Page 11 of Who's Saving You
I turn to him. His eyes drag over me, not in a filthy way, just focused like he’s studying his playbook.
“Next time, maybe say hi instead of just staring,” he says. “Makes it less awkward.”
I raise a brow. “Trust me. I wasn’t the one looking awkward.”
Then I turn on my heel and walk away, my heart racing hard in my chest. Behind me, I hear his low laugh again. And I don’t have to look back to know he’s still watching.
3
Nik
The moment I get in my truck, I slam the door harder than I mean to and let out the breath I’ve been holding for the last few hours. I rub a hand down my face and sigh into the silence, sinking into my leather seat. One more charity event in the books. One more round of smiles, handshakes, and forced sentiment. One more intense workout needed to expel the nervous energy.
One more call to tie up this weekend's loose ends that gives me a bit of an adrenaline rush.
I grab my phone and see multiple text messages from my PR manager, my agent, and my mother. And, of course, the Trickie Nickies group chat.
Loving: Our boy has a new girl
Soba: I damn well know you ain’t talking about me. Spill it
Loving: Just met her. She’s going to eat him alive
Soba: Uh oh, Saint is in trouble? Better dig deep and find an alter ego
My heart thuds every time they reference a double life. And after today’s talk with that reporter, it’s not in the good kind of way that hits before a game or in the enticing sort of way that hits late at night. No, this feels off, like I’m watching everything I’ve worked for slowly disintegrate before my eyes. The more public I become, the more chances there are for things to creep to the surface.
And more chances for them to know I lied.
Still am lying.
“Shit,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes.
I buried that night back in college. I did everything to cover that game, including lying, faking illness, and even letting others take the blame. Every time it was brought up, I pushed it down further. I ignored interviews and downplayed it every chance I could. Hell, basically the entire season doesn’t exist for that year. And the Nicks stood by me, even though they didn't know why.
I needed to step up in a way that was not natural for me, yet was the only option available. It was a turning point in both my personal life and career, one that was going to make or break me.
Fortunately, or unfortunately as it may be now, that lie made me. That squeaky clean look the NFL was looking for, the one my sister practiced over and over with me, and the same one Dane was pushing ahead of draft night, got meone of the biggest rookie contracts to date for the South Carolina Warriors.
I can’t lose it now.
I’ve got this Saint personality that I’m untouchable, and that cover works for me. No one would expect the other side of me, and I need to keep it that way since I can’t step away from that other side either.
I send a message back:
Me: Worry about your games, not my Sainthood
I lean my head back on the black leather headrest and inhale deeply, needing that new car smell to calm me, and catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror.
Baby face with a wide smile that oozes charm. I’m the face of the team. But the fire behind my eyes? The worry and fear of the fallout? That’s not new. That’s always been there, since I was a kid, if I’m being real. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it. And now, it’s just part of who I am. The guy the Trickie Nickies always tease in public, the camaraderie showing forefront, and not because it's what the public wants, but because it's true. We defend in public, fuck around in private, but respect each other all the way.
But how I got here? It was built on a lie, and they don’t know a thing about it. One night, one choice made in the dark that opened a whole new world that I should have run from, instead of willingly stepping into.
Then there’sher.
Noelle Moreno.
I inhale deeply, still remembering how she smelled so sweet, like candy. Closing my eyes, I picture her long, silky, dark hair, but with light hazel eyes that make her stand out in a room. Dressed in a sweater, jeans, and even with theheeled boots she had on, she was still more than half a foot shorter than me. And when she turned and walked away from me? An ass that could make me forget my own name.
