taxi to the airport. The flight was a sleepless eleven-hour void, the contract in his bag feeling heavier with every mile east. Dawn was breaking over Seoul as he landed, the city glowing in hushed golds and blues. He didn’t go home. He went straight to the only place he knew she might be allowed to go: the university.
He waited near the humanities building, a cap pulled low over his face, the new weight of the Monza contract in his bag feeling like both a shield and a target. Students flowed around him, loud and carefree. The world had shifted on its axis for him, but here, life was unchanged.
And then he saw her.
She was walking slowly, a stack of books clutched to her chest. She looked thinner. Her face, usually radiant, was drawn, with new shadows under her eyes. But she was there. She was out. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He stepped out from the pillar he was leaning against, directly into her path. She looked up, startled, and then her eyes widened. The books slipped from her arms, tumbling to the ground with a series of soft thuds.
“Hyukjae?”
Her voice was a whisper, disbelieving. She looked behind her, a quick, nervous gesture he hated seeing.
He couldn’t speak. He just closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. She felt fragile, bird-like, but she melted into him, her face burrowing into his neck. He could feel her trembling. He held her tighter, his own eyes squeezing shut against the burn of tears.
“I got it,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough with fatigue and emotion. “Noona, I got it. The contract. With Monza.”
She pulled back slightly, searching his face. The hope that dawned in her eyes was so fragile it cracked something open in his chest. “Really?”
He nodded, fumbling in his bag. He pulled out the folder, the Monza crest embossed on the front, and opened it to the final page with his signature. “Really.”
She stared at the document, her fingers brushing over the printed words she couldn’t understand, then over his name. A single tear escaped, tracking down her cheek. She looked back at him, and for the first time in weeks, he saw a flicker of her old, defiant fire. “So what happens now?”
Hyukjae took a deep breath, the scent of her finally real, not a memory. He bent down, gathering her fallen books, his movements deliberate. When he stood, he met her gaze, the plane ticket a forgotten heat in his pocket. The immediate battle was over. The war was just beginning.
“Now,” he said, handing her the books, his hand steady, “I go see your father.”
Gabby’s fingers tightened around the books, her knuckles bleaching white against the colored covers. “He won’t let you in. The doorman has instructions.”
“Then I’ll wait in the lobby until he comes down,” Hyukjae said. The statement was simple, a fact. He’d waited on benches his whole life for things less important. “He said I wasn’t here to take responsibility. So I’m here.”
“He’ll eat you alive, Hyukjae.”
He saw the genuine fear in her eyes, but beneath it, a desperate hope. She wanted him to try. She needed him to try. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping the tear-track from her cheek. “Let him try. I’ve been tackled by guys twice my size. I know how to get back up.”
A faint, watery smile touched her lips. “You’re insane.”
“For you? Yes.” He glanced towards the path leading to the faculty parking lot. “Can he track your phone? Will he know you saw me?”
She shook her head. “He had my main phone. This is a cheap one my mother slipped me.” She pulled a simple device from her pocket. “She’s been…facilitating.”
The revelation sent a warm shock through him. An ally behind the walls. “Tell her I’m coming. Please. So she isn’t startled.”
Gabby nodded, already typing a rapid message. She looked up. “She says he has a conference call at six. The study will be empty. She’ll let you in the service entrance.”
He checked his watch. Four hours. He felt a tremor then, not of fear, but of the sheer magnitude of the precipice he was choosing to walk onto. “Okay.”
“Where will you go until then?”
“I’ll run,” he said, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. The nervous energy was a live current in his veins. “Clear my head. I’ll be at your building by five-thirty.”
He turned to go, but her hand shot out, clutching his wrist. Her touch was electric. “Whatever he says in there… it’s not me. It’s his world talking. You remember that.” Her eyes searched his. “The baby kicked last night. For the first time. It felt like… a tiny goldfish flipping over.”
Hyukjae’s breath caught. All the concrete resolve, the contract, the plan, melted into a single, piercing point of wonder. His free hand moved instinctively, hovering near her stomach, then he pulled it back, aware of the public space. “A goldfish,” he repeated, the word absurd and perfect.
He left her then, walking quickly until the campus buildings hid him from her view. Then he ran. He ran along the river path, his legs driving hard against the packed earth, his breath shredding the morning air. He ran past couples strolling, past old men fishing, past the whole oblivious city. He wasn’t training for a game. He was burning away the doubt, the fear, the image of her father’s contemptuous face. Each footfall hammered his purpose deeper: the contract, the baby, the goldfish, her.
By late afternoon, he stood outside the soaring, minimalist tower that housed the Walker penthouse. He’d changed in a public restroom into the only respectable clothes he’d packed: dark trousers and a crisp, white button-down shirt. The Monza contract was in a slim black folio under his arm. He felt like a fraud and a gladiator simultaneously.
Precisely at five-thirty, a side door manned by a staff member in a muted uniform clicked open. The man gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Hyukjae slipped inside, into a stark corridor of polished concrete and indirect lighting. He followed it to a service elevator, which opened directly into a spacious, silent kitchen.
Gabby’s mother stood there, wiping her hands on a linen towel. She looked older than he remembered, fine lines of strain around her mouth, but her gaze was direct and assessing.
“Lee Hyukjae.”
“Mrs. Walker,” he said, bowing deeply. “Thank you for this.”
She didn’t offer platitudes. “He is in the study. The call ended five minutes ago. He is reviewing documents. His mood is… typically focused.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping. “He respects directness. He despises pleading. Do not plead. Show him what you are. Not what you feel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She led him through the vast, art-filled living room. It was colder than the Monza boardroom, every object placed with intimidating precision. She stopped before a floor-to-ceiling door of dark walnut. “This is you alone now,” she said softly, and then she was gone, melting back into the apartment’s shadows.
Hyukjae knocked. Twice. Firm.
“Enter.”
The voice was the same. Cool, expecting a servant. Hyukjae pushed the door open and stepped into the lion’s den.
Robert Walker sat behind a massive steel and ebony desk, his reading glasses perched on his nose, a financial report open before him. He did not look up immediately. He finished a paragraph, made a small note in the margin with a silver pen, and then slowly closed the folder. Only then did he remove his glasses and lift his eyes.
For a long moment, there was nothing. Just the sterile hum of the hidden air conditioning and the distant, muffled thrum of the city far below. The man’s expression was one of utter, blank incomprehension, as if a peculiar but not yet threatening insect had wandered onto his blotter.
“You,” he finally said. The word was flat, devoid of the heated anger from their last encounter. This was worse. This was pure, distilled dismissal.
“Mr. Walker.” Hyukjae bowed again, a formal, respectful dip of his head. He stayed standing. He did not approach the desk.
“My wife’s sentimentality is becoming a operational flaw,” Walker said, more to himself than to Hyukjae. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You have thirty seconds to explain why you are in my home before security removes you. And they will not be gentle.”
Hyukjae felt the threat like a cold draft. He held up the black folio. “I have something to show you, sir. Then I have something to ask you.”
A faint, derisive snort. “I am not interested in your autograph.”
Hyukjae ignored the jab. He opened the folio, withdrew the contract, and walked forward. He placed it directly on top of the financial report, the Monza crest facing Walker. He stepped back to his original position. “As of yesterday, I am a professional footballer for AC Monza in Italy’s Serie A. The contract is for five years. The terms are here, in Italian and English. My lawyer has reviewed it. It is signed.”
Walker’s eyes flicked down. They scanned the first page, the signature block, the official stamps. His face gave nothing away, but the utter stillness that came over him was its own kind of reaction. The bluster, the easy contempt, met an immovable object. He looked back at Hyukjae, a new, sharp intensity in his gaze. He was being forced to recalibrate.
“A game,” he said, but the word lacked its former bite.
“A profession,” Hyukjae corrected quietly. “A secure one. It provides more than enough for a family. It provides a future in Italy.” He took a steadying breath, his hands clenching at his sides. “Which is why I am here to ask for your permission.”
Walker’s eyebrow arched a millimeter. “Permission.”
“Permission to marry Gabby,” Hyukjae said. The words hung in the air, solid and unadorned. “To take her to Italy with me. To raise our child there, together, as a family.” He did not look away. “I love her. The baby is mine. I am not hiding. I am here. And I am asking you properly.”
Robert Walker was silent for a long, stretching moment. He looked from the young man standing rigidly before him to the professional contract on his desk. He saw the sweat faintly beading at Hyukjae’s temple despite the room’s chill, the determined set of his jaw, the absolute lack of guile in his eyes. This wasn’t a boy dreaming. This was a man presenting his qualifications.
He was, for the first time, genuinely taken aback. The seriousness was a tangible force in the room. The bravery was in the simple act of standing there, offering no defense except a future he had built in response to every accusation.
Walker leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on the desk. He tapped a finger once, twice, on the Monza contract. “You believe this piece of paper qualifies you to be her husband? To be a father?”
“No, sir,” Hyukjae answered immediately. “It qualifies me to provide. What qualifies me to be her husband is that I would run myself into the ground for her. What qualifies me to be a father is that I already love a goldfish I’ve never seen.” He paused, the raw emotion breaking through his formal delivery. “And I am asking you. Because despite everything, you are her father. And I think, underneath the company and the rules, you want her safe and happy. I can do that. I will do that.”
Walker stared at him. The silence was no longer hostile, but heavy with reevaluation. He looked at the contract again, then out the window at his empire of steel and glass. When he finally spoke, his voice was different. Not warm, but calculative in a new, personal way.
“Sit down, Mr. Lee.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was an instruction for what was clearly going to be a conversation. Hyukjae sat, his spine straight, on the edge of the austere leather chair.
Walker picked up the silver pen again, but he didn’t write. He just turned it over in his fingers, his gaze locked on Hyukjae. “Italy,” he said, as if testing the word. “You understand the life she is accustomed to?”
“I understand she’s been accustomed to being a prisoner in this penthouse for the last month,” Hyukjae said, the truth slipping out before he could temper it. “I want to accustom her to being loved. Freely.”
A muscle in Walker’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t refute it. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “The details. Where will you live? The medical care? The language? Her schooling?”
The negotiation had begun. But it was no longer about whether Hyukjae was worthy. It was about how the plan would work. Hyukjae felt the ground firm beneath his feet for the first time since he’d entered the tower.
He began to answer.