Page 29 of Who's Saving You
It’s a stark contrast to the humble man who sat here just five minutes ago, talking about the team he coaches with pride.
“So, Nik?—”
“I didn’t say anything about Papas,” he cuts in.
“You didn’t have to.”
He picks up his coffee, takes a slow sip like he’s weighing whether or not he’ll regret this conversation tomorrow.
“Just so you know, if you publish any part of this, I’ll deny it,” he says, voice low and sharp, “you don’t just scorch him. You’ll burn half the team that played with him. The university. The league. You’ll steal banners and records from those who actually deserved it. Do you know howmany people had a stake in keeping that season, and the next, clean?” He holds my stare. “You think it’s just one game, but I think it runs much deeper. It’s a dangerous story to tell, Ms. Moreno.”
I pull out some bills and throw them down on the table, then stand and grab my coat. “Thanks for your time.”
He doesn’t stop me, but just as I’m stepping away, he says, “Ask him what happens to the saint after dark. That’s when you’ll get the truth.”
I pause and turn slightly, catching the side view of his face again as he looks out the window. It’s the look of a man hurt by those he fully trusted.
But I don’t have time to coddle him. I have something big brewing, and for the first time since being assigned to this story, I feel the full weight of what I’m uncovering. This isn’t just a feature, and Trevor just acknowledged it. Because I already got a front-row seat to what Saint does after dark the other night.
~~
The photo hits my inbox at 9:13 p.m.
I’m halfway through a glass of red wine, curled up on my couch with my laptop and about fourteen tabs open, causing more anxiety than they do good. I click the email, expecting spam or maybe a late press inquiry. There’s no subject, and the sender's name is just a bunch of numbers. I click the attachment.
It’s a picture of me from behind. I’m walking on the sidewalk, wearing my SC Lions sweatshirt and jeans. My hair is down, and I’m carrying a bag of Chinese food. I don't even need to look at the timestamp. I know this is from earlier this evening.
After my interview with Trevor, I couldn’t wait to gethome and start pulling up every article I could find. I ordered dinner and prepared for a long night of research.
Someone really wants me to stop writing.
My throat tightens, and my heart begins to race. This could go one of two ways, and I need to figure out which it is. There’s no message, just the photo. I’ve heard about these stories a thousand times. Reporters get close to something, and they get threats. Ninety percent of the time, nothing evolves, but I always remember thinking how I would handle it if it happened to me.
I stare at the picture longer than I mean to. I tell myself not to react, not to get upset, and not to freak out. But the knowing sinks in anyway that someone was there following me. Close enough to see me, yet close enough to choosenotto be seen either.
And it’s all because of Nik Papas. So now the decision is, is he worth all this?
11
Nik
I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear the text come through.
Dante: He’s here again. You coming down?
Me: Be there in ten
I dry off and quickly throw on dark clothes, my large hoodie, and walk the few blocks to the club. I don’t take my truck, so there’s no chance of my being seen. Not like the other night. Fuck, what was I thinking? I’m avoiding her because I don’t know how to explain any of this. Of all fucking women to have to explain shit to, she’ll fucking write my life story and steal all my dreams right out from under me. Beautiful or not, I can’t take the riskof her ending everything I’ve worked for and buried along the way.
I can’t take the chance that she’s scared and won’t write it, but I need to speak to Dante first. I need to see how he thinks I should go about handling all of it.
I’m let in and make my way down the hall and up to the office. I nod to security as I walk through and over to Dante. We shake hands, and he nods to the left. “He’s in the back booth. Been here for about thirty minutes. Hasn’t delivered, just hanging out drinking. Not sure if he heard I’ve been asking about him or if he's as dumb as he looks, sitting here out in the open.”
“Knowing Rhett, the latter.”
Rhett is a numbers guy. It’s why he was a statistician on our team in college. He kept records and could spout off percentages like no one's business. He was the guy you wanted to come to Vegas and count cards with. But he’s book smart with no street sense, and that’s the worst kind of person to be. So chances are, he just happened to be here tonight.
Wrong place, wrong time.
