Chapter 2: The Offer You Can’t Accept

When the news broke that the organization was about to swap top laners, I was at home in Maple Heights, relaxing in the AC and scrolling Reddit.

My apartment smelled faintly of popcorn and the faded cologne from last night’s stream. I had my feet propped up on a battered ottoman, fan humming, thermostat set to a sweet sixty-eight. Outside, you could hear the distant wail of a siren, and inside, my phone buzzed non-stop.

It had been less than a month since we'd won Worlds. I was still riding the high of victory.

My championship jersey—signed by the squad, still unwashed—hung on the back of my chair. Every time I glanced at it, I felt that surge again: the confetti, the roar, the taste of cheap champagne.

This was my first championship in three years—it meant a lot to me.

Three years is an eternity in esports. Most people my age are flipping majors or chasing internships. I’d been grinding under stage lights since high school. This win—after so many runner-up finishes—was supposed to change everything.

Every year during free agency, rumors fly, but most are just for hype.

Reddit threads light up with trade talks, sub tweets from players, cryptic emojis from coaches. Ninety percent is smoke, but fans eat it up.

I saw a lot of news about me, mostly speculating I'd transfer, but I didn't pay any attention.

I’d even seen a meme of me photoshopped into every team jersey in the league. My mentions were a circus, but I just scrolled past, eating Kraft mac and cheese straight from the bowl.

This team won the championship with me. Even if my salary stayed the same, I was willing to re-sign.

I figured, loyalty still meant something. I’d built this squad up, brought the trophy home. That had to count, right?

That was, until I got a message from the manager.

He wanted to talk about the new season's contract, setting the meeting for the last day of the free agency window.

I remember the DM: "Let’s meet at HQ on Friday. Important contract stuff. Last day of window."

So I packed up and headed back to the organization’s headquarters.

I threw my Wolf Team duffel bag into the trunk, zipped up my old varsity hoodie, and made the forty-minute drive into downtown. Halfway there, I stopped for a gas station coffee—the kind that tastes vaguely of cardboard, but felt right for the moment.

The atmosphere at the org was tense. The teammates were already back. I greeted them with a smile, but their expressions were off.

No one cracked a joke or tossed an energy drink my way like usual. The air was thick, like the calm before a Midwest thunderstorm.

In the meeting room, besides Mr. Carter, there was another person—the top laner from the academy team.

He looked nervous, fidgeting with the laces of his fresh Jordans. The kid was barely old enough to vote, all spiky hair and hopeful eyes. A name tag on his Wolf Team tee said “Shawn.”

I looked at Mr. Carter, waiting for an explanation.

He fiddled with his Apple Watch, not meeting my eyes, and finally sighed, like he was about to break bad news to a kid.

Mr. Carter avoided my gaze and patted the kid's shoulder.

"Caleb, while you were home, the second team's top laner has been trying out. He did pretty well. Sure, his mechanics aren't quite at your level, but the kid's got drive and works hard."

His words echoed off the glass walls. I caught Shawn’s nervous smile in the reflection. I just nodded.

"After talking with the coaches, we've decided to promote him to the main team as your backup."

I nodded, not objecting. Teams need to train new talent—I get that.

I’d seen plenty of rookies come and go. That’s just how it works. I offered Shawn a fist bump; he hesitated, then smiled sheepishly and bumped back.

Seeing I didn't protest, Mr. Carter continued:

"There's another thing. Last year, we spent a lot to sign you. Plus, after winning Worlds, everyone's value went up, so this year's budget for you is tight."

He called it a discussion, but really, it was just telling me to take a pay cut—and only me.

I could feel my jaw clench. The other contracts were untouched, but mine was suddenly a problem? That was a new low.

"But if I remember right, I did a ton of commercials last year, and we won Worlds. The org shouldn't be short on cash, right?" I blinked at Mr. Carter. Even as a player, I know a bit about org operations. Wolf Team has solid investors—money shouldn't be an issue.

My voice was calm, but my heart was pounding. I shot a glance at the Wolf Team championship banner hanging in the lobby, my name stitched right there at the top.

"How can you not lose money in esports? Those ads you did barely covered anything. And all those trips abroad for tournaments cost a fortune."

Mr. Carter let out a weary sigh, like he’d rehearsed this bit. He tapped a spreadsheet on his laptop, numbers swimming in green and red.

"Caleb, your salary alone equals the other four combined. You don't want the team to end up with no money for future events, do you?"

As the only veteran on the team, my salary was the highest. That was the unspoken rule, but also because I brought popularity.

It was more than just winning; it was the streaming numbers, the jersey sales, the fan events. Hell, they even had my face on billboards last fall.

Not every pro starts with a big paycheck. My salary was earned match by match.

When I was benched my rookie year, I was living on ramen and Red Bull. Every contract renewal was a new battle.

Last year, while others focused on training, only I had to squeeze in time for commercials, which led to haters saying I wasn't focused enough.

The schedule was brutal—photoshoots before scrims, interviews after losses. If I missed a play, Reddit flamed me for “selling out.”

Every time we lost, I was always the one flamed the most.

I’d stopped reading the comments after a while. Still, you never forget the worst ones.

Seeing I stayed quiet, Mr. Carter grew impatient.

He rapped his knuckles on the table, eyes narrowing. I could almost see the old Mr. Carter—the one who bought pizza for the team after a tough loss—slipping away.

"Here’s the deal—your new offer’s half of last year. Take it or leave it."

The words felt like a slap. A fifty percent pay cut after bringing home the trophy?

"I know you have skill, but the free agent market is flooded with top laners right now."

He leaned back, trying to look casual, but I saw the sweat on his brow.

"To be frank, last year you had the highest death count on the team. Still think you're the peak Calm?"

The dig stung. I wanted to snap back, list every clutch play I’d made in finals, but I bit my tongue.

Mr. Carter's attitude was a complete 180 from last year, when he begged me to join.

Back then, he’d called me late at night, promised I’d be the face of the rebuild, said the team needed my leadership. Now, I was just a liability.

He thought I had nowhere to go except Wolf Team, and that they had a backup plan.

His confidence was almost smug, as if he could see my future: washed up, streaming to a handful of diehards, forgotten in a year.

Dragging out contract talks to the last day of the window, just to force me into a lowball renewal. Clever move.

He wanted me to panic, take whatever crumbs he threw. That wasn’t going to happen.

But if I was the type to cave, would I still be Calm?

Even my dad would’ve laughed at the idea. He always said, "Caleb, don’t let anyone put you in a corner."

So what if I sit out a season?

I don't care.

I’d take the time to breathe, maybe catch a Mavericks game or let Grandma drag me to her favorite BBQ spot in Austin. I’d figure it out.