I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter 72: Medium Rare Mayhem
Jon's Perspective
The adrenaline from the game still pulsed hot through Jon's veins, his heart beating with the electric rhythm of victory, when Coach threw out one final, unexpected play—he was taking the entire team out to dinner. Not pizza. Not burgers. A steakhouse. And not just any steakhouse either, but Chandler's, the kind of upscale joint where the menus came in leather-bound covers, the wine list was its own separate tome, and the lighting was so artfully dim that the whole place felt like it was trapped in a luxury cologne commercial.
The moment Jon stepped through the front doors, trailing behind his teammates, a sharp mixture of amusement and dread settled in his chest. He immediately knew this was going to be a disaster—and somehow, also, probably the best night ever.
Half the guys were still rocking their post-game look: oversized hoodies, wrinkled sweatpants, and the unmistakable swagger of a Friday night win. One of the linemen was shuffling along in worn-out slides with socks stretched thin over tired feet. Another player hadn't even bothered to wipe off his eye black, which now looked like war paint melting under the chandeliers.
The maître d', a man who looked like he hadn't cracked a smile since the Nixon administration, gave them the kind of once-over that could curdle milk. His posture stiffened. His nose twitched. You could almost hear him mentally calculating how many forks were going to need replacing.
The team, meanwhile, was buzzing—laughing, shouting, practically vibrating with joy. They moved as one chaotic organism, loudly recalling plays, trash-talking each other, and completely ignoring the mood of quiet elegance the restaurant was clearly designed to uphold.
Jon winced as they were led to a long table tucked into a corner of the room. The waitstaff had clearly decided to isolate them from the rest of the dining crowd, like putting toddlers in a soundproof playpen. Jon tried to keep his head down, sliding into his seat like he hoped the linen napkin could somehow act as camouflage.
He hadn't even figured out which of the four forks was safe to use when it got worse.
A voice—low, familiar, and laced with smugness—cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade. Jon looked up.
Across the restaurant, three figures strode by with deliberate slowness. West Valley players. Still wearing the bruises from the field, and wearing their scowls like armor. They scanned the table, eyes locking with Jon's for just a beat too long.
For one tense second, Jon braced himself. Round two, right here between the $80 ribeye and the truffle mashed potatoes.
One of three muttered something under his breath—sharp and vague, the kind of insult that didn't need to be fully understood to be effective. Chairs scraped. A couple of Jon's teammates started to rise, ready to make a scene.
But before anyone could escalate, Coach moved.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. He just stood up—slowly, deliberately, like a mountain rising out of calm water. The effect was immediate. The West Valley players faltered mid-step, the air around them cooling like someone had turned off the flame.
Without another word, they turned and walked away—still smirking, still brooding, but clearly retreating.
The moment passed. The room slowly exhaled. Crisis averted.
Jon sat back in his chair, his muscles finally starting to unclench. He reached for another piece of bread, suddenly aware of how hungry he actually was. Maybe this dinner would go smoothly after all.
And then…
"Hey, champ!"
The voice boomed through the restaurant like someone had dropped a bowling ball on a church floor.
Jon closed his eyes. He didn't need to look. He knew.
Phil had arrived.
Strutting into the steakhouse like he owned the place—or at least thought he should—Phil was all Hawaiian-print confidence and over-applied cologne. He looked like he'd gotten lost on the way to a karaoke night on a cruise ship.
Cam followed close behind, humming some over-the-top victory fanfare, while Jay trailed them both, arms crossed and wearing an expression that said he was only here to keep Phil from doing something monumentally embarrassing.
Phil dropped into the empty seat beside Jon with zero hesitation, slapped him on the back with a thud that rattled his water glass, and extended a fist bump to the tight end across the table.
"What's up, fellas?" he grinned. "Who's ready for some steak!"
Jon groaned—out loud. Around him, a few teammates snorted into their napkins.
To his credit, Coach took it all in stride. If he was surprised or annoyed, he didn't show it. He greeted Phil with a nod and turned back to his menu like he hadn't just witnessed a one-man flash mob.
Later, when Jay approached Coach near the bar, there was a quiet exchange. Jon couldn't hear what was said, but he saw the gesture—Jay offering to cover the entire bill. Coach declined with a polite smile, but Jay, being Jay, didn't walk away.
Eventually, when the check came, Jon watched as Jay nodded once and slid his card across the table. Not a grand gesture. Just a fair one. Fifty-fifty. Respect given and returned.
By the time dessert was passed around, the chaos had mellowed into something warm and familiar. The team had found its rhythm. The food was incredible—each bite of steak practically melting into Jon's mouth—and even the earlier tension with the West Valley players now felt like something that had happened a lifetime ago.
As they all rose to leave, stomachs full and spirits high, Coach clapped Jon on the back, the weight of his hand more affirming than any speech.
"Nice work out there," he said. "And tonight too."
Jon nodded, a quiet smile playing at the edges of his lips.
Touchdowns, steak, and surviving Phil's social hurricane.
It had been one hell of a Friday.