Page 28 of Who's Saving You
Loving: You didn’t hear about butter fingers from me
Soba: Nah, we saw that shit live!
Me: I’m blocking all of y’all until I score next game. Then it’s victory memes and receipts. Watch
Loving: We’ll believe it when we see it…And hopefully catch it, unlike you
10
Noelle
I knew there was something more. No one can be that perfect. But what’s he hiding? The way he spoke made him sound like a gangster. And yes, I’ve heard enough of these mobster stories to never dismiss any of it, but come on. He’s a football player. How’s it possible?
We texted back and forth quickly after that. Me asking for another interview date, him pushing me off. It’s been three days, and my mind has written every side of this article it can grasp, but since he won’t talk to me, I have to keep figuring it out on my own.
Between the encounter at the hotel, and then the alley after dinner, now I don’t know if he’s hiding from the story or me.
Instead, I kept digging despite being warned not to. I made contact with an old player from the team, and I’mgoing to get some answers. Fuck those threats; they happen all the time, but a good lead doesn’t, so I’m not missing out on this.
A black jeep pulls into the parking spot ahead of me, and a man gets out. I quickly pocket my phone, grab my purse, and check that my pen and pad are inside.
Trevor walks ahead of me and pulls the door open with more force than necessary. We’ve never met, but he still looks the same as in his picture.
Trevor Raines. Former college wide receiver and Nik’s former teammate. He was expelled in the middle of sophomore year for “academic dishonesty.” He was cut from the team and escorted from the campus overnight. None of it makes sense because, from what I uncovered—or rather, didn’t uncover—there were no formal charges. The coach didn’t fight it, and his family didn’t petition the school. There was a brief paragraph in the papers about it, and it was alluded that he had been trouble for the team all along, that he was the reason the season had been “tumultuous.”
But what’s interesting? It happened five days after the rivalry game loss.
“Trevor? I’m Noelle Moreno. We spoke on the phone.” I put out my hand, and he shakes it quickly. I slide into the bench seat across from him and offer a friendly smile. “Thanks for meeting me.”
He doesn’t return the smile; he just looks at me like he already regrets agreeing to this. I sit across from him in a booth in the dingy little diner thirty-five miles outside of Mistletoe Falls. This little suburb is cute and quiet, a great place to escape the big city, which is why I'm sure many people have settled here.
We engage in small talk for ten minutes after placing our orders. We talk of football, of course, andthe current high school team that he coaches. I can see this is where he’s most comfortable. He talks about his offensive line like they’re his own kids. He’s soft-spoken and cautious, careful with each word that comes from his mouth as if he knows how well they can be used against him. It’s as if he’s already had his life twisted out from under him and doesn’t trust anyone anymore.
I understand that feeling. I was blindsided by someone I trusted as well. So now I’ve learned to dig, push, and circle around conversations until I get exactly what I need. I need the answers to put out an article that will generate buzz but I also need those answers to make decisions on my own and make sure I don't get burned.
I’ve had a nagging thought that won’t leave me since I was at the ZU Athletic archives. There’s just not enough explanation for a game so important to just disappear. I clear my throat now and take a chance at putting that idea out into the atmosphere to see what kind of reaction I get.
“I know you didn’t throw that game.”
He tries to hide it, but his body language gives him away. His entire body stiffens, his jaw locks tight, and his eyes narrow just the slightest.
Bingo.
“What game?”
“You know which one,” I bluff.
A moment passes. Then another, and I try to calm my racing heart. My heart that knows a story is about to break. It’s so close I can already see the words as I type them.
He leans in slowly, like he’s deciding whether or not I’m worth the risk. “I know why you called me. I knew the minute I heard your voicemail. It wasn’t to get a timepiece on the local kid who was tossed out of college, only to redeem himself by coaching future players. It wasn’t to seehow athen and nowreally works out for the best. And it damn sure wasn’t to write a story about a no-name high school team with no-name players, who, let’s be honest, aren’t going further than the high school field they play on.”
I swallow, desperately memorizing every word he’s saying, as he continues. “You’re poking at a story that was paid to stay buried. It’d be dangerous to be the one to dig it up.”
I don’t blink, ignoring the second threat in days, and keep pushing. “Was it Papas?”
Trevor turns his head to the window and watches a school bus roll by, but he doesn’t answer. I watch his jaw tick and his pulse kick in his neck. His visceral reaction to these questions tells me there is so much more here.
And then, in a tone so matter-of-fact and loaded with sarcasm, he says, “I didn’t drop those passes. I didn’t blow the coverage. And yet, I sure as shit wasn’t the one to walk away with a clean record and a one-way ticket to the draft.”
