"The Lost Season"
January 9, 2023,
10:12 local time,
South Shore Stampede Grounds,
South Side, Greater Chicago, Republic of Chicago
The locker room is loud in the way only losing locker rooms
are loud.
Too much laughter. Too many forced jokes. Music playing just
a little too aggressively from someone’s phone. Equipment bags zip shut like
punctuation marks at the end of something nobody wants to reread.
Four and thirteen.
Again.
Eamon Archer sits on the wooden bench in front of his
locker, shirtless, shoulder pads already stacked neatly at his feet. The
overhead lights catch the sweat still drying across his chest and shoulders,
tracing every scar, every bruise earned honestly. His body looks like a
champion’s. Built for January.
Chicago never saw January.
His stat sheet is folded once in his hand. He doesn’t need
to read it. He knows it by heart.
Career highs. Pro Bowl numbers. Film-room proof that he did
everything asked of him- and more.
Yet the standings sit heavier than any defender ever has.
4-13.
A couple lockers down, a rookie laughs too hard at something
nobody said. A veteran slaps him on the back and mutters, “Next year.” The same
two words that have echoed in this room for longer than Eamon’s been here.
He stares at the nameplate above his locker.
ARCHER.
Midseason, he signed the extension. Big money. Security. A
statement to the city that he believed. That he wasn’t one of those stars who
pad stats and flee at the first sign of turbulence.
He meant it.
He still means it.
Belief is easier in October than in December, though.
A staffer walks past carrying trash bags filled with tape
and torn gloves. The season reduced to refuse.
Eamon flexes his fingers slowly. They ache. The kind of ache
that doesn’t show up on injury reports.
He’s 26.
Physically, he’s in his prime. Faster than ever. Stronger
than ever. The film says he’s ascending.
But football primes are short. Brutally short.
He’s seen what happens. Thirty comes quickly. Thirty-two
even quicker. The body betrays you in inches first, then in moments, then in
entire seasons.
How many of those moments does he spend rebuilding?
The thought creeps in quietly, uninvited.
Demand a trade.
It feels ugly the second it surfaces. Disloyal. Selfish.
Corporate.
He signed the extension.
He stood at the podium and said, “I want to win here.”
He looked into cameras and told the city he wasn’t going
anywhere.
Chicago believed him.
He thinks about the fans who stayed through snow games and
blowouts. The kids wearing his jersey. The letters he gets from South Side high
schools telling him he’s proof you can make it.
Walking away would feel like betrayal.
Yet staying- staying might mean wasting the years when his
legs are still explosive, when his lungs still burn and recover, when the
league still fears him.
He looks around the room.
Some lockers will be empty next year.
Coaches will be “evaluated.” Coordinators will “pursue other
opportunities.” Ownership will talk about culture and patience.
Rebuild.
Reload.
Restructure.
Words that sound responsible and feel endless.
One of the equipment managers pauses near him. “Hell of a
season, Eight.”
Eamon nods once.
“Thanks.”
Hell of a season.
For him.
Not for them.
The room starts thinning out. The music cuts. Conversations
fade. The rookies leave first. The veterans linger longest, like they’re
reluctant to admit this chapter is over.
Eamon stays seated after most have gone.
He studies the scuff marks on the tile floor. The faded team
logo at center of the carpet. The ceiling vent humming like it has all year,
indifferent to wins and losses alike.
He doesn’t feel anger.
He feels weight.
He doesn’t want to leave.
He doesn’t want to waste.
Both truths exist at the same time, grinding against each
other.
He signed here to build something. To become the culture. To
drag the franchise into relevance if he had to.
…but even leaders need a foundation.
He exhales slowly.
The stat line says he arrived.
The standings say he hasn’t.
A phone buzzes in his locker. Probably his agent. Probably
already calculating leverage, options, destinations. The league never sleeps.
It smells dissatisfaction like blood in the water.
He doesn’t check it.
Not yet.
If he demands a trade, it won’t be a tantrum. It won’t be
public. It won’t be ugly.
It will be a quiet meeting behind closed doors.
Professional.
Measured.
Ruthless.
The way the league handles everything.
He stands finally, grabs his duffel, and slings it over his
shoulder.
Four and thirteen.
He glances back once at the locker.
“I don’t have forever,” he mutters under his breath.
It isn’t a threat.
It’s a fact.
Then he turns off the light and walks out into the Chicago
night, where the city still believes in him- and he hasn’t yet decided whether
that belief will be enough.
January 9, 2023,
17:27 local time,
Eamon Archer’s Apartment
South Side, Greater Chicago, Republic of Chicago
The apartment lights are still off.
Chicago glows through the blinds in cold blue streaks. The
city looks calm from up here. Distant. Indifferent.
Eamon Archer sits on his couch in full workout gear,
compression shirt still clinging to him, towel draped over his shoulder. He
hasn’t showered. Hasn’t changed. Hasn’t moved in almost thirty minutes.
From the kitchen, a soft voice hums to life.
“Eamon,” Eyre says gently. “Your hydration levels are below
optimal recovery thresholds.”
He doesn’t look over.
“I’m fine,” said Eamon.
“You have consumed no fluids since 18:42,” said Eyre.
“I said I’m fine,” said Eamon, as if repeating the phrase
would make it believable.
Eyre pauses, recalibrating tone.
“I am detecting elevated cortisol markers from your wearable,”
said Eyre. “Would you like to initiate guided decompression?”
He rubs his face with both hands.
“Not now,” said Eamon.
“Understood,” said Eyre. “I will remain available.”
The fridge light dims.
The silence returns.
Four and thirteen.
He leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
He’d heard it before the season even ended.
Noise.
Front office chatter. Assistant coaches whispering in
hallways. Media guys who “weren’t allowed to say anything yet.”
Another rebuild.
Not retool.
Not reinforce.
Rebuild.
Again.
A soft knock at the door.
Eamon doesn’t move at first.
“Eamon,” Eyre says gently, “there is a visitor at the
entrance. Facial recognition indicates Tulip Errons.”
That pulls him upright.
He opens the door.
Tulip steps inside, brushing January air off her coat. She
looks like light entering a room that forgot it needed it.
They started this in late November. Quick. Unexpected. Real.
She smiles automatically-
-and then she sees his face.
“You haven’t showered,” said Tulip, still greeting Eamon
with a kiss.
“Didn’t feel like it,” said Eamon, kissing Tulip back
softly.
She closes the door slowly.
The apartment still smells faintly of turf and cold air.
Tulip studies him carefully. She’s only known him two
months, but she already knows the difference between tired and defeated.
“What happened?” said Tulip.
“Nothing happened,” said Eamon.
“That’s not true,” said Tulip, reading right through Eamon.
He shrugs.
“Season ended,” said Eamon, as if that was enough.
“I know that,” said Tulip.
He looks away.
“I did my job,” said Eamon.
“…and?” said Tulip pointedly.
“…and we went four and thirteen,” said Eamon.
Tulip walks further into the apartment.
“Eyre,” she says lightly, “how was Sunday?”
Eyre responds immediately.
“Statistical output from Eamon Archer met or exceeded elite
positional benchmarks,” said Eyre. Team result: loss.”
Tulip looks back at him.
“You met elite benchmarks,” said Tulip.
“Don’t start,” said Eamon.
“I’m not starting,” said Tulip. “I’m observing.”
He exhales sharply.
“I’ve been hearing things,” said Eamon.
“What things?” said Tulip, concerned and intrigued.
He hesitates.
“Another rebuild,” said Eamon.
Tulip freezes.
“What?” said Tulip, shocked.
“Front office wants to reset contracts,” said Eamon. “Draft
heavy. Clear cap space. Develop. Three-year window.”
Her expression shifts from concern to disbelief.
“They told you this?” said Tulip.
“No,” said Eamon, “but it’s noise. Real noise.”
She stares at him.
“You signed an extension,” said Tulip.
“Midseason,” said Eamon. “For big money. My first WFL
contract after my rookie deal.”
“I know,” said Tulip, “and yet they’re rebuilding.”
“That’s what it sounds like,” said Eamon.
Silence thickens.
Tulip steps closer.
“So they’re going to waste your prime,” said Tulip.
He looks at her sharply.
“Don’t,” said Eamon
“Don’t what?” said Tulip, hands on her hips.
“Say it like that,” said Eamon.
“Like what?” said Tulip, “like it’s true?”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“It’s not about me,” said Eamon.
“Then what is it about?” said Tulip.
“It’s about building something,” said Eamon.
“They’ve been ‘building’ for four years,” said Tulip. “The
first rebuild failed, what makes you think this one will work?”
He doesn’t answer.
Tulip’s voice hardens- not angry, but protective.
“Eamon,” she said, “you are not a cornerstone for a ten-year
science experiment.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Eamon.
“It really is,” said Tulip confidently.
“No, it isn’t,” said Eamon hesitantly.
“You are 26,” said Tulip.
He closes his eyes briefly.
“You don’t get it,” said Eamon.
“Then explain it to me,” said Tulip.
He paces once across the living room.
“I told the city I believed in this,” said Eamon. “I told
the locker room I was here to lead.”
“…and you are,” said Tulip assuredly.
“If I ask out now, what does that make me?” said Eamon.
“Smart,” said Tulip.
“Disloyal,” responded Eamon.
“Strategic,” retorted Tulip.
“Selfish,” said Eamon.
“Ambitious,” said Tulip.
He shakes his head.
“You think I should demand a trade,” said Eamon.
“Yes,” said Tulip.
The word lands clean and direct.
No hesitation.
He stares at her.
“You’re serious,” said Eamon.
“Completely,” said Tulip.
“That’s easy for you to say,” said Eamon, full of
resignation.
“No, it’s not,” said Tulip confidently.
She steps closer.
“I started dating you in November,” said Tulip. “I didn’t
sign up to watch you sacrifice yourself for a franchise that doesn’t know what
it’s doing.”
He stiffens.
“You think they don’t know what they’re doing?” said Eamon.
“I think rebuilding again means they don’t,” responded Tulip.
Eyre chimes in softly.
“Statistical probability of championship contention during
full roster reset cycles is low for veteran peak-age players,” said Eyre
assuredly.
They both look toward the kitchen.
“Eyre,” Eamon mutters.
“I am providing contextual data,” the fridge replies calmly.
Tulip folds her arms.
“Even your fridge thinks you should leave,” said Tulip.
“It doesn’t think,” said Eamon, “It calculates.”
“Exactly,” said Tulip.
She walks up to him now, close enough to look directly into
his eyes.
“You gave them everything this year,” said Tulip.
“That’s the job,” said Eamon, sighing.
“…and what are they giving you?” asked Tulip pointedly.
He doesn’t answer.
“Another three years of promises?” she presses. “Another
‘next year’?”
His jaw tightens.
“You want me gone?” said Eamon
“I want you competing,” said Tulip.
The words cut through the room.
“I don’t want you sitting here at 30 wondering why you
stayed quiet,” Tulip continued.
He looks down at her.
“You barely know me,” he says.
“I know enough,” she responds quickly.
Her voice softens.
“I know how you look when you’re proud,” said Tulip, “and
this isn’t it.”
Silence.
Eyre hums faintly in the background, temperature regulation
adjusting.
“Eamon,” Tulip says more gently now, “this isn’t betrayal.
It’s timing.”
“If I ask for a trade,” said Eamon, “it changes everything.”
“Yes,” said Tulip, matter-of-factly.
“…and if I’m wrong?” said Eamon, full of concern.
“Then you’re wrong chasing something bigger,” said Tulip
assuredly. “Not wrong waiting.”
He sits back down slowly.
She remains standing.
“You think I should call my agent,” said Eamon
“I think you should start the conversation,” said Tulip
He stares at the floor.
“What if the city turns on me?” said Eamon
Tulip kneels in front of him.
“The city will forgive winning faster than it forgives
stagnation,” said Tulip
That one hits.
Hard.
His phone buzzes on the table.
“Incoming call: Agent,” Eyre speaks softly.
Eamon doesn’t reach for it.
Tulip does.
She picks up the phone and places it in his hand.
“You don’t have to demand anything,” she says quietly. “Just
ask what your options are.”
He looks at the screen.
His thumb hovers.
The season is over.
The noise is real.
Another rebuild is coming.
Yet for the first time-
He isn’t thinking about loyalty.
He’s thinking about time.
The phone is still ringing.
He hasn’t decided yet…but he’s no longer pretending the
question doesn’t exist.
Tulip stands slowly.
“Eyre,” she says calmly, “cancel the dinner reservation.”
“Reservation at La Vetro at 20:30 has been canceled,” Eyre
replies. “Would you like recommendations for alternative dining experiences?”
“Yes,” Tulip says, glancing at Eamon. “Takeout.”
“Suggesting Thai, Ethiopian,” said Eyre, “or elevated
comfort cuisine.”
“Comfort,” she says. “Something heavy.”
“Order placed,” said Eyre. “Estimated arrival: 34 minutes.”
Tulip removes her coat and hangs it on the back of a chair.
“Tonight’s not about candles,” she says softly. “It’s about
clarity.”
Eamon exhales.
The phone is still in his hand.
It buzzes again.
Carly Rojas.
He answers.
“Hey,” said Eamon.
Carly’s voice is steady, sharp, professional — but warm.
“Hey,” said Carly. “Just checking in. I figured tonight
might be… something.”
He half-smiles.
“That obvious?”
“I’ve been doing this a while, Eight,” said Carly assuredly.
He glances at Tulip. She gives him a small nod.
Carly continues.
“I’m not calling to push anything,” said Carly. “Just wanted
to see where your head’s at.”
Eamon leans back into the couch.
“It’s loud,” said Eamon.
“In the building?” said Carly.
“Yeah,” said Eamon.
“Rebuild talk?” said Carly.
He looks up, surprised.
“You’ve heard it too?” said Eamon, surprised.
“I always hear it,” said Carly.
Tulip watches him carefully from the kitchen, leaning
against the counter now, arms folded- not tense, just steady.
Carly’s tone shifts slightly.
“You want my honest read?” said Carly.
“Yeah,” said Eamon.
“If they reset contracts this offseason,” said Carly, “your
window in Chicago shifts three years minimum.”
Eamon closes his eyes briefly.
Three years.
Carly continues.
“You’re 26,” she says, “That matters.”
Silence.
He swallows.
“I signed the extension,” said Eamon.
“I know,” said Carly.
“I told them I believed in the direction,” said Eamon.
“I know,” said Carly.
Tulip tilts her head slightly- not impatient, but
encouraging.
Eamon exhales.
“I don’t think I can sit through another rebuild,” said
Eamon.
There it is.
The line hangs in the air.
Carly doesn’t speak immediately.
When she does, her voice carries something new.
Relief.
“Okay,” she said.
He blinks.
“Okay?” said Eamon.
“I was waiting for you to say that,” said Carly.
He looks at Tulip. She’s smiling- not smug. Proud.
“You were?” he asks.
“Yes,” Carly says plainly. “Because I didn’t want to be the
one pushing you.”
“You think I should’ve done this earlier?” said Eamon.
“No,” she says. “I think you needed to get there yourself.”
He nods slowly.
“I want a trade,” said Eamon, precisely.
The words are calm.
Measured.
Not angry.
Tulip’s smile widens just slightly.
Carly exhales audibly.
“Good,” said Carly, happy that Eamon finally admitted it.
He laughs faintly.
“That’s not the reaction I expected,” said Eamon.
“You think Chicago’s going to maximize your prime right
now?” Carly says. “I’ve been preparing scenarios for months.”
He sits forward.
“What kind of scenarios?” said Eamon.
“Contenders with cap flexibility,” said Carly. “Teams a
piece away. Quietly interested teams.”
He processes that.
“You’ve been working on this,” said Eamon.
“I prepare for outcomes,” said Carly. “It’s my job.”
Tulip looks impressed.
Carly continues, business now.
“I can call Chicago tonight,” said Carly. “We frame it
clean. Mutual respect. Long-term competitive alignment.”
“No,” said Eamon decisively.
Carly pauses.
“No?” she says, taken off guard.
“I’m not doing this over the phone,” said Eamon.
Tulip’s expression shifts- approving.
Carly waits.
“You want to tell them yourself,” she said.
“Yes,” said Eamon.
“That’s risky,” said Carly.
“I was drafted here,” said Eamon.
Carly softens slightly.
“I know,” she said.
“I’m not blindsiding them through media leaks,” said Eamon.
“You won’t be,” said Carly. “I don’t operate like that.”
“I want to look them in the eye,” said Eamon. “I owe them
that, at least.”
There’s a brief pause.
Then Carly says quietly: “Okay.”
Tulip crosses the room slowly and sits beside him again.
“We go in tomorrow morning,” Carly continues. “Face-to-face.
General manager. Maybe ownership if they’re smart.”
“I’ll be there,” Eamon says.
“I’ll meet you outside the building at 8:15,” said Carly.
“Okay,” said Eamon.
“And Eamon?” said Carly.
“Yeah?” said Eamon.
“You’re making the right call,” said Carly.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Tulip reaches over and rests her hand lightly on his knee.
“You gave them your rookie years,” Carly continues, “You
gave them the extension. This isn’t betrayal. It’s timing.”
He nods once.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” Carly echoes.
The call ends.
The apartment feels different now.
Not lighter, but clearer.
Tulip leans into him slightly.
“How do you feel?” said Tulip.
He exhales.
“Terrified,” said Eamon.
She smiles.
“That’s usually how you know it matters,” said Tulip, giving
Eamon a kiss.
Eyre hums softly from the kitchen.
“Emotional stress indicators decreasing by 12%,” said Eyre.
Tulip laughs quietly.
“See?” said Tulip with a smile, “Even your fridge approves.”
He shakes his head faintly.
“You’re enjoying this,” said Eamon, still anxious.
“I’m enjoying you choosing yourself,” said Tulip, full of
pride for her boyfriend.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Your comfort cuisine has arrived,” Eyre announces.
Tulip stands.
“Food first,” said Tulip confidently. “Revolution tomorrow.”
Eamon sits there a moment longer.
Drafted in Chicago.
Rookie contract.
First extension.
Now this.
Tomorrow morning he will walk into the building that raised
him and ask to leave it.
Not angrily.
Not bitterly.
Just honestly.
He stands.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly to himself.
Tulip looks back at him from the door.
“Tomorrow,” she agrees.
For the first time since the season ended- He feels forward
motion.
January 10, 2023,
08:12 local time,
South Shore Stampede Grounds,
South Side, Greater Chicago, Republic of Chicago
The parking lot is mostly empty.
Frost clings to windshields. Breath hangs in the air. The
Caribou logo on the side of the building looks larger in the quiet.
Eamon stands beside his truck, hands tucked into his coat
pockets. He hasn’t gone inside yet.
He’s been here a thousand times.
Draft day press conference.
First training camp.
First playoff push.
Contract extension signing.
Today feels heavier than all of them.
Tulip steps out of the passenger side and walks around the
front of the truck. She doesn’t rush him. She just comes to stand in front of
him.
“You okay?” she asks.
He nods once.
“Yeah,” he said.
She studies him. The jaw tight. The shoulders slightly
rigid.
“You don’t look okay,” she said.
He exhales.
“I’m about to ask the team that drafted me to trade me,” said
Eamon with a sigh.
“When you say it like that…” she replies gently.
He almost smiles.
“You don’t have to prove anything in there,” she says. “Just
be honest.”
“I will,” said Eamon.
“They might push back,” said Tulip.
“I know,” said Eamon.
“They might make you feel like you’re abandoning them,” said
Tulip.
“I’m not,” said Eamon.
“I know you’re not,” said Tulip.
She steps closer and wraps her arms around him.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s tight.
Grounding.
The kind of hug that says, I see you.
His arms come around her automatically. He closes his eyes
for just a second.
“You’re not selfish,” she says quietly against his coat.
“You’re not disloyal. You’re not impatient.”
They kiss each other tenderly but softly. He breathes in
slowly.
“I gave them four years,” said Eamon.
“I know,” said Tulip.
“…and I would’ve given them more,” said Eamon.
“I know,” said Tulip.
She leans back just enough to look at him.
“This meeting isn’t about leaving,” she said. “It’s about
alignment.”
He nods faintly.
“I hate that it’s come to this,” said Eamon.
“So do they,” said Tulip.
That lands.
A black sedan pulls into the lot.
Carly Rojas steps out, coat sharp, expression focused. She
spots them immediately and gives a small wave.
Tulip squeezes and kisses Eamon once more before letting go.
“Whatever happens in there,” she says, “you’ll walk out
knowing you handled it the right way.”
He studies her for a moment.
“You’re sure about that?” he said.
“Yes,” Tulip says confidently.
Carly approaches, breath visible in the cold air.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” Eamon replies.
Carly gives Tulip a polite nod. “You must be the stabilizing
influence,” said Carly.
Tulip smiles. “I try,” said Tulip.
Carly turns back to Eamon.
“You ready?” she asks.
He looks up at the building.
Glass doors. Team banners. The place that drafted him at 21
and made him the face of the franchise.
He nods.
“Yeah,” said Eamon nervously but confidently.
Carly studies him for a beat- assessing posture, tone,
confidence.
“Remember,” she says quietly, “you’re not asking permission.
You’re stating alignment.”
He absorbs that.
Tulip steps back slightly, giving them space.
“I’ll be here when you’re done,” she says.
He nods.
Then he and Carly walk toward the entrance together.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Just two professionals heading into a conversation that will
change everything.
As the doors slide open and the warmth of the building hits
them, Eamon doesn’t look back.
He knows she’s there…and that’s enough.
January 10, 2023,
08:02 local time,
South Shore Stampede Grounds, General Manager’s Office
South Side, Greater Chicago, Republic of Chicago
Caribou General Manager Orville Tunyon stands at the window
of his office, staring down at the parking lot.
Caribou head coach Erik Holmstrand sits across from the
desk, arms folded, jaw tight. He hasn’t had enough sleep.
Vice President of Football Administration Gabrielle Laurent,
the Caribou’s “capologist”, sits at the edge of a chair with a tablet open, cap
spreadsheet glowing faintly.
The room smells like coffee and quiet frustration.
Tunyon doesn’t turn around.
“Where are we?” he says.
Gabrielle answers immediately.
“Tight,” she says
“How tight?” he says.
“Functionally no flexibility unless we restructure or move a
major contract,” said Gabrielle.
Holmstrand exhales slowly.
“And Kaleo?” Holmstrand said with a tinge of hopefulness.
Gabrielle scrolls.
“His camp wants full-market top-three linebacker money,”
said Gabrielle. “Four years. Heavy guarantees.”
Holmstrand shakes his head.
“He’s not back to full snap load yet,” said Holmstrand.
Tunyon finally turns.
“He looked good,” said Tunyon.
“He looked good in controlled rotation,” Holmstrand replies.
“We had him at sixty percent snaps max. We never let him carry a full series
late in games.”
Gabrielle adds quietly: “If we pay him like he’s 100%, we
assume ACL risk long-term.”
Tunyon rubs his temple.
“…and if we don’t?” he says.
“He hits the market,” Gabrielle says, “and Houston laughs
again.”
That lands.
Holmstrand leans back.
“They already laughed.”
Tunyon walks to the desk.
“Two firsts for Kaleo,” he mutters, “and Houston turns those
into a left tackle and a pass rusher.”
“…and cap space,” Gabrielle adds. “Don’t forget cap space.”
Holmstrand’s voice hardens slightly.
“We were a playoff team when we made that deal,” said
Holmstrand.
Tunyon nods.
“We were supposed to be,” said Tunyon.
Holmstrand stares at the floor for a moment.
“Then he tears his ACL,” said Holmstrand.
Silence.
Nobody blames Kaleo.
Nobody says it was a mistake.
…but the weight of the swing sits in the room.
Gabrielle clears her throat.
“We also don’t have our 2024 first,” she says evenly.
Tunyon looks at her.
“I’m aware,” said Tunyon.
“We’re drafting mid-round again unless we recover capital,”
said Gabrielle.
Holmstrand’s eyes narrow slightly.
“Recover how?” he said.
Gabrielle doesn’t hesitate.
“There are two contracts that would immediately return
first-round value,” said Gabrielle.
Holmstrand doesn’t like where this is going.
“Don’t,” he says.
Tunyon says nothing.
Gabrielle continues, clinical: “Kaleo if extended and
flipped before the ACL narrative hardens.”
Holmstrand shakes his head.
“That’s insane,” said Holmstrand.
“…and,” Gabrielle finishes, “Eamon.”
The room goes still.
Holmstrand leans forward.
“No,” said Holmstrand, as if saying that would somehow
change reality.
Tunyon, though, doesn’t dismiss Gabrielle.
“He’s 26,” Gabrielle says calmly. “Peak value. Long-term
deal. Clean reputation. Elite production.”
“He’s the identity of this team,” Holmstrand snaps.
Gabrielle doesn’t flinch.
“So was the plan,” said Gabrielle.
That hurts.
Tunyon finally speaks.
“If we reset, we do it properly,” he says.
Holmstrand looks at him sharply.
“You’re serious,” said Holmstrand.
“I’m realistic,” said Tunyon.
Holmstrand stands and walks toward the window now.
“You think ownership signs off on trading the face of the
franchise?” said Holmstrand
“If ownership sees a multi-first package?” Gabrielle says.
“Yes.”
Holmstrand’s jaw tightens.
“He’s not the problem,” said Holmstrand.
“No,” Tunyon says quietly. “He’s not.”
Silence again.
Holmstrand turns back.
“You think he’d even entertain that?” he said.
Tunyon hesitates.
“I don’t know,” said Tunyon.
Gabrielle checks her tablet again.
“Whether he would or not,” she says, “we should at least be
evaluating the market. Quietly.”
Tunyon nods slowly.
“We don’t leak,” he says.
“Never,” Gabrielle says.
Holmstrand exhales.
“I don’t want to lose Kaleo,” said Holmstrand. “I don’t want
to lose Eamon.”
Tunyon’s voice is measured.
“I don’t want to lose the next three years either,” said Tunyon.
There’s a knock at the door.
All three look up.
Tunyon glances at the clock.
8:15.
Gabrielle closes her tablet.
Holmstrand straightens his jacket.
Tunyon says calmly:
“Send them in.”
None of them realize:
The conversation they were just having?
Is about to walk through that door.
January 10, 2023,
08:02 local time,
South Shore Stampede Grounds, General Manager’s Office
South Side, Greater Chicago, Republic of Chicago
Carly stands beside Eamon just outside the frosted-glass
door.
“You good?” she asks.
He nods once.
“Yeah,” he says.
She studies him for a second.
“You look like you’re about to take a playoff snap,” she
says.
“I’d rather be,” he says.
She smirks slightly.
“Need another hug?” she says.
He almost laughs.
“…Would it help?” he says.
She steps forward without hesitation and gives him a quick,
firm hug. Professional. Grounding.
“There,” she says. “Consider it legal counsel.”
He exhales slowly.
“Okay,” he says.
She nods toward the door.
“Let’s go,” she says.
Inside the Office
Orville Tunyon stands as they enter. Erik Holmstrand remains
seated but straightens immediately. Gabrielle Laurent closes her tablet but
keeps it nearby.
“Morning,” Tunyon says.
“Morning,” Eamon replies.
Tunyon gestures to the chairs.
“Have a seat,” said Tunyon. “We were just talking about
you.”
Eamon’s stomach tightens.
The words hit too directly.
For half a second, he almost says it.
Do you know why I’m here?
Carly’s hand lightly brushes his forearm.
Not obvious.
Just enough.
Wait.
Tunyon continues.
“I’ll be direct,” he says. “We’re exploring options.”
Eamon blinks.
Tunyon holds his gaze.
“We have to evaluate every avenue this offseason,” said
Tunyon. “Including potentially moving you.”
The anxiety drains out of Eamon in one sharp exhale.
Relief replaces it.
Holmstrand watches that reaction carefully.
“You look surprised,” the coach says.
Eamon glances at Carly, then back at them.
“I… didn’t know you’d gotten there already,” said Eamon
Holmstrand tilts his head slightly.
“Did you come in here to ask for a trade?” said Holmstrand.
There it is.
No theatrics.
Just the question.
Eamon pauses.
Then nods once.
“Yes,” he says.
Silence fills the room.
Tunyon leans back slowly in his chair.
Holmstrand’s jaw tightens- not angry. Just disappointed.
No one explodes.
Because there’s nothing to gain from it.
Gabrielle speaks first.
“From a structural standpoint,” she says calmly, “this is
not a hostile situation.”
Everyone looks at her.
“Eamon’s contract is long-term,” said Gabrielle. “Acquiring
teams would gain stability at a premium position. That increases his value.”
She taps her tablet lightly.
“…but it’s a significant cap commitment,” she continues. “Not
every contender can absorb it. That narrows the field.”
Tunyon nods.
“We can get a strong return,” he says, “but it won’t be
simple.”
Eamon leans forward slightly.
“I’m not trying to force anything overnight,” he said.
Holmstrand studies him.
“Why now?” he asks.
Eamon doesn’t hesitate.
“I gave you four years,” said Eamon. “I signed because I
believed we were building forward.”
Tunyon absorbs that without defensiveness.
“…and you don’t believe that anymore?” he said.
“I believe you’re pivoting,” said Eamon.
That lands.
No one denies it.
Gabrielle speaks again.
“We are prioritizing draft capital,” said Gabrielle.
Tunyon glances at her but doesn’t contradict it.
Eamon nods slowly.
“That’s why I’m here,” said Eamon.
Holmstrand’s voice softens.
“You’re not angry,” said Holmstrand.
“No,” said Eamon.
“You’re not threatening to hold out,” said Holmstrand.
“No,” said Eamon
“You’d play?” said Holmstrand.
“Until I’m told otherwise,” said Eamon.
That earns visible respect.
Tunyon folds his hands on the desk.
“Do you have preferences?” asks Tunyon.
Eamon takes a breath.
“I don’t want to go somewhere that’s starting over,” said
Eamon.
Holmstrand almost smiles at that.
“Fair,” said Holmstrand.
“…and I don’t want to stand in your way if this is the direction,”
said Eamon.
Gabrielle nods slightly. That’s the right tone.
Tunyon speaks carefully.
“We’d like this resolved before the draft,” said Tunyon.
“Because of capital,” Carly says.
“Yes,” said Tunyon, “but…we’re not promising speed over
value.”
Eamon nods.
“I understand,” said Eamon.
Holmstrand looks at him.
“This could take weeks,” said Holmstrand.
“I know,” said Eamon.
“Media speculation,” said Holmstrand.
“I know,” said Eamon.
“You comfortable with that?” said Holmstrand.
“Yes,” said Eamon.
He sits back slightly.
“I trust the process,” said Eamon. “As long as you’re making
a good-faith effort.”
The words are deliberate.
Tunyon holds his gaze.
“We will,” said Tunyon.
For the first time since the season ended, the room feels
aligned.
No betrayal.
No theatrics.
Just professionals adjusting to reality.
Holmstrand finally says quietly: “You meant what you said
when you signed.”
“Yes,” said Eamon
Tunyon nods once.
“…and we meant it too,” Tunyon adds.
Another pause.
Gabrielle opens her tablet again.
“I’ll begin scenario modeling,” said Gabrielle.
Carly stands.
“We’ll coordinate,” said Carly.
Eamon rises as well.
He looks around the room.
No anger.
Just gravity.
“Thank you,” he says.
Tunyon nods.
“We’ll be in touch,” Tunyon says.
As Eamon and Carly walk toward the door, Holmstrand adds: “You’ll
still be in meetings tomorrow.”
Eamon glances back.
“Yes, Coach,” said Eamon with a smile.
That answer matters.
The door closes behind them.
Inside the office, the silence lingers.
Outside, in the hallway, Eamon exhales.
Carly looks at him.
“Well,” she says quietly. “That was cleaner than most.”
He nods.
“Yeah,” he says.
For the first time, it doesn’t feel like escape.
It feels like transition.
Inside the Office- After Eamon Leaves
Tunyon watches the door close.
Holmstrand exhales slowly.
Gabrielle is already tapping on her tablet.
Tunyon looks at the intercom.
“Have Carly step back in.”
Carly Reenters
She’s calm. Expecting something.
Tunyon gestures to the chair.
“One more thing.” Tunyon says.
She sits.
Holmstrand leans forward slightly.
“You’ve got your ear to the quarterback market,” Tunyon says.
Carly’s expression doesn’t change.
“I usually do,” Carly says.
Tunyon nods.
“If Dallas solves their quarterback situation…” Tunyon says.
Carly understands immediately.
“…No. 5 becomes flexible,” she says.
Gabrielle adds evenly: “They’re not moving that pick unless
they’re secure under center.”
Holmstrand folds his hands.
“We’re not asking you to do anything improper,” said Tunyon.
Carly gives the faintest smile.
“I wouldn’t,” she says assuredly.
“Still,” Tunyon continues, “if you hear that they’re leaning
toward a veteran…or if someone nudges them that direction…”
Carly tilts her head.
“You want to know,” said Carly.
“Yes,” said Tunyon.
Gabrielle adds: “The earlier we know their trajectory, the
better we model ours.”
Carly considers it.
“You’re thinking Goffe,” she says.
“He’s the cleanest bridge,” Gabrielle says.
“Or Fields,” Holmstrand adds.
Carly nods slowly.
“I can read the room,” she says. “I can’t make their
decisions.”
Tunyon meets her eyes.
“We’re not asking you to,” he says.
Beat.
“We just don’t want to be surprised,” he adds.
Carly stands.
“I’ll let you know if the board shifts,” she says.
She pauses at the door.
“If Dallas signs a quarterback, you’ll hear it from me
before it hits the wire,” Carly adds.
Tunyon nods once.
“Appreciated,” said Tunyon.
The door closes again.
Holmstrand looks at Tunyon.
“You really think Dallas moves five?” he says.
Tunyon stares out the window.
“If they think they’re a running back away…” Tunyon
declares.
Gabrielle finishes quietly: “They might.”
Somewhere across the league, phones are already ringing.
