Chapter Thirteen
Saint
I know there are stages of grief, and right now I think I may have hit the anger stage.
Yes, I still have days where the sadness of losing my sister hits me so hard I feel like my chest is going to cave in.
It might not be anger necessarily, more like I’ve just been thrown to the wolves of parenting, and don’t get me wrong; I can handle the kids.
I love them. It’s getting into a new routine, the traveling back and forth to NC.
Getting them in school and all that goes along with being a parent.
When we got back to New Jersey after the funeral, it felt like my house was a landing zone. And definitely no longer mine.
Backpacks in the mudroom. A pair of pink sparkly boots next to my sneakers. Remy’s hockey bag is propped against the wall, which smells much worse than my gym bag. Rhyan’s stuffed dragons lined up on the couch like they were guarding territory.
No-spill cups and plastic utensils that suddenly appeared one day. Crayon drawings hanging on my fridge. And a princess crown sitting on my coffee table.
But somehow, in the middle of all the sadness, these little signs of chaos are the only things keeping me standing. Because I know they’re safe and here with me. Mine to protect.
It’s a thought that doesn’t sit right with me, but not because I don’t want them—because, God, do I want them. I want them with a force that scares me.
It’s because every time I look at them, I see my sister.
Remy’s cautious eyes. Rhyan’s stubborn chin. Questions that don’t have answers, but they look to me to find anyway. And I try. Every damn day, I try. But sometimes, trying isn’t enough.
I hold them when they cry or want to talk about their parents.
And they’ve also been asking me to tell them stories about Savannah, so I tell them about what she was like growing up.
I tell them how happy she was when she had each of them.
And they asked some questions about how they died, but I can’t explain it to them now, so I keep things as simple as I can.
And Presley has been incredible. She doesn’t say a word when Rhyan comes into the room in the middle of the night and wants to sleep between us. She lets Remy climb into her lap whenever he needs to be held, and he talks to her quietly.
It’s the Harts contesting my guardianship that I’m struggling the most with.
I’m really trying to see their perspective in making this move, but I just can’t.
This is what Savannah and Chris wanted. They knew what I did, and they still felt like I was the best choice for the kids.
I don’t understand why the Harts aren’t seeing that.
And now we have to wait for a court to decide that I’m enough. For a court to pick apart my entire life and measure it against two kids who’ve already lost so much.
Which is why I’m sitting in a conference room at the Grants’ family attorneys’ firm, wearing a polo and khakis that make me feel like I’m suffocating. But Presley is beside me with a folder in front of her and her hand resting close enough to mine that I can grab it if I need to.
I haven’t.
Yet.
But knowing I can is comforting enough.
Across the table are two of the attorneys. Sharp suits, calm voices, expensive pens, and the kind of confidence people have when they know how to control a room without becoming hostile.
On a large screen at the end of the table is Savannah and Chris’s attorney, Rebecca, joining us remotely. I’m sure she doesn’t love that I requested this meeting, and I’m sure she doesn’t appreciate me bringing other attorneys into the case.
I’m leaning back in my chair, forcing myself to listen calmly.
“Wyatt,” Rebecca says, “as we discussed, the Harts are contesting the guardianship due to concerns about your schedule, travel, and ability to give them the day-to-day care they require. So, even though you’ve been awarded temporary custody of the children, there will need to be home visits, as well as scheduled time with their grandparents, who will also have home visits.
Due to the age of the children, the judge may or may not speak with them directly.
But we need to be prepared for everything. ”
My jaw tightens. Beside me, Presley goes still.
It feels like an insult. My career, my lifestyle, my reliability…as if I haven’t loved these kids before this paperwork even existed.
“Right, thank you, Rebecca,” I say firmly. If I keep talking, I would likely say something I would regret. “I’ll get back with you soon on how we decide to move forward.”
She nods. “Of course. I’m available for any questions you have about the next steps.”
One of the Grants’ attorneys—Marlowe, I think her name is—steps in. “Thank you so much for meeting with us today. We’ll continue from here and coordinate with your office directly.”
A few more professional words pass around the room, but I don’t hear any of them. And then the screen goes black, and Rebecca is gone.
I drag a hand over my jaw and look down at the table.
Presley’s fingers shift closer to mine, so I take them, and her hand folds into mine immediately.
Marlowe waits until I look at her. “We understand this is incredibly difficult.”
I feel like laughing at the word difficult. It’s such a simple word, but too small for what this is.
“My situation is complicated,” I say before she can continue. “I know that. My contract, travel, training … all of it.”
I hear a throat clear, and I look in the direction it came from.
I almost forgot that Presley’s father is sitting near the end of the table.
He hasn’t inserted himself into the conversation, and I appreciate that more than I can say.
And he’s not treating me like an employee right now.
But more like family, which makes this that much harder.
Because I know if I asked the organization to release me, they would. They’d absorb whatever damage came with my departure.
They’d do it because of Presley. And because somewhere along the way, the Grants became family.
But I’m still committed to the team. Yes, football has taken a lot from me, like time and my energy. It’s also given me structure. It paid for Savannah’s education and her first apartment. It allows me to give Remy and Rhyan every resource they need now.
I love the game. I love my team. I love stepping onto a field, knowing exactly who I’m supposed to be. But that doesn’t make the kids less important. It just means I need to make changes.
I admit I was a bit reluctant to come today, but I came for Presley. Not because she wanted to push me in any way. But because she didn’t want me to make a decision to end my career because of guilt or pressure. And I do need to figure out how I can adjust my schedule when needed for the kids.
“Just listen,” she’d said that morning while helping Rhyan find her purple dragon socks. “You don’t have to make any decisions today.”
So, I listen.
Marlowe reviews the basics again, and the strength in the fact that this is what Savannah and Chris wanted per their will.
“To expand on what Rebecca was saying, the court will examine the children’s best interests.
Stability in the home. Where they’ll be going to school.
What emotional support systems are in place.
What the day-to-day caregiving will look like.
” She opens one of the folders in front of her.
“It’s clear you have the financial ability to care for them, so that won’t be an issue, but it doesn’t address all their concerns. ”
I nod once.
“The court will look closely at all the practical realities,” Doug, the other attorney, adds.
“Who will be with the children when you travel. Who will attend school meetings, doctor appointments, extracurriculars. What will happen when you’re at training camp, away games, and hopefully playoff runs. ”
“I’ll arrange coverage,” I say.
“Of course,” Marlowe says. “And that should absolutely be part of your plan. But I’ll be honest, Wyatt. The Harts may argue that a paid support system isn’t the same as familial stability.”
My hand tightens around Presley’s.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
Marlow holds my gaze. “I’m saying it would help your case to demonstrate a stable family structure in the home.”
My stomach churns.
“A spouse,” Doug adds, more direct.
Silence.
“A spouse,” I repeat.
“Or a long-term, committed partner,” Marlowe says carefully. “Someone who is able and willing to show consistent involvement in the children’s daily care. Someone the court can view as a stabilizing presence.”
I just stare at her.
The words sink into me slowly. A stable partner. It’s like my brain refuses to make the obvious connection because once it does, there will be no going back.
I feel Presley’s hand in mine, warm and steady.
The one person who’s been here with me when I couldn’t breathe. The one who helps me with the kids. Who sits with Rhyan through nightmares and helps Remy through his first day at his new school.
Who sleeps beside me without demanding anything from me.
She’s the person I trust the most. Who I want the most.
And the person I made a pact with eleven years ago.
My heart beats faster, but I force the thought down.
“Now, we’re not saying you need to rush anything,” Marlowe continues. “But if you have someone in your life who is already functioning in that role”—she pauses and looks at Presley—“the court may take that seriously.”
Presley shifts beside me.
Mr. Grant clears his throat. “We’re here to support you, Saint. Whatever you need.”
I look at him, wondering if he’d say the same, knowing the thoughts running through my head about his daughter. Making his daughter my wife.
And what’s worse is, I know he means it.
“Thank you,” I say. “I need some time to think.”
“Of course,” Marlowe replies.
They continue to talk, and I think I nod when I’m supposed to. Possibly answer a few questions on autopilot. But I’m not absorbing one thing.
Because the only thing on my mind is the promise we made and honestly should have cashed in on months ago when we both turned thirty.
The pact.
By the time we leave the meeting, my head feels like it’s full of static.
Presley walks beside me through the parking garage, quiet in the way she gets when she’s thinking too hard.
I want to ask her to do this for me and the kids, but I don’t because I’m not sure I want to hear it yet.
So, instead, we drive home in silence.