Page 330 of Vicious Saint
“Just need to find-ehmy keys!” Carlo shouts, patting down his pockets, so I drop my arms and debate whether to start speed walking.
I barely make it five steps when the chink of metal hitting concrete snags my attention, but because I suck in these heels it takes me a few more to actually stop.
What the heck?I twist behind me to find what it is.
“Let’s go,signorina, I turning on the truck!” Carlo demands, opening the driver’s door just as my eyes lock on the shiny gold horn a few feet away.
“Oh, no!” I cry out, rushing over to pick it up, “Carlo, wait, I dropped my necklace!”
I squat down, those four words being the last thing I say to him before a deafening boom strikes the air, and I’m hit by a wave of heat so powerful it knocks me to the ground.
Saint
“So, tell me Saint, how does it feel bringing home the championship title?” our local sports reporter Nile asks, holding out his microphone. “You got a decade winning streak for the school, that’s pretty big.”
“Always a team effort,” I tell him, keeping an eye on Theory from across the hall, who’s got Stanley doing nothing to keep the crowd away from her. I whistle, catching the old man’s attention, then snap for him to look the fuck alive before I give him a reason to look dead.
After the stunt Theory pulled at Good Guy’s party, I still don’t understand why my father hasn’t canned this guy.
Like a torch is blown up his ass, Stanley finally does his job protecting my sister, and I return to showing my face for the cameras. Which is the last shit I want to be doing knowing Hendrix is on her way back to Riverside.
“I’m hearing whispers about Nottingham and Vanguard. Could there be a trip to the south in your future?” Nile sneaks out the college question he was specifically told not to ask. For good reason.
If this was a year ago, my decision to get out of this city would’ve been instantaneous. I have the pick of the litter when it comes to universities. But shit’s changed.
I’ve changed.
Since age four when I picked up my first football, the game’s become a fundamental part of me, and it still is.
Just not alone.
Instead of cursing the motherfucker out the way I’d like to, I keep the interview classy for the sake of ending it. Especially now that I’ve got Dad at my side, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance.
“Not sure yet, Nile, may be thinking about staying local.”
“Really?” he says, trying not to appear dumbfounded, and I don’t necessarily blame him. There’s not a single four year in the state that counts high enough to reach the Big Ten. “Can you elaborate for us where you’re thinking?”
“Alright, alright, Nile. Let my boy finish celebrating with his team,” my father interrupts, tightening his grip on my shoulder, the only reassurance it’s giving this time is how I better shut up. Let’s just say talks of my future career in football have taken a bit of a back seat to current existential crises.
“But it’s only been three!” he shouts as my father drags me into the locker room.
“Didn’t we agree to sit on it?” Dad stops in front of me, where I can see Nile peeking eagerly through the closing door. “No big decisions until you get your head on straight.”
I make my trek down the packed aisle, zigzagging between my teammates and other reporters trying to snag an interview.
“And here I am thinking you’d be happy I’m settling down.”
“I am happy, son, trust me.” He presses, falling in stride. “But you’ve wanted to attend Vanguard since you were a kid. Bromwell, as great of a school it is, has very little to offer great athletes like yourself.”
“It’s got a lot to offer.”
“Hendrix doesn’t count.”
“Guess it’s a good thing the decision is up to me, then, huh?”
“Lavell!” Coach Balkan shouts from the end of the aisle, waving me over. Next to him stands Bill Reilly, a former NFL quarterback and current head coach from Vanguard, who I’ve been trying to avoid like Syphilis since I caught wind of him scouting in the crowd.
We were supposed to meet earlier in the season, but since I fell into a rut, Coach insisted we hold off on intros until the championship.
