The Pact (Gridiron Legacy #2)

Prologue

EIGHT YEARS AGO

Saint

Three hours ago, we won the national championship.

Now I’m standing at the bar in the middle of a nightclub in Miami, music thumping, making my head start to pound.

The humidity in the air mutes every light in this place.

And the smell of spilled beer and cologne invades my senses.

It’s chaos that anyone would expect from a college football team, celebrating the biggest win of their collegiate career.

I should be in the middle of it. As a starting defensive tackle and a guy who just spent four quarters turning some of the best offensive linemen in college football into human speed bumps, I should absolutely be celebrating.

My teammates are high on the win and are currently trying to see how many people they can fit into the hot tub—because, of course, there’s a hot tub and a pool at a club in Miami.

I watch them from the bar, laughing, but also trying to ward off a very good-looking blonde wearing a bikini, who’s been attempting to pour lukewarm vodka down my throat for the better part of thirty minutes.

No thanks.

The noise is too loud, and the air feels thick. And I can’t find Presley to share this moment we’ve been working toward all season. She’s the only person I want to celebrate with, in all honesty.

And tonight, I’m gonna shoot my shot.

With one last but friendly refusal to the hot blonde, I turn from the bar and head toward the patio area in search of Presley.

I finally find her tucked in a dark corner, sitting on a lounge chair.

Sharp shadows cast across her face from the lights of the club, making her look like a secret I wasn’t supposed to find. She has a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand and a clipboard in the other—because even at the biggest party of the year, she’s still checking boxes.

“You’re hiding,” I say, leaning against a palm tree. My two-hundred-thirty-pound frame shields most of the light from the club, making this little corner spot even darker.

She doesn’t look up, pen still scrolling across the paper.

“I’m not hiding, Saint. I’m conducting a risk assessment.

Based on the current trajectory of tequila being consumed, I’m calculating how many of you will need an IV drip tomorrow and how many ice packs I’ll need to have ready for those who think it’s a great idea to jump off the roof into the pool. ”

“I’m hurt, Doc.” I grin and step closer to her. I can smell coconut and jasmine when I sit next to her on the lounger, and she scoots over a little to make room for me. “I thought you’d be celebrating with us. We just gave your dad’s scouts enough tape to keep them busy for a while.”

Presley finally looks at me, gaze sweeping over my slightly rumpled shirt and the butterfly bandage on the cut under my left eye.

It’s not just the player-trainer dynamic that’s made our friendship somewhat of a minefield.

It’s her name. Presley is her mother’s maiden name, and the Presley and Grant names are synonymous with legendary football dynasties—the Columbus Bulls and the New York Titans.

Her father doesn’t just own the team; he practically owns professional football.

And here she is, an heiress to a billion-dollar empire, sitting in a dark corner of a club, working instead of socializing.

“My dad’s scouts already have you pinned near the top of the board, Saint.

Don’t act like you don’t know it,” she says, setting the crust of her pizza on the poolside table next to us, picking up a drink, and taking a sip.

“And I am celebrating. I’m celebrating the fact that I won’t have to deal with the smell of the locker room.

At least for a while. Do you have any idea what it’s like to tape the ankles of a man who sweats Gatorade? ”

“Now, Presley, don’t lie.” I nudge my elbow to her knee, then rest it on top of her leg. And she doesn’t move away. “You’re gonna miss me. You’re gonna be at that fancy school in Boston, taping up some scrawny runner’s knee, wishing you were still in the trenches with me. A real manly man.”

“Manly man?” She arches her eyebrow with that sharp, witty spark in her eye, which always drives me crazy in the best way. “Is that what you call yourself? I’ve seen you puke after a conditioning test, big guy. The glamour is lost on me. I know the ugly side of the Saint legacy.”

“What are you talking about?” I chuckle. “There’s no ugly side to me. I made heatstroke look majestic, and you know it.”

“More like a dying animal.”

I laugh, the sound low, vibrating in the small space between us. But the reality of the night settles like a physical weight. This isn’t just a party. It’s like a funeral for the last three years that I’ve had Presley Grant in my life.

By noon tomorrow, we’ll be making our way back up north.

I’ll be packing up and preparing for the combine, only to be poked, prodded, and sold to the highest bidder.

She’ll be heading to Boston for medical school to build a life that she’s been groomed for and away from the star defensive tackle who’s spent the last three years trying to convince her that he is more than just a stat line.

I brush circles with my thumb along the bare skin of her thigh. “Pres,” I say, voice dropping low, “this is it, you know. The last night for you to claim me. The last night we can take what we’ve wanted the last three years.”

Her smile falters, and she looks down at the clipboard in her hands, running a finger down the smooth edges.

“Yep. A lot is going to change. You’ll get a contract and become a millionaire, probably get a shoe deal, and next thing you know, you’ll be dating the next top model.

And I’ll have my nose stuck in books, long hospital rotations, and proving myself in the industry, all while pretending I’m not checking the scores and injury reports every Sunday. ”

“Chasing our dreams, attached to obligations.” I sigh. “This is a big time for both of us, but what about this? Are we just going to keep pretending there’s nothing between us?”

“Saint,” she whispers in warning, but doesn’t pull away when I run my hand up her thigh, “we shouldn’t do this tonight.”

I don’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Do what?”

“This,” she says, gesturing between us. “Whatever this is.”

“You mean the part where we’ve been pretending this is only friendship?” I ask.

We’ve been dancing around this for years. From the first day I walked into the locker room as a cocky freshman and she was a sophomore and told me to shut up and sit down so she could tape my wrists, I was done for.

From late nights in the training room when it was just the two of us, her finishing paperwork, and me pretending I needed more ice time just so I could sit and talk to her, I’ve been completely captivated by her.

We’ve always been something. Just nothing we could ever name.

Because she’s the trainer and I’m the player. A line you can’t cross. Because lines like that don’t blur. They get destroyed if you cross them.

So, we didn’t.

But we pushed, pulled, and circled around each other. And now we’re here.

I’m so close to her that I can see the freckles sprinkled on her nose, her fingers tightening around the clipboard, like she’s using it to stay grounded.

Her breath stutters when I hook a finger under her chin, forcing her head up to look me in the eye.

The professional distance she’s worked so hard to maintain in public is gone.

But I do see the girl who’s stayed late to help me bandage my cuts, the girl who knows my favorite Oreo flavor and shares my obsession with Marvel movies, the girl who’s been breaking my heart without even knowing it.

“We’re friends,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince herself or me. “Best friends. If we ever cross that line and it goes south, I don’t just lose a player. I lose my person. And I don’t have a lot of those, Saint.”

“You could never lose me,” I murmur. “I’m built for standing my ground. I’ve spent three years holding the line for this team, so do you really think I’d let you go that easily?”

She huffs a laugh. “You have to. You’re the projected number two draft pick. You’ll be in a different city every week during the season.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be FaceTiming you and texting in my free time.” I lean into her. “Please don’t push me away tonight. Don’t tell me we shouldn’t.”

“Saint,” she says quickly, “this would just complicate everything.”

“Or,” I counter, “it could be the one thing we don’t regret. Don’t you think?”

I don’t give her the chance to argue with me. I gently cup her face with my hands—which, just hours ago, were shedding blocks and crushing the quarterback.

When our lips meet, it’s like a dam breaks. This isn’t a celebration kiss. This is years of tension and everything we’ve been holding back. It’s desperate and frantic, and I can taste the heartbreak we’re trying to outrun.

Presley makes a soft, broken sound in the back of her throat, but wraps her arms around my shoulders, her fingers tugging on the hair at the nape of my neck.

I press her harder into the back of the lounger.

The party is flowing behind us, but I don’t care.

Because for a few seconds, the scouts, cameras, and her family’s expectations don’t exist. It’s just the heat of her and the crushing realization that I’ve waited too long to take my shot with her.

She kisses me like she’s angry about it. Like she hates how much she wants me. Like she’s trying to make the most of this moment before it’s too late.

My hand slides around to her neck and tangles in her hair, tipping her head back just enough for me to deepen the kiss. Slower. More deliberate. Savoring. Because I know this will never be enough.

When I pull back, our foreheads rest together, and her blue eyes are nearly black and wide.

“That,” she says breathily, “was a mistake.”

“You didn’t kiss me like it was a mistake.” I laugh lightly.