Chapter 2
Noelle
I watch a reel from last night's game on my phone, biting aggressively on a sour Nerds candy rope. As the interview fades, the broadcast cuts to a split screen with one side showing the toe-drag catch and the other showing how social media exploded.
“Rookie of the Year LOCKED” @PrimeTimeStats
“That boy just sent a vet to bed.” @MondayMorningQB
“Can we skip straight to the Hall of Fame speech?” @GridironGods
It’s disgusting how perfect he is.
That’s my first thought as I watch “Saint” Nik Papas, face of the South Carolina Warriors, kneel beside a kid in a Warriors T-shirt and start signing his cast. The kid’s eyes go wide with adoration.
Nik’s smile is broad and genuine. His all-American, I want to save the world face practically glows under the hospital lights.
Cameras flicker like a metronome. Flash.
Grin. Flash. Flex. Flash. Smile harder. click-click-click-click.
This man is a walking Hallmark card. I half-expect Christmas music to start playing every time he walks into a room.
This is Mistletoe Falls, after all. There’s only been one other player to have this type of aura, and that’s Jackson Gage, former quarterback and the current coach of the South Carolina Warriors.
I’ll admit, Nik Papas is handsome. He’s six foot two, with dark hair that looks messy, but I’m sure is the style, and a body that is built for football. His arms are well-defined. He’s got muscle, but he’s not overly big. It looks natural. He carries himself with confidence but not ego.
All of this seems easy for him.
Too easy.
He’s been dubbed Saint Nik since before Draft night.
Zeiders University painted him as this picture-perfect guy, with an outstanding high school career, loving family, and amazing friends.
Trickie Nickies, as they call themselves, spent every waking moment since they were seven years old playing ball together in a small town just outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Nicholas Soba, Nico Loving, and Nik Papas were the stars of the show in their high school.
Zeiders University took note of their skill and recruited all three together.
This Nik was the calm balance to the other two wild Nicks, and when they weren’t all drafted together like planned, the floor fell out beneath them.
Well, not for Nik Papas. The league built him up even more so.
Saint Nik was going to join a new team, become rookie of the year, all while still managing to save him and his friends from discomfort with being split for the first time in sixteen years.
That’s a lot of pressure for a young guy, but somehow, he’s handling it.
I pocket my phone, eat the last bite of candy before throwing out the wrapper, and tap my recorder, making sure it’s on. The PR handler had been very specific: Don’t ask about college. Don’t mention the canceled bowl game. Keep it light, and keep it moving.
I smiled, nodded, and internally loaded my questions like bullets in a chamber. Why would you ever tell a reporter not to ask certain questions? That only feeds our souls to dive deeper.
It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, but across the pediatric wing of Mistletoe Falls General Hospital, the room is decked out in Christmas trees with tinsel and colored lights, fake candles, and charity banners fluttering slightly in the air.
Papas’ Players is a charity organization founded by the Papas Family while Nik was still in college for kids from under-resourced neighborhoods.
However, today, a few team members are here in the hospital to distribute gifts and draw attention to encourage more donors.
I know the team is honored to be here, but it’s as if I can smell the artificial cinnamon and the staged sentimentality by the league from across the room.
Christmas presents wrapped in bows and stockings hanging, but I’m sure each present is an empty box, and the stockings stuffed are really just stuffed with paper towels.
I’ve seen this show before, and I’m not buying any of it.
Nik moves from kid to kid like a politician on a campaign trail—hugs, high fives, back pats.
It’s nauseating how good he is at this. But when he looks up and sees me, that smile falters for a split second.
His eyes move from caring to guarded, and if I didn't blink, I would have seen the switch back to performative Nik.
In an instant, that smile returned, brighter than before.
Saint Nik is in full effect.
He crosses the room toward me. “Ms. Moreno,” he says, offering his hand with a wide smile. “You’re shorter than I pictured.”
I don’t take the bait. “You’re taller. And a lot more movie star than football.”
He laughs with an effortless chuckle designed to charm everyone around him. “Media training.”
“Yup. I can spot it a mile away.”
His lips twitch as we shake hands. His hand is warm and strong. He oozes someone who’s always in control of the narrative. I pull my hand back and will my heart to stop racing.
“I was told we’d have thirty minutes for the initial interview,” I say, lifting an eyebrow.
Nik glances back at the kids, still buzzing with excitement around the hot chocolate station. “After hot chocolate. Unless you hate fun?”
“I’m a journalist,” I say dryly. “Fun is optional.”
He smirks. “Well, today it’s mandatory, so come with me.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m leaning against a wall, pretending I’m not enjoying myself.
The kids are giggling and on a sugar high from too many marshmallows and Christmas cookies.
Nik has a Santa hat slanted sideways on his head, and he’s just pulled a teddy bear as big as he is from behind a chair.
Those presents and stockings I thought were fake?
Real as I am standing here. And bought by the one and only, Saint Nik.
The room explodes in excitement, and I hold back a reluctant smile at their joy.
He’s good—too good.
And that’s what bothers me the most.
Nik Papas shouldn’t be this polished. He shouldn’t be this easy to like.
He’s a young rookie, only twenty-three years old, and yet he’s already everyone’s favorite, even if you don’t like the Warriors.
Having done many of these lifetime pieces, I can’t trust any of it.
I was even honored for one of my first articles written detailing the story of a well-known businessman who was exposed for prostitution.
Everyone has lies and secrets just waiting to be found out.
Everyone who puts on a show seems to be hiding something.
And finding it? That’s my job. It’s what helps me sleep at night yet keeps me awake with excitement.
I love being the one to break a story, to push a grown man to tears, or force a secret out that they’ve been dying to tell, but just didn’t have the right moment.
I’m that moment. I’m not about to let a man, or woman for that matter, get away with screwing over others.
Papas looked me in the eye when he spoke, like he had nothing to hide. Again, too clean, too polished. I’d fallen for that once, a man who said all the right things until I found out every word was a lie. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
And while he's been giving me bits and pieces in between cookie time and presents, I realize he’s said nothing real. Charity stats, rehearsed lines, and a brief mention of his mother and sister. No mention of Dad, but this isn’t anything I can’t already Google for myself.
Which means he’s hiding something.
And it’s probably juicy.
Nik finally makes his way back to me, the Santa hat gone now. He pulls off his Warriors hoodie and runs a hand through his dark hair. On the surface, nothing screams bad boy about this guy. Saint is plastered all over him like a brand.
Like a practiced brand.
“You do this every year?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Three years running,” he says. “We started it in my junior year in college. My sister and my agent said it would be a smart move. You want a quote about how ‘giving back is the real win?’ I’ve got three versions ready to go.”
“I want what you’re not rehearsing.”
He pauses, looks at me. “That’s not how this goes.”
“I’m not how this goes.” I clear my throat. “Tell me why you didn’t sign on with your sister’s management team.”
He lets out a breath and sounds a little annoyed when he says, “Oh, I get it. You want a story from behind the curtain?”
“I want the story people aren’t telling. The stuff you don’t post on Instagram.”
He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. “I don’t use Instagram, and there’s no need for curtains when there's nothing to hide.”
“There’s always something,” I say. “The question is whether you’re willing to show it or if I have to dig to find it.”
And just like that, his smile falters, and his entire body language shifts. There’s no charm or ease now, just a wall of defense.
Interesting.
“Yo! Saint Nik! You better not be hiding from me.”
I hear the voice and spot Nico Loving, NFL tight end for the Houston Drillers, top-five trash talker, and Nik’s best friend, swaggering in like he owns the place.
A third of the Trickie Nickies, he’s wearing designer sweatpants and sunglasses…
indoors. Typical. This guy is so full of himself, I’ve no idea how these two are friends.
Nik huffs under his breath, “Here comes the party.”
“I heard that,” Loving calls out, clapping him on the back. “And you’re welcome. The fans want to see us together.” Then he notices me, and raises an eyebrow. “And who’s this?”
“Ms. Moreno. She’s writing a legacy piece.”
“So that's why my PR rep encouraged me to come.” Nico smirks. “Legacy? He’s not dead yet.”
“Noelle Moreno.” I extend a hand. “Investigative reporter, actually.”
“Ooh,” Nico drawls, a smile playing on his lips. “You’re here to get under his skin. I respect it.”
Nik rubs his jaw and whispers under his breath, “Don’t encourage her.”
I look between them. “So, is it true you’ve known each other since birth?”