Chapter Twelve
Presley
Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. I used to think recovery timelines, treatment plans, and all the little things I put into neat boxes meant grief could make sense in an order.
But it doesn’t. It comes in waves, and Saint is somewhere in the middle, trying to keep his head above water.
So, I stay. At first, it wasn’t even a question. I came to North Carolina the night we got the call, and as everything started to unfold between phone calls, authorities, arrangements, and the kids, it became obvious that leaving wasn’t an option. At least not yet.
Everything is still too raw, chaotic, and fragile.
And the truth is, Saint needs someone. And I’m not going anywhere.
Sure, the first week was a blur. Not only emotionally, but logistically.
There was so much paperwork, maybe more so than normal because getting Savannah’s and Chris’s bodies back to North Carolina took longer than we’d expected.
There were permits, clearances, coordinating between medical examiners and the funeral home.
It was all clinical in a way that just felt … wrong.
Procedural and too detached for something that had just ripped a family apart.
Saint is handling it the only way he knows how. He compartmentalizes. Focuses on the task ahead of him, one thing at a time.
I see him do it. I see the structure he’s building around something that won’t be contained for long.
I help with whatever I can. I answer medical questions and processes and what to expect in the next steps. Sometimes, late at night, he asks me what certain terms meant after we spoke to the coroner.
Quiet questions.
“What does blunt force trauma look like?”
“Would they have known?”
“You think it happened fast?”
I don’t sugarcoat anything. I answer him honestly but gently. And every time I do, I watch something in him tighten.
The kids. God, the kids.
Remy is trying so hard to be brave. He didn’t cry right away the night Saint told them. But Rhyan cried hard and loud. She didn’t understand anything other than her mom wasn’t coming home.
She was angry in a way only a four-year-old could be when she didn’t understand where her mommy was. And she asked a lot.
At first, Saint couldn’t answer her. He would just freeze completely, like the words couldn’t come out.
So, I step in when I can. Never to replace him. Just to give him some guidance on how to handle it.
One day when he couldn’t answer, she climbed into my lap, her small body shaking. I held her and let her cry. Her face was buried in my shoulder until she fell asleep, just like that, in my arms.
Saint stood in the doorway, watching us, completely wrecked. But I saw a shift in him that day. The kind where grief and responsibility collide. And the next time she asked about her mom, he answered.
Then there are Chris’s parents. They’ve been kind but also grieving. Trying to spend as much time with the kids as they can because they know they’re leaving with Saint.
And he wants to give them time—because it matters to them, as well as the kids. They love their grandparents.
So, we’ve stayed longer in North Carolina than we originally planned. And in that time, support showed up in ways I hadn’t expected.
My sister was relentless. She and Liam flew in a few days before the funeral, without Sera, and took over anything that needed to be organized. She took care of planning the food, scheduling transportation, and out-of-town guests. She didn’t ask. She just did it.
And Liam stayed steady for Saint. Which is exactly what he needed.
Aston and Brody came the day of the funeral, as well as my parents, who brought Seraphina, and some of the other players, coaches, and staff. Not for optics, but because they wanted to be there for Saint.
When they started coming in, I could see it hit him. Not exactly relief, but something else. Because as much as I was here for him, he needed them too.
The day of the funeral was heartbreaking, and at the same time, it was a beautiful celebration of life. Saint wanted it to be that way not only for the kids, but I think he needed it for himself too.
He didn’t speak much, but his presence said everything he couldn’t. The way he held Remy’s hand. The way Rhyan clung to his leg like she understood something had changed forever.
And that was enough.
Alie, Liam, and Sera stayed behind after the funeral. She wanted to help with the kids so that Saint had the space to take care of everything else before going back to New Jersey.
And honestly, having Sera there was a distraction that I think both kids needed.
We’re at the attorney’s office today. He insisted I come with him.
The office is quiet, and I can tell it’s making Saint feel anxious.
“Mr. St. Clair, Ms. Grant.” The attorney, Rebecca Post, opens her door, gesturing us inside her office. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
Saint stands and automatically takes my hand in his. “It’s not a problem.”
I walk in before him through the door, but I don’t let go of his hand. We take the seats in front of the desk.
“Okay, so I know we’ve discussed some of this already and you went through this process with your sister when she was a teen, but let’s review one more time before we get the ball rolling,” she says, taking a seat behind her desk.
“I’ll be heading back to New Jersey with the kids in a few days. I’d like to get them into school and back into a normal routine, as much as that’s possible,” he says.
“Right, I understand,” she says, opening the file. “I do need to inform you that the Harts have decided to contest the guardianship.”
“What?” Saint snaps.
“Honestly, I was a bit surprised myself.” She folds her hands on top of the file.
“So, that will change the timeline in which the guardianship will be processed. In a non-contested case, we could get this done likely in thirty to ninety days. But with this development, we’re looking at four to six months. Possibly longer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, coldly.
She nods. “They have concerns,” the lawyer continues, “regarding your lifestyle, availability, and reliability due to your career as a professional athlete.”
Saint goes rigid beside me and releases my hand.
“Concerns?” he repeats.
“I’m sorry,” she starts.
“I don’t give a shit what they believe,” he cuts in, voice rising. “Savannah and Chris named me as guardian. Surely, they would want to honor their wishes.”
“Yes,” the lawyer says calmly. “And that carries a lot of weight, including your financial ability to care for the children.”
“They know what Savannah and Chris wanted,” he snaps, and his hand clench into fists.
The lawyer doesn’t answer right away. I’m sure she’s been through this many times before, so she knows when to react.
“I just don’t understand why they would do this. They know how much I love the kids,” he says, quieter but no less intense.
“Well,” she begins.
“Fine,” he says abruptly. “Then I’ll just retire. I’m not putting the kids through this uncertainty.”
My head whips so hard I hear a crack in my neck.
“Saint,” I start.
He doesn’t look at me. “I’ll retire, then the problem is solved.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say gently.
He looks at me—frustration, anger, desperation, all right there on his face.
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t just about your job,” I say. “It’s about stability and long-term planning. And retiring doesn’t automatically fix that.”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Pres, the last thing on my mind right now is football,” he glares at me.
“I know, but the court will still have to hear their concerns,” I say softly.
He just stares at me because he knows I’m right. And in any other normal circumstance, he would see that clearly, but this isn’t normal. Emotions are way too high.
Saint leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“File the paperwork with the court,” he tells her.
The decision lands hard.
“Let’s start the process,” he continues. “I want this moving as fast as possible.”
“Of course,” she says. “Once that’s filed, they will need to file their paperwork to contest, and then we’ll go from there. You will have to come back down so we can meet with their attorney and them. You never know; once they talk to you, they may change their mind.”
“I need to give them stability,” Saint adds. “And the other thing I don’t understand is, how can they afford to do this? Certainly, they aren’t expecting me to pay for their legal fees too.”
“We haven’t gotten that far. I was just informed yesterday by their attorney.”
“This is bullshit,” he says, standing.
I reach for his arm, but he pulls away.
He walks over to the window and runs a hand through his hair.
I don’t get up. I just watch him. My heart is breaking for him. He’s trying to deal with his own grief and getting everything ready with the kids. I understand, in a way, why they’re doing it, but it would have been so much easier if they had discussed it with him first.
He sighs and hangs his head. “Let’s get this over with. Give me whatever you need me to sign today.”
He walks back over to the desk and sits, jaw set.
“I know this is upsetting, Mr. Saint Clair, but it is their legal right to do this,” she explains as she pulls out some papers from the file.
He just nods and leans forward in his chair.
I place a hand on his back. “It’ll be okay, Saint.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ve marked all the places I need your initials as well as your signature,” she says, handing him a pen.
He scribbles his name on each page like he’s signing an autograph.
“Does this mean we have to stay in town until this is done?” I ask.
“What day were you planning to leave?”
“We were planning to go back this weekend,” I reply.
“Let me see what I can do to get the temporary guardianship approved, so you can leave.” She takes the pen from Saint’s outstretched hand. “I’ll get this couriered over to the courthouse and contact the judge’s clerk today to see if we can push it through.”
Saint stays silent.