Chapter 4
Noelle
Nik Papas is late.
I sit in the media lounge of the Warriors' facility, watching the minutes tick by. It’s gorgeous here, with leather recliners and big-screen TVs at every turn.
There’s a concession stand, high-end, of course, that sells paninis and fancy coffees.
No candy, but I’ve always got my own stash.
There are marble counters with USB plugs under each chair for reporters like me to sit comfortably and get my story, though I prefer to use my notebook and pen.
I attended a practice session earlier where I detailed Nik’s actions, how he interacted with his team, and how they responded.
I watched the coaches act like he was their son, proud and teasing at the same time.
And when he was done running drills, he approached me with that same cocky smirk, dripping sweat like I saw in the gym.
“Did you film my routes? You can play them back in slo-mo. It’s pretty hot.”
“No, I’m more interested in whether you can outrun my questions.”
The flirty banter, expected but fun, is something that comes with the territory of a young football star. I’m leaning into it because I need him to feel comfortable with me so I can get him to open up. It will make my life much easier if he does.
I check my watch again and pretend I’m not annoyed. But I am. I’ve done dozens of profiles, and I’ve never waited more than five minutes.
It’s been twelve.
Twelve minutes too long. Long enough for my brain to start replaying that last moment of tension between us.
The way he smiled at me that made my stomach do a flip, the way he smelled, and right down to the flash of irritation when Loving mentioned his college years. I like seeing different sides of him.
But the irritation wasn’t nothing. It was a crack, and where there’s a crack, it means something is trying to get to the surface.
I open my laptop and pull up the Zeiders University website. The Warriors team PR coordinator told me not to “go deep” into Nik’s college years, which, of course, means that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I skim all the college game logs, media releases, and archived interviews.
Everything from Nik’s freshman year shines.
He’s got impressive stats, glowing praise, and all the buzz of a rising star.
His sister, who is a sports agent, was quoted as saying Nik is the one to watch and she wishes she could sign him herself.
But sophomore year?
Something happens. He’s still a starting player, but something is off.
His numbers dip in the second half of the season, and one key game is completely pulled from the highlight reel, which is so weird because on the schedule, it’s a rivalry game.
It’s one of the biggest games each season, but this particular year?
Not a damn word. Just something about a vague “illness” that gets two lines in a press release.
There are no interviews, no injury reports, no post-game commentary, nothing—just an “L” marked in the wins/losses category.
I search out Nico Loving and Nicholas Soba during the same timeframe, but all I get is more of the same narrative.
It’s almost as if the game never took place.
Then, as if nothing ever happened, their junior and senior years bounce back.
Nik Papas, in particular, had articles written about having big wins and flawless routes.
There was draft talk for all three, and his charity was started. Nik Papas was NFL-ready.
It’s like sophomore year just got... erased. I lean in, frowning.
“Something wrong with your screen?”
I don’t need to look up. I know that voice. I’ve been hearing it in my mind all day, and that’s a problem.
“Just wondering why one season of your college career looks like it was erased by an intern on their first day,” I say.
When I do look up, he’s leaning against the table, arms crossed, face tighter now, but still handsome as ever.
“Maybe it’s just boring,” he says with a shrug. “When your entire career is a highlight reel, it can get repetitive.”
“Too bad I can’t find a highlight reel of humility.” He raises a brow, and I clear my throat. “But you can bury a game if it doesn’t serve the Saint Nik brand?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That what this is? You still digging for a scandal?”
“I’m not digging,” I say, closing the laptop. “I’m researching.”
“Feels a lot like digging. And here I thought we were friends. You seemed to enjoy watching me practice yesterday. Figured you’d ride that high for a few more hours at least.”
I stand, crowding him, but he doesn't step back.
“You’re not nervous that I’ll find something,” I say. “You’re nervous I already have.”
His jaw tightens.
Bingo.
“I’m here to tell a story, Nik. The world deserves to know the real Nik Papas, not the Saint they’ve been sold. You can either help me make it as accurate as possible without all the practiced quotes or keep playing this golden boy act and hope I don’t find what you’re hiding.”
The air dances between us as he steps closer, just enough that I can feel the heat off his skin. He’s not touching, and his closeness isn’t threatening; it’s just overwhelming. I inhale, hating that he smells so good.
“Sometimes it's best if the night and day don’t ever meet,” he says, his voice low.
His words land, and it’s like he’s trying to get me to quit this before we even start. But I don’t flinch, even though my heart is racing at his admission. I meet his gaze and say, “I’ll let you know who it’s best for when I write the article.”
He stares at me. One second, two. Then he turns and walks away without another word.
I watch him, the way his shoulders are tight and bunched around his neck, his sharp movements to get away fast, and I only exhale once he’s gone.
I sit back down, and think, ‘Guess today’s interview is out the window’.
But if I wasn’t digging before?
I am now.
~~
An hour later, I sip lukewarm coffee, sucking on a Cherry Push-Pop and scroll through digital game logs again, frustration crawling up the back of my neck.
The more I look at Nik’s sophomore year, the more convinced I am that something happened.
I just don’t know what yet. There’s no reason for everything just to disappear.
The stats don’t scream scandal, and everyone misses a game or two. But the context? That’s the real story.
That season, Zeiders University in Arkansas was supposed to make the Southern Regional Bowl.
Everyone expected it. It was going to be a huge boost financially and publicly for the college, and it was all thanks to the Trickie Nickies.
The university knew what they were doing when it drafted them together.
They were selling seats to every game like crazy.
Local newspapers and radio shows boasted about having the best trio to ever come through Arkansas.
Add in the fact that NFL scouts had Zeiders University on their watchlist?
It was a huge incentive for the college.
All three Nicks were on top of that list and talked about constantly. It was all coming together for them.
But the team missed its chance to go to the Bowl by a single game, this rivalry game. The kicker? Nik was benched for most of the second half during this game. The official reason? “Stomach virus.”
Yeah, right.
Because that’s exactly how coaches talk when their star wide receiver doesn’t play to his potential, or how players determined to go to the next level give in to a little queasiness.
I don’t think so.
After reading that Soba, the star QB, was sacked when Nik let a man through the hole, and the fact that he dropped a perfectly placed pass to miss going into the lead at halftime, I submit a Freedom of Information request for any documents available, then grab my phone and call Zeiders University Athletic Department.
Post-game statements and team releases from that season are all public info, but you have to make a formal request. I have to assume that, due to the Trickie Nickies all being drafted, the University has been asked for this information a thousand times.
But when I ask about that specific rivalry game, the woman on the line hesitates.
“There was a press lock on post-game interviews that week,” she says.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning no one was allowed to speak to the players.”
That’s not normal.
“Why would they keep the press from the players? A rivalry game would do well to drum up attention for the school.”
I can still hear the hesitation, but like a robot, she just repeats the same thing. “There was a press lock. That’s all I know.”
I check the drive time to the University. Nine hours. I close the laptop, ditch the rest of my coffee, and tell my editor I’ll be away for most of tomorrow.
~~
I went straight home, napped for a few hours, then got up and drove through the night, which brings me to Zeiders University by ten in the morning, and by half past, I’m in an old records room.
The lighting is bad, and it smells like an old basement.
It’s clear no one has been in here in quite some time.
I pull a box off the shelf and settle into what could be a long day of nothing. But I have to try.
I pick through page after page, staring at memos that were posted to satisfy angry fans but never meant to be looked at again.
It was a quick cover-up, and then the next season was pushed so hard that there was little time to focus on the missed game.
Only talks of the next big win, the bright Friday Night Lights, and the banners that were promised to follow.
I continue searching, and one email catches my eye. It’s heavily redacted; half the page is black lines. But what is visible?
“ZU vs. Central State - Containment. Limit press access. Address in internal review only. Ensure Papas is unavailable until Monday, position as medical. Avoid mention of Raines. Do not involve Daniels.”
I pull up my notes from earlier, quickly scanning the team roster, and see the name Trevor Raines. Nik’s backup.
And Daniels? All I see with that name is the team’s statistician, Rhett Daniels.
I throw both their names into the search finder on my phone.
Rhett’s known aliases pop up, a few addresses, and some local relatives right there in Mistletoe Falls.
As for Trevor, he actually lives in South Carolina, too, about 35 miles outside of Mistletoe Falls.
Weird, they all ended up in the same state.
There are no names of who wrote the email; it’s all just blurred out.
But I can damn sure read the tone, and this screams crisis mode.
Papas and medical in the same sentence have to be the “stomach bug” that was put out in the press.
The timing of it is too perfect. But it doesn't make sense.
He was at practice all week. I saw the archived pictures and videos that the team posted leading up to the game.
From what I know about professional-bound athletes, you don’t just wake up on the biggest game of the season and give in to a stomach virus. I snap a photo of the document, lean back in the squeaky chair, and stare at the ceiling.
Nik Papas didn’t get sick. It seems to me that someone tried to end his big shot before it was even offered to him. And by the way he acts when that season is brought up? Nik knows who.