Chapter Nineteen
Presley
If I didn’t have a ring on my finger, I would have thought yesterday was a dream. It could also be because I’m deliriously tired.
We made love, we ate food, we dug into our Oreo tower, we fucked, we showered, and then we made love again until we passed out. It was like eleven years of pent-up desire exploded all over that hotel room. As if wearing a wedding band finally gave us permission.
I’m achy in all the best places, and I can barely keep my eyes open this morning, but I highly recommend nights like last night. Ten out of ten.
But still, I can’t believe we actually got married. I look at my ring—the simple gold band that Saint chose for me. It’s not flashy, more like elegant and quietly perfect. For me.
“You okay?” Saint asks, reaching over to take my hand.
Our family driver picked us up from The Plaza and is taking us to meet with my parents this morning since Alie and Liam have the kids. So, I’d better snap out of this haze I’m in so I can put coherent thoughts together.
“I’m good.”
“You sure? You’ve been quiet since we left the hotel.”
I squeeze his hand in reassurance. “I promise. I’m more than good. A little sore, but good.”
He smiles and leans over to kiss me.
“It’s going to be another busy day though. We should talk to my parents about how they want to handle us telling the team.”
“Yeah, I know. But I would like to tell the kids before the team.”
I nod. “Yes, we should. It was just a thought in the list of people we need to tell.”
“We just take it one conversation at a time, starting with your parents. Then the attorneys. They might have some guidance on how we tell the kids too.”
He’s so calm about it all, so by the time we reach the facility, any nerves that might have been filtering around my head are gone.
I glance at him as we make our way down the hall to my dad’s office. “Are you nervous at all?”
He looks down at me. “No.”
I narrow my eyes. “Really?”
“I go up against linemen with bad intentions every week in the season, Pres. It’ll be fine. Besides, your dad already knows this was suggested by the attorneys. Do you think he’ll be all that surprised?”
I shake my head. “I guess not, but my parents own the team you play for and once told you your temper was going to cost him a playoff game.”
“He said that with affection.”
“No, Saint, he didn’t.”
He smiles, but his grip on my hand tightens slightly.
“Still not nervous?”
His mouth tilts. “Well, I wasn’t until you just said that.”
I laugh and squeeze his hand with mine, and one of my fingers brushes over his ring.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
“Maybe a little.”
“It’ll be okay. Your dad, your parents, like me.”
But I know this matters to him. My family matters to him. Doing this right matters to him.
He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it.
Before I can speak, my mother’s voice floats down the hall.
“I can hear you whispering in the hallway. Get in here.”
I close my eyes, but smile.
When we walk into my dad’s office, my parents are sitting on the couch near the windows. My mom has a tea in front of her, and my dad has a cup of coffee he probably hasn’t touched yet. Both of them watching us.
My mom’s gaze drops to where our hands are joined, and her breath catches slightly.
My father looks at her, then follows her line of sight.
“Presley,” my mom says calmly.
I hold up my hand. “We got married.”
She doesn’t blink. Instead, she turns around and looks at my dad.
I look at my dad over her shoulder. The pieces clicking in place that he didn’t tell her about this part in the conversation with the attorneys.
My dad stands then. “So, you chose this route,” my dad says.
My mom’s head whips in his direction. “You knew about this?”
My dad nods. “I was in the meeting with them when it was suggested. I didn’t know they were actually considering it.”
“Okay, can we take a step back and fill me in on what’s going on here then?” she says, hands on her hips.
We explain the situation to my mom. It seems the only puzzle piece she was missing was the marriage part. As we tell the story, my father’s jaw hardens, the annoyance clearly visible as he takes this in.
Saint takes a step forward, as if he wants to explain more to my father, but I put a hand out and halt him.
With a sigh, I hold out my arms and face my dad. “I know this is not sitting well with you.”
He looks down, his arms folding in front of him as he walks forward. “I always told you and your sister not to get mixed up with athletes.”
“This is hardly getting mixed up,” I defend.
“It’s certainly not staying away!”
“James, calm down,” my mother scolds.
“May I remind you, Saint and I have been friends for years? And honestly, if you didn’t want us being with footballers, then you shouldn’t have encouraged us to work for the family business, where we’re literally surrounded by them every day,” I state loudly and then turn to Saint, who is looking down at the floor as if he’s second-guessing every decision he’s made over the last week.
“Don’t be smart, Presley Grant. You may be a grown woman, but I can still question your decisions,” he says, pointing at me, but Mom grabs his arm to cool him down.
“I think what your father is concerned about is what this means for your future. If you’re friends, then this is a marriage of convenience. Presley, is that what you want? You’re not getting any younger, and if a family of your own is something you’re planning for—”
“Saint is my family,” I interrupt her.
Saint’s head pops up. I give him a small smile.
“He’s the greatest man I’ve ever known and the best thing that’s happened to me.
He needs me now, and I can’t imagine doing anything else in this life than being here for him.
As his wife. I don’t see this as just a marriage of convenience, but a marriage of dedication.
You know Saint. You know me. You know that if we made this decision, we didn’t take it lightly, and we took it with the best of intentions.
Saint and the kids are my whole world right now.
What tomorrow looks like I can worry about later.
For now and the foreseeable future, this is my everything.
” I take Saint’s hand in mine. “This is what I want.”
I’m not about to mention the foundation or my trust right now, because that will add fuel to the fire.
Saint’s scowl turns to a small smile as I lock eyes with him and let him know with everything in me that I mean it. All of it.
My dad doesn’t budge. He just stands there, looking at my and Saint’s joined hands and processing our words.
Mom, however, looks like she’s about to cry … in a good way. She lets go of Dad’s arm and claps her hands in front of her, hiding a growing smile behind her hands.
“Well”—she steps forward with her arms outstretched—“I wish you had included us in your decision-making, but I suppose you two know what you’re doing.”
She hugs me, and I fall into her embrace.
Then she reaches for Saint. “Welcome to the family.”
Saint’s shoulders drop with relief, and he gives her a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Grant.”
My dad steps closer then and comes over to us.
His footsteps slow as he walks up to Saint with the determined face of a man who has run a billion-dollar business and owns an NFL franchise team.
He’s a good man, but he can be callous. At this moment, I’m not sure what side of my dad Saint is about to get.
Dad holds out his hand. Saint stares at it for a beat before taking.
“I think you can call us James and Kate now, don’t you, son?”
I nearly burst into tears as my dad rests a hand on Saint’s shoulder and adds, “Maybe not in front of the team.”
My mom waves him off, then turns back to Saint. “You were already family, but this just makes it more official.”
I can see a flash of emotion cross his face, so I step beside him and take his hand, again, in mine.
My father clears his throat.
“So,” he says, voice a little gruffer. “Courthouse?”
“Yes,” I answer simply.
My mother’s brows lift, like she knows there’s more to the story.
Saint’s mouth twitches, and she sees it.
“Okay then. We’ll still do something,” she says.
“Mom—”
“Nothing big,” she says. “But we should do something. A dinner celebration of sorts. It would make me and your dad happy, and besides, it will only help your case.”
I laugh despite myself. “Okay, we’ll talk about it. We have a lot to take care of, and that might have to go on the back burner.”
“That’s not a no,” she murmurs as she walks back to the couch.
“It means we’ll talk about it.”
My father walks back with my mom and sits down again, watching us carefully.
“Is this why you scheduled a meeting with the attorneys today, then?” my dad asks.
“It is. We wanted to speak to you, too, first, though,” Saint tells him.
My father nods. “We appreciate that, thank you.”
Saint wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads us over to the couch.
“We’ll be there,” my mom says.
Saint nods. “Thank you.”
“And Saint?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not alone in this. You weren’t before, and you aren’t now. You’re family.”
Saint takes my hand and twines his fingers with mine. “I’m starting to believe that.”
The meeting with the attorneys feels different this time.
Maybe because both of my parents are here. Or maybe it’s because I’m sitting beside Saint, not as his best friend or his team doctor or the woman who’s been sleeping in his bed for weeks because he didn’t want to be alone.
This time, I’m here as his wife.
Marlowe has a stack of folders in front of her, Doug beside her, and the North Carolina counsel dialed in on the screen.
Saint sits tall, focused, one hand resting on the table. Our hands are close, but not touching.
“Let’s do a quick summary of where things stand before you tell us what you wanted to discuss today,” Marlowe says.
“No, I’d like to start before we continue,” Saint says. “We have some news.”
All eyes shift to him.
Then he reaches for my hand. “Presley and I got married.”
Rebecca, the North Carolina attorney, blinks on the screen.
Marlowe’s expression doesn’t change much, but I do see a tiny lift in her eyes.
“Okay, that’s good news.”
Doug nods. “Very good news, practically speaking.”
Practically speaking?
I understand what he means—I know why we did it—but for some reason, the way he said it bothers me.
The legal value of our marriage.
Marlowe must read something on my face and softens her tone. “It gives us a stronger foundation to present the home environment. Especially given Presley’s existing relationship with the children.”
I see my father nod out of the corner of my eye.
My mother looks like she’s assessing Marlowe, and I’m not sure if it’s in a good or bad way.
When I look at Saint, he’s listening carefully, absorbing, processing her words.
“So, the next steps,” Marlowe continues. “We’ll arrange the family home visits.”
Saint nods. “Okay, not a problem.”
“We’ll want to document the children’s current living situation, schools, extracurriculars, emotional support systems, and, of course a caregiving plan considering your career.”
“I can provide schedules,” I offer. “Saint set everything up, of course, but I can get you any information you need.”
“That would be great, thank you,” she says.
Then she folds her hands and rests them on the table.
“There’s also the matter of the Harts.”
I see Saint’s jaw tighten.
“So, they’re still moving forward?” he asks.
“As of now, yes,” Rebecca chimes in. “But I think there may be room to resolve this without a full custody dispute if handled carefully.”
Saint doesn’t answer.
Marlowe leans forward. “The Harts will need to have their home visit, too, as part of the process, Mr. St. Clair. So take the kids down there, maybe even before that scheduled visit to see their grandparents.”
Saint clears his throat. “I make sure they talk to the Harts regularly. And they know they can reach out to the kids anytime. I’m not keeping the kids from them.”
Marlowe nods. “We understand that. But making a good-faith effort to preserve that relationship could go a long way.”
“So, ignore the fact that they want to take the kids from me?” he says, voice low.
I slide my hand over his.
“Understand that they’re grieving,” she says. “It’s not an excuse, it’s an explanation of their behavior.”
Saint looks at Rebecca. “Do you have any insight?”
“I agree, I think they’re grieving,” she says. “But I think there’s also the fear of not only losing their son, but now their grandkids as well.”
The room is quiet, and I can see the way Saint is trying to process all of this.
The fact of the matter is, the Harts aren’t the villains here. They’re broken people, too, reaching for the last living pieces of their son.
Doesn’t mean they’re right to do this. Doesn’t mean Saint should lose the kids. But it does mean the situation is bigger than legal positioning.
“Saint, if this can avoid court, it’s worth exploring. Because no one wins when you go to court. Even if it goes in your favor, someone is still hurt at the end of it,” my mother says.
“I don’t want the kids to get confused,” he says.
“Then frame it simply,” Marlowe says. “Their grandparents love them. They’re going to visit them. You’re still their home.”
Home.
The words make my chest tighten.
Saint looks at me, and I nod.
The kids need roots, yes. But they also need a connection to their father too.
“Okay, we can do that,” Saint says eventually. His voice is rough and steady. “We’ll take them down there.”
Marlowe nods. “Great.”
The meeting continues as we review what needs to happen next.
By the end, my head hurts. But Saint looks a lot more calm that he did when we started the meeting.
He’s definitely not happy, or even relieved necessarily. But maybe a little more focused on what comes next. And that matters.