Page 45 of Saving Saul

I needed something—anything—to keep me from spiraling. Watching Tessa from a distance, knowing I couldn’t go to her yet, had nearly driven me mad. So, when I found a recreational rugby league through an app that focused on introducing African-American boys to the sport, I signed up without thinking twice.

At first, I kept to myself. I showed up, ran drills, worked the boys hard, and left. There was no small talk, no unnecessary conversations, just the game—the same way I had approached my entire life. I introduced myself as Marcus Mitchell; no one thought anything about it.

But the center director, Michael Appiah, a fellow Ghanaian didn’t let that stand for long.

He was one of the first people I met in New Orleans who knew who I was. Most Ghanaians know who I am, we tend to keep up with our superstars. Without saying a word, he understood that I wanted to keep my identity under wraps, and I appreciated that.

It also helps that he’s the deputy mayor of New Orleans. I figured having a cordial relationship with the city’s Chief Administrative Officer could come in handy.

Especially now that the police chief is on my ass.

When I started, Michael didn’t care that I used to be one of the best Rugby players in Europe or that I tried to build a small culinary empire in LA. My footwork on the pitch caught his attention, and the way I barked at the kids to get into formation made it seem as if I were still leading a professional squad.

“You’re a natural coach,” he told me after our first scrimmage, wiping sweat from his brow.

I grunted in response.

That was week one.

By week two, he was asking questions.

“Why the hell is a British-Ghanaian chef with a net worth I can’t even guess volunteering in a local recreation league?”

I ignored him.

By week three, he stopped asking. Instead, he justtalked.

He told me about his past—how he grew up in Accra before moving to the States, fell in love with the sport back home, and fought like hell to keep playing when he moved to a country that barely recognized it. He told me about when he knew his wife was the one—the day she called him out for being a stubborn, closed-off bastard who couldn’t let people in.

That was the first time I laughed since coming back to New Orleans.

It’s been six weeks, and I’m still holding my cards close to my chest, but Michael? He’s not having it. Today he wants to talk.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, Saul Mensah,” he says as we watch the boys run passing drills. “Too damn tough.”

I shrug, keeping my eyes on the game.

Michael exhales sharply and leans on the fence beside me. “Look, I don’t know what you’re running from. I don’t care. But I know this—whatever it is, it’s bleeding into every part of your life. Including her.”

That gets my attention. I glance at him, my expression guarded.

He smirks. “Yeah,her.Do you think I don’t notice how you check your phone every ten minutes like you’re waiting for a miracle? The way your face twists up every time you mention something about your past? Man, I see you. And if you want her back, you need to stop being such a damn coward.”

I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to tell him to mind his business.

“You want my advice?” he continues. “Stop hiding. Be open. Give her everything.No secrets.”

I don’t respond.

Because Ican’t.

Patrick’s name swims to the surface of my mind, the memory of that night hitting me like a freight train. I’ve told Tessamostof the truth but not all of it. Not the part that would change the way she sees me forever.

I shove the thought away and focus back on the field. “You giving relationship advice now?”

Michael chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, just giving you a fighting chance.”

I smirk despite myself. “And here I thought you wanted to talk Rugby.”

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