Page 1 of Who's Saving You
PROLOGUE
Nik
The green room smells like nerves and way too much cologne.
Bright lights, pressed suits, and lots of gold chains surround us. ESPN commentary echoes through the speakers overhead. Cameras shift to faces every time a team goes on the clock. Hope rises and falls every seven minutes like the national ritual that is the NFL Draft Night.
Nico Loving sits to my left, bouncing his knee like he’s got caffeine for blood. His suit is emerald green because, of course, it is. Nicholas Soba is on my right, drumming his fingers on the armrest in perfect rhythm with the ticking draft clock. His tie is crooked. I let him know, and he told me to choke on it.
We’ve been waiting for this moment since we were ten.Trickie Nickies. Three kids with matching names and matching dreams, crushing backyards and stadiums from Pop Warner through high school and straight into college ball. Three ‘brothers’ who played like we had one shared heartbeat.
And tonight?
We’re supposed to be drafted together—same team, same city. It’s been the narrative for months. Scouts, analysts, even our agents said it was a lock. San Francisco needs a quarterback, a wide receiver, and a tight end. It’s the fairy tale ending.
But I’ve a feeling it won’t end that way. In fact, I can almost bet on it.
Soba nudges my shoulder. “You sweating yet, Saint?”
I smirk as he calls me by my nickname. “Nope. Just oozing calm professionalism.”
“More like oozing product endorsement deals,” Loving mutters, straightening his cufflinks. “Dude’s been signed to three cologne contracts since we’ve been sitting here.”
Never missing a chance to throw a dig at my best friend, I retort, “You’re just jealous because you smell like Axe and poor teenage decisions.”
He punches my arm. “You’re damn right I am.”
We all laugh, too loud and too hard. The kind of laughter that’s trying to keep the nerves at bay. It’s draft night, and if something goes wrong, if one of us slips even a few picks, it changes everything. Teams shake shit up every year. There are names expected to go first round,first pick,and sometimes, it just doesn’t happen. GMs make deals to secure a promise for next year, and current Super Bowl champs do whatever they need to keep that winning streak going.
And I’m just praying my past doesn’t make itself known and ruin it for me.
The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeakers.
“Alright, America, here we go! With the first overall pick in the 2025 NFL Draft… the New York Rage select…Nicholas Soba, Quarterback, Zeiders University!”
The world stops, and my breath catches.
The room explodes, and reporters surge. Nicholas is lifted from the couch, hands pound his back. He’s stunned and grabs for his family, pulling them all in close. They sway for a moment, heads close together, tears breaking through. Then he turns to us, we’re in shock, but we do what best friends should do.
Smile, rough him up, and hug.
But not the full kind, not thewe all made itkind.
The Rage had one first-round pick, no other trade-ups. It’s common knowledge they’re not looking for a wide receiver or a tight end; they’ve got two solid lines of them already.
They took Soba.JustSoba.
Why?
Reporters swoop in.
“Nicholas, how are you feeling?”
“Nicholas, what happened to the three of you?”
“Nicholas, what happens next?”
I blink, still standing, heart hammering in my chest. I listen to the questions, see the damn circus, and wonder,how the hell did this happen?
