Chapter Ten
Saint
Losing in the first round of the playoffs felt like swallowing glass.
Not because we thought we were owed anything.
Football doesn’t work like that.
The game doesn’t care about how hard you train, how many hits you take, or how many games you drag yourself through with tape holding your body together and adrenaline holding up the rest.
It doesn’t care about legacy.
You either execute or you don’t.
And we didn’t.
So, now, here we are, back at the facility, the January air feeling a little colder, stuck in team meetings, and all I want to do is pack my gear and go home.
The room is too quiet. Too bright.
No one is joking or talking shit. No one is making excuses, which somehow makes it worse. And at the front of the room, the coaches review film in clips, throwing out words: Missed tackle. Bad angle. Protection breakdown. Missed opportunity.
These are the kind of mistakes that don’t look like much on TV until the end of a season.
I sit with my elbows on my knees, hands folded between them, as I stare at the screen while my body goes through the motions of listening.
I have one more meeting after this with the defensive coordinator, then locker clean-out.
My body is here, but my brain is just … somewhere else.
I’m not focused. Mostly just tired.
But it’s the kind of tired that settles into your bones after months of giving everything I have to something that just wasn’t enough.
I should be thinking about ways to improve next season. Or my off-season training plan.
Instead, I’m just thinking about my bed and sleeping for days.
The door opens, and at first, no one reacts. Staffers move in and out of our meetings all the time.
But this guy—I think his name is Jonah—steps right up to Coach and leans in close.
Coach’s posture changes immediately.
His shoulders stiffen. Mouth tightens. And his eyes lift … and land on me.
My stomach drops.
“St. Clair,” he calls out.
The room is still quiet, but in a different way.
I stand automatically.
Coach doesn’t say anything else at first. He just waves me down with two fingers, motioning me toward the door.
“Follow Jonah,” he says, voice low. “Mr. Grant needs to see you.”
The room disappears.
Someone mutters my name as I walk down the aisle. But I don’t stop.
Jonah waits by the door, face pale. And he won’t look at me.
That was my first sign that something was wrong.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
His throat moves. “Mr. Grant will explain.”
What the fuck?
I hate that answer.
I hate how quiet everything is as we walk.
The building should be alive with sounds of guys cleaning out lockers, staff moving equipment, coaches’ voices carrying in the hallway. But instead, every sound seems separate from everything else.
Like the hum of the overhead lights. Our footsteps on the tile.
My own heartbeat.
Something’s wrong.
We stop outside Mr. Grant’s office, and Jonah knocks once, then opens the door.
I step inside and halt my footsteps.
Mr. Grant stands behind his desk, one hand braced against the polished wood, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s a powerful man. Very controlled. The kind of owner who walks into a room and can change the temperature without raising his voice.
But in all the years I’ve played for him, I’ve never seen him look devastated.
And that’s how he looks right now.
Presley’s mom sits on the couch near the window, her face streaked with tears, crumpled tissues in one hand.
She stands when she sees me.
“Saint,” she whispers.
My stomach drops again.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Neither of them answers.
Mr. Grant comes around the desk in measured movements. “Sit down, son.”
Yeah, I don’t like that.
Son.
He’s called me a few things over the years: St. Clair, Wyatt, Saint. And once or twice, after I got fined for unnecessary roughness, something a lot less polite.
But never son.
“I’m fine standing,” I say, my voice gravelly.
Presley’s mom reaches for me then, taking both of my hands into hers.
Her fingers are cold on mine … and shaking.
“Please,” she says.
I sit because she guides me down, not because I want to.
She sits down next to me, still holding one of my hands. Tears running down her cheeks like she can’t even stop them anymore.
Mr. Grant pulls out his chair and sits across from me.
“What is this about?” I demand the words coming out rough.
His face tightens, and he lets out a sigh. “Are you aware that your sister was in Hawaii?”
I nod. “Yes, she and her husband left last Friday. They come home tomorrow. Why?”
Mr. Grant clears his throat.
“We got a call from the authorities in Hawaii, you’re her emergency contact in her phone. They ran your name to verify your information, but couldn’t reach you, so they contacted us to see if we could,” he says carefully. “There was an accident.”
My heart stops.
He continues. “Your sister and her husband were driving down a mountain road when a flash flood started unexpectedly. There was a mudslide, and their vehicle was swept off the road.”
I stare at him. The words not quite registering.
“They sustained severe blunt force trauma injuries,” he says, voice breaking. “The medical examiner believes they likely died instantly from the impact and the force of the mudslide.”
Died. Instantly.
Savannah.
Chris.
This isn’t possible.
“When?” I say, barely recognizing my own voice.
“Two days ago.”
I blink. Two days ago?
The office is still the same. Mr. Grant’s face still broken. Mrs. Grant’s hand still wrapped around mine.
But none of it makes sense.
Because she called me before she left last week. She was so excited about the trip.
This isn’t real.
It just can’t be.
This has to be a cruel joke.
Some kind of mistake.
Someone got it wrong. Got the wrong family.
Because my sister isn’t dead.
There’s no way.
Everything suddenly feels loud.
I can hear the hum of the heater. The air moving through the vents.
My heart pounding through my veins, roaring in my ears.
Mrs. Grant says something, but I can’t understand it. Her mouth moves, but I can’t hear words.
I stare at the floor.
Then at the tiny scuff on the toes of my sneaker.
“Saint,” Mr. Grant says softly.
I put my head in my hands, elbows leaning on my knees.
I press my palms hard against my eyes until colors spark behind my lids.
No.
I can’t breathe.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
Not enough air.
I faintly hear the door open.
“What’s going on?”
Presley.
Her voice is nervous and sharp at the edges.
She knows something is wrong.
But I can’t lift my head.
I can’t look at her.
“Dad,” she asks.
Footsteps. Fast ones.
Then she’s in front of me, kneeling.
She places her hands on my arms. “Saint?”
Her fingers tighten. “Saint, look at me.”
I can’t because if I look at her, this would all be real.
If I saw her face change with understanding, then my sister would be gone in a way I can’t undo.
“Presley,” her father says quietly.
“Dad, what the hell happened?” She turns her head, but her hands stay on me.
“Savannah and Chris were killed in an accident,” Mr. Grant says.
Presley sucks in a breath, hands frozen on my arms.
“No,” she whispers.
I can feel it more than I heard it.
Then she makes a small broken sound, and that cuts through the static.
Presley moves instantly, wrapping her arms around me the best she can from where she kneels.
I fold.
Not because I want to. But because my body can’t hold itself up anymore.
My forehead drops to her shoulder, and she holds me there, one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other wrapped around my shoulders like she can keep me from falling apart by sheer force.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking.
She’s crying. For my sister. For Chris. For me.
I sit there motionless in her arms.
No tears. No motion.
Shock.
Heavy, cold, and absolute.
I don’t remember leaving the office. Pieces, maybe, but not clearly.
I know Mr. Grant said he would handle everything with the team.
I remember Presley’s mother touching my face and kissing my cheek.
I remember Coach standing in the hallway, wrapping me in a hug.
Liam and Alie waiting in the hallway, offering to help in any way, hugging me.
But what I know for sure is that Presley was beside me the whole time. Her touch. Her soothing voice. Calm and steady.
“I’ve got him,” she told her parents.
Still, I can’t find words.
I blink and realize I’m in the passenger seat of my car. The world buzzing by beyond the glass. The sky is gray today. The trees are bare.
I notice the traffic lights and people carrying on with their day.
All normal, yet offensive to me at the same time.
I’m not sure anything will feel normal for me after today.
Presley drives with one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine across the console.
She doesn’t try to fill the silence, and I’m grateful for it.
I stare out the window, hearing Mr. Grant’s words on repeat in my mind.
“… flash flood … mudslide …”
“… blunt force trauma … died instantly.”
I suppose instantly is meant to comfort those left behind, but it doesn’t.
Because the last second of my sister’s life is reduced to a word.
I close my eyes.
Maybe if they stay closed for long enough, I’ll wake up, and this will all just be a nightmare.
When I feel the car stop, I open my eyes, and we’re in my garage.
I make my way to the door and try to push the numbers on the keypad to open the door, but my fingers don’t work.
Presley moves to my side and opens the door, guiding me inside.
“Sit,” she says gently, steering me toward the couch.
I do as she said and sit on the couch. The same couch we’ve almost crossed lines on. Where we watch movies and argue about superheroes.
Everything looks the same, which somehow makes this worse.
I can hear Presley moving around my house quietly. She brings me water, but I can’t drink it because I’m not sure I’d be able to keep it down.
She takes my phone from where it fell out of my pocket on the cushion beside me, then sits on the coffee table in front of me between my legs.