Page 23 of The Pact
I stand along the sideline, clipboard tucked under my arm, sunglasses pushed up into my hair, watching the field while three separate interviews happen at once. Cameras flashing, drones flying and catching every view possible, reporters calling out names, and PR staff hovering like hawks.
I feel a tug on my wrist and look down to see my almost-three-year-old niece, Seraphina. I crouch down to her level.
“Hey, stinker.” I laugh, tugging my wrist back. “You trying to steal my watch?”
She giggles. “Mine, Auntie Pwes.” Her tiny fingers tighten with impressive determination.
“Yours, huh? Everything is yours, isn’t it?” I tug her ponytail.
“Everwyting,” she states proudly.
I glance up at my sister, Alie. Her arms are crossed, and she watches us with a knowing smile on her face.
“Alie, your daughter is a thief,” I say.
“She doesn’t get it from me. I’m a rule follower,” Alie shoots back.
“Pardon me? I was an angel,” I say, standing.
“Ha! Pres, you once stole Dad’s credit card to buy concert tickets after he explicitly told you that you couldn’t go.”
I gasp. “That was a strategic acquisition—which you also benefited from, I might add.”
Sera giggles and watches us like we’re the funniest people alive, which I choose to take as validation.
“Up,” she demands, arms reaching up to me.
I hand the clipboard to my sister, and I don’t hesitate to scoop her into my arms and prop her on my hip like I’ve done a hundred times before. She smells like sunscreen and something sweet—and likely sticky. My niece tucks her face into my neck and rests her head on my shoulder.
She has a way of calming my nerves. Not that I’m nervous, more like anxious energy today. Some tension I’ve been carrying around all morning.
That’s the thing about kids. They don’t care about pressure, expectations, or jobs that require keeping personal lives off the field. They just want to feel safe and loved.
And this little girl in my arms is smothered with love by my family. I also have a feeling Liam Pitz—her dad and our new quarterback—is already wrapped around her finger, and she doesn’t even know it.
“Okay,” I murmur, swaying slightly. “I can hold you for just a minute, but then I need to go do my job, okay?”
“No,” she says with a little sass in her tone.
I smile into her hair. God, I love this kid. “Sera, I have to work. I promise I’ll play with you later.”
“Mine,” she says, clutching my shirt.
I laugh and look at my sister.
Then, because my instinct never shuts off when it comes to Saint, I glance toward the field and see him across the field, being interviewed.
He’s in shorts and his practice jersey, his helmet tucked under his arm, and I can see sweat glistening in the sun on his neck.
I can’t hear the questions, of course, but I know his body language like the back of my hand.
He answers her questions confidently, politely, and practiced.
Like he always does.
But I also see the way his jaw clenches when he doesn’t like a question or he just wants to be done with the interview. I also see how his fingers tighten on the face mask of his helmet.
I tilt my head to the side, curious about what’s making him uncomfortable.
