Chapter 10
Noelle
I knew there was something more. No one can be that perfect. But what’s he hiding? The way he spoke made him sound like a gangster. And yes, I’ve heard enough of these mobster stories to never dismiss any of it, but come on. He’s a football player. How’s it possible?
We texted back and forth quickly after that. Me asking for another interview date, him pushing me off. It’s been three days, and my mind has written every side of this article it can grasp, but since he won’t talk to me, I have to keep figuring it out on my own.
Between the encounter at the hotel, and then the alley after dinner, now I don’t know if he’s hiding from the story or me.
Instead, I kept digging despite being warned not to. I made contact with an old player from the team, and I’m going to get some answers. Fuck those threats; they happen all the time, but a good lead doesn’t, so I’m not missing out on this.
A black jeep pulls into the parking spot ahead of me, and a man gets out. I quickly pocket my phone, grab my purse, and check that my pen and pad are inside.
Trevor walks ahead of me and pulls the door open with more force than necessary. We’ve never met, but he still looks the same as in his picture.
Trevor Raines. Former college wide receiver and Nik’s former teammate.
He was expelled in the middle of sophomore year for “academic dishonesty.” He was cut from the team and escorted from the campus overnight.
None of it makes sense because, from what I uncovered—or rather, didn’t uncover—there were no formal charges.
The coach didn’t fight it, and his family didn’t petition the school.
There was a brief paragraph in the papers about it, and it was alluded that he had been trouble for the team all along, that he was the reason the season had been “tumultuous.”
But what’s interesting? It happened five days after the rivalry game loss.
“Trevor? I’m Noelle Moreno. We spoke on the phone.” I put out my hand, and he shakes it quickly. I slide into the bench seat across from him and offer a friendly smile. “Thanks for meeting me.”
He doesn’t return the smile; he just looks at me like he already regrets agreeing to this.
I sit across from him in a booth in the dingy little diner thirty-five miles outside of Mistletoe Falls.
This little suburb is cute and quiet, a great place to escape the big city, which is why I'm sure many people have settled here.
We engage in small talk for ten minutes after placing our orders.
We talk of football, of course, and the current high school team that he coaches.
I can see this is where he’s most comfortable.
He talks about his offensive line like they’re his own kids.
He’s soft-spoken and cautious, careful with each word that comes from his mouth as if he knows how well they can be used against him.
It’s as if he’s already had his life twisted out from under him and doesn’t trust anyone anymore.
I understand that feeling. I was blindsided by someone I trusted as well.
So now I’ve learned to dig, push, and circle around conversations until I get exactly what I need.
I need the answers to put out an article that will generate buzz but I also need those answers to make decisions on my own and make sure I don't get burned.
I’ve had a nagging thought that won’t leave me since I was at the ZU Athletic archives. There’s just not enough explanation for a game so important to just disappear. I clear my throat now and take a chance at putting that idea out into the atmosphere to see what kind of reaction I get.
“I know you didn’t throw that game.”
He tries to hide it, but his body language gives him away. His entire body stiffens, his jaw locks tight, and his eyes narrow just the slightest.
Bingo.
“What game?”
“You know which one,” I bluff.
A moment passes. Then another, and I try to calm my racing heart. My heart that knows a story is about to break. It’s so close I can already see the words as I type them.
He leans in slowly, like he’s deciding whether or not I’m worth the risk.
“I know why you called me. I knew the minute I heard your voicemail. It wasn’t to get a timepiece on the local kid who was tossed out of college, only to redeem himself by coaching future players.
It wasn’t to see how a then and now really works out for the best. And it damn sure wasn’t to write a story about a no-name high school team with no-name players, who, let’s be honest, aren’t going further than the high school field they play on. ”
I swallow, desperately memorizing every word he’s saying, as he continues. “You’re poking at a story that was paid to stay buried. It’d be dangerous to be the one to dig it up.”
I don’t blink, ignoring the second threat in days, and keep pushing. “Was it Papas?”
Trevor turns his head to the window and watches a school bus roll by, but he doesn’t answer. I watch his jaw tick and his pulse kick in his neck. His visceral reaction to these questions tells me there is so much more here.
And then, in a tone so matter-of-fact and loaded with sarcasm, he says, “I didn’t drop those passes. I didn’t blow the coverage. And yet, I sure as shit wasn’t the one to walk away with a clean record and a one-way ticket to the draft.”
It’s a stark contrast to the humble man who sat here just five minutes ago, talking about the team he coaches with pride.
“So, Nik—”
“I didn’t say anything about Papas,” he cuts in.
“You didn’t have to.”
He picks up his coffee, takes a slow sip like he’s weighing whether or not he’ll regret this conversation tomorrow.
“Just so you know, if you publish any part of this, I’ll deny it,” he says, voice low and sharp, “you don’t just scorch him.
You’ll burn half the team that played with him.
The university. The league. You’ll steal banners and records from those who actually deserved it.
Do you know how many people had a stake in keeping that season, and the next, clean?
” He holds my stare. “You think it’s just one game, but I think it runs much deeper.
It’s a dangerous story to tell, Ms. Moreno. ”
I pull out some bills and throw them down on the table, then stand and grab my coat. “Thanks for your time.”
He doesn’t stop me, but just as I’m stepping away, he says, “Ask him what happens to the saint after dark. That’s when you’ll get the truth.”
I pause and turn slightly, catching the side view of his face again as he looks out the window. It’s the look of a man hurt by those he fully trusted.
But I don’t have time to coddle him. I have something big brewing, and for the first time since being assigned to this story, I feel the full weight of what I’m uncovering.
This isn’t just a feature, and Trevor just acknowledged it.
Because I already got a front-row seat to what Saint does after dark the other night.
~~
The photo hits my inbox at 9:13 p.m.
I’m halfway through a glass of red wine, curled up on my couch with my laptop and about fourteen tabs open, causing more anxiety than they do good.
I click the email, expecting spam or maybe a late press inquiry.
There’s no subject, and the sender's name is just a bunch of numbers. I click the attachment.
It’s a picture of me from behind. I’m walking on the sidewalk, wearing my SC Lions sweatshirt and jeans. My hair is down, and I’m carrying a bag of Chinese food. I don't even need to look at the timestamp. I know this is from earlier this evening.
After my interview with Trevor, I couldn’t wait to get home and start pulling up every article I could find. I ordered dinner and prepared for a long night of research.
Someone really wants me to stop writing.
My throat tightens, and my heart begins to race.
This could go one of two ways, and I need to figure out which it is.
There’s no message, just the photo. I’ve heard about these stories a thousand times.
Reporters get close to something, and they get threats.
Ninety percent of the time, nothing evolves, but I always remember thinking how I would handle it if it happened to me.
I stare at the picture longer than I mean to. I tell myself not to react, not to get upset, and not to freak out. But the knowing sinks in anyway that someone was there following me. Close enough to see me, yet close enough to choose not to be seen either.
And it’s all because of Nik Papas. So now the decision is, is he worth all this?