Who’s Saving You (In The Nick of Time, #3)

Prologue

Nik

The green room smells like nerves and way too much cologne.

Bright lights, pressed suits, and lots of gold chains surround us. ESPN commentary echoes through the speakers overhead. Cameras shift to faces every time a team goes on the clock. Hope rises and falls every seven minutes like the national ritual that is the NFL Draft Night.

Nico Loving sits to my left, bouncing his knee like he’s got caffeine for blood.

His suit is emerald green because, of course, it is.

Nicholas Soba is on my right, drumming his fingers on the armrest in perfect rhythm with the ticking draft clock.

His tie is crooked. I let him know, and he told me to choke on it.

We’ve been waiting for this moment since we were ten. Trickie Nickies. Three kids with matching names and matching dreams, crushing backyards and stadiums from Pop Warner through high school and straight into college ball. Three ‘brothers’ who played like we had one shared heartbeat.

And tonight?

We’re supposed to be drafted together—same team, same city. It’s been the narrative for months. Scouts, analysts, even our agents said it was a lock. San Francisco needs a quarterback, a wide receiver, and a tight end. It’s the fairy tale ending.

But I’ve a feeling it won’t end that way. In fact, I can almost bet on it.

Soba nudges my shoulder. “You sweating yet, Saint?”

I smirk as he calls me by my nickname. “Nope. Just oozing calm professionalism.”

“More like oozing product endorsement deals,” Loving mutters, straightening his cufflinks. “Dude’s been signed to three cologne contracts since we’ve been sitting here.”

Never missing a chance to throw a dig at my best friend, I retort, “You’re just jealous because you smell like Axe and poor teenage decisions.”

He punches my arm. “You’re damn right I am.”

We all laugh, too loud and too hard. The kind of laughter that’s trying to keep the nerves at bay.

It’s draft night, and if something goes wrong, if one of us slips even a few picks, it changes everything.

Teams shake shit up every year. There are names expected to go first round, first pick, and sometimes, it just doesn’t happen.

GMs make deals to secure a promise for next year, and current Super Bowl champs do whatever they need to keep that winning streak going.

And I’m just praying my past doesn’t make itself known and ruin it for me.

The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeakers.

“Alright, America, here we go! With the first overall pick in the 2025 NFL Draft… the New York Rage select…Nicholas Soba, Quarterback, Zeiders University!”

The world stops, and my breath catches.

The room explodes, and reporters surge. Nicholas is lifted from the couch, hands pound his back.

He’s stunned and grabs for his family, pulling them all in close.

They sway for a moment, heads close together, tears breaking through.

Then he turns to us, we’re in shock, but we do what best friends should do.

Smile, rough him up, and hug.

But not the full kind, not the we all made it kind.

The Rage had one first-round pick, no other trade-ups. It’s common knowledge they’re not looking for a wide receiver or a tight end; they’ve got two solid lines of them already.

They took Soba. Just Soba.

Why?

Reporters swoop in.

“Nicholas, how are you feeling?”

“Nicholas, what happened to the three of you?”

“Nicholas, what happens next?”

I blink, still standing, heart hammering in my chest. I listen to the questions, see the damn circus, and wonder, how the hell did this happen?

Nicholas moves away from the paparazzi and back to us. “You’re up,” Loving says, gripping his shoulder. “Go get your damn hat.”

This isn’t what we expected, and it feels a bit lonely. He looks at us in shock and says in a robotic voice, “This wasn’t planned.”

“The good shit never is.” I pull him in, my large hands cupping his neck, thumbs on his jawline, and kiss him on each cheek. “Don’t trip on the stairs, pretty boy.”

He laughs and buries his head into our chests as we stand together. I pretend I don’t hear the murmurings about us being split up, but it’s hard to miss. Behind our smiles, the flicker of disappointment is clear, the crack in our fantasy life is broken. The first pick just tore apart our future.

We’re not going together.

They’re splitting us up.

He walks onto the stage, the spotlight is on him, and flashbulbs go off like fireworks. He smiles, and so do Loving and I from the back room. We watch as he puts on the hat, shakes the commissioner's hand, and holds up his new team jersey with the number one signifying his first-round draft pick.

This should feel better than everything we imagined. But it doesn’t. It feels like almost, like the rest is just slipping through the cracks.

And I wonder if it’s my fault.

My mom comes up beside me and grabs my hand, a silent pillar grounding me.

She doesn’t say a word; she just stands with me.

I glance around the room, feeling another set of eyes watching me, and see my older sister, Eva, standing with my agent, Dane Beckett.

She runs her own sports management team, Papas & Family, with a slogan of “guarding the underdog.” I couldn’t be prouder of her.

When we were down to nothing, she never gave up, pressing in even harder to make sure we all made it out on top.

But I didn’t sign on with Eva. I didn’t want anyone thinking my sister got me to the top. She didn’t like it, but she agreed with me and helped me find my agent. We interviewed a bunch before making the decision, but she’s always stood by me, even when she shouldn't have.

~~

Backstage, after the cameras are off of us and onto the next pick, I find the boys again. Soba is sitting on the couch, with a look of relief. I get it: we all want the feeling that comes with that look. That “I was picked and now the work starts, but for tonight, I’m riding high,” look.

Loving is way too quiet, sipping from a water bottle with his phone to his ear. I wait till he ends the call and say, “We’re still going tonight, don’t stress. The original plan was all three going in the first three rounds.”

“Yeah,” Loving mutters. “We knew a lot of things.” His face casts a strange look, but I don’t push.

I laugh. “I mean, it’s not like we got matching team tattoos or anything, right?” But I still rub the inside of my bicep. The one with the ink we all got at seventeen, three arrows, one point.

We left our small suburb in Philadelphia, driving toward the city lights.

Soba grumbles from the backseat of my pickup. “We’re really gonna get matching tats? Isn’t that girly?”

Loving quips, “Only if you put it on your ankle.”

“I’m putting it here.” With my left hand on the steering wheel, I slap my inner bicep.

Soba cries, “That’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

I shrug. “So? I’m not a pussy.” I eye him in the rearview and raise a brow. I don't need to ask, I know he’s going to do it, too.

Loving announces, “I’m in. I’ll go with the same spot.”

I eye Soba. “You’re out of Trickie Nickies if you don’t put it there, too.”

“Man, fuck you. You know I'm going to do it.”

I chuckle at him. “Don’t worry, we won’t show your future wife the video of you crying.”

“Still a good night,” Soba says.

Loving has a tough exterior, but he softens, steps in, and pulls Soba into a shoulder-bump hug. “Seriously, bro. You earned it. Don’t let our dumb faces ruin it.”

Soba follows. “We’ll be playing against each other, not with each other. But maybe that’s better. Less fights over the playlist on our ride to the games.”

“Think I can still hitch a ride to practice with your sister?” Loving’s eyes hit mine and flare, and I chuckle, but he doesn’t threaten me like he usually does. The joke doesn't quite land because we all know this was our last night as a team.

And none of us really know how to say goodbye.

~~

Ten minutes later, my stomach’s still in knots when my phone begins to ring.

“Hello?”

“Nik? It’s Zach Hart, GM of the South Carolina Warriors. How you doin’?”

My heart races. I duck my head and hold the phone close to my ear to make sure I catch every single word. “I’m doing good, a little anxious.”

He chuckles. “I get it. Listen, I know you had a plan, but plans change, right? We want you in South Carolina. How do you feel about playing for the Warriors?”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The fucking Warriors.

I’d be lying if I said I didn't picture wearing a Warrior jersey growing up.

But I pushed that aside for what we had planned.

My agent, Dane, is close with their coach, Jackson Gage, both having played ball together in college.

Zach Hart also hired him after graduation as a recruiter.

Jackson went on to the pros, but Dane had a career-ending injury before he even got a chance.

Beside Zach Hart, he began a college incentive program that shaped players looking to be drafted.

They would train with the Warriors and get a feel for what being on an NFL team was really all about.

My sister told me I was a dumbass for passing up the opportunity to go to college there and train, but all I was concerned about was sticking with my friends.

Which is now a completely different story.

“Yes, sir. I’d love to be a Warrior.”

“Well, that’s just what we wanna hear. Hang on one sec. I got Coach Gage waiting on the line for you.”

I swallow hard as I hear Coach Jackson Gage come on the line.

He started his career with this team many years ago as QB1 before he got injured and they released him.

He had his share of trouble, too. Too much partying and women, he couldn’t handle the sudden fame.

But after he was released, he worked hard to make it to the top once again.

And he did, as the head coach. “Nik, man, this is a big night. How are you feeling?” I squash down my internal schoolgirl screams. “You’re a Warrior. ”

I shake my head. “No way.”