Chapter Twenty Two
Presley
When we got back from North Carolina a few weeks ago, Saint made the decision to sell the house. It wasn’t easy for him.
He looked at me when we got home from that visit and said, “It’s just a house.”
I knew he didn’t believe that, but I think it’s what he had to tell himself.
So, I told him, “It was their house, but it doesn’t carry all the memories.”
Saint made a trip down there by himself a week later, and I stayed here with the kids.
He and the Harts went through the house, keeping personal keepsakes, and Saint packed up all the kids' belongings.
He donated the rest of the items in the house, and movers came and took care of the rest and brought them up to New Jersey.
He already made a plan with his financial advisor to put the proceeds from the sale into a trust for the kids, along with Savannah and Chris’s life insurance policies.
We’re working on redecorating their rooms, and Saint let them pick whatever they wanted. He’s also hired a contractor to build an entire playground castle for the kids in the backyard. Saint wants to do everything he can to make sure they feel like this is their home now.
It feels like we’re creating some sense of normalcy for them.
Or something close to it. There’s a constant rhythm of four people learning to live under one roof, and sometimes everything runs smoothly, and then we have days that are a little more difficult.
Like the days when Rhyan only wants to wear her Dragon shirt, cape, and crown to the nursery, and we have to barter with her to wear pants. It’s super fun.
Amid this chaos, I’ve been meeting with my lawyers about my trust fund to make sure I understand all the stipulations regarding fund distribution, and scouting locations just in case the piece of land I really want isn’t available. And on top of all that … it’s draft time.
Which means I’ve been spending my entire workday in meetings with my parents, my sister, our General Manager, coaches, scouts, and some of my medical staff, reviewing all the prospects.
This is the part of the business most people don’t think about. They see highlight reels, stats, explosive plays, big personalities, and the potential to be the next Hall of Famer.
I see their medical history, injury, and surgical reports, asymmetries, compensations, and recovery patterns. It’s not just a question of whether the player can perform. It’s also about how long the athlete’s body can sustain what we’re about to ask of it.
I’m in my last meeting of the day, and my brain is mush. I tap my pen against the report in front of me as our head coach flips to the next prospect.
“Defensive end out of Georgia,” he says. “Explosive first step. High motor. Scouts love him, and he scored well in his interviews with us at the combine and again when we brought him here.”
“He also had two documented shoulder subluxations in college,” I say.
All eyes turn to me.
Coach’s brows pull together. “Concern level?
“Moderate,” I say. “He didn’t miss significant play time, which is good. But I want to know how aggressively they managed it. His combine medicals show some markers of instability. Not enough to take him off the board, but enough that I wouldn’t call him clean.”
My father leans back in his chair. “Worth the risk where we have him?”
“At our current pick?” I glance at the notes. “Maybe. But not if two of our other edge options are still available.”
Alie looks up from her laptop. “So, he’s a backup, not a priority.”
“That would be my recommendation.”
She types something.
Across from me, our defensive coordinator nods. “Good catch.”
We move to the next player. A wide receiver with elite speed but recurring hamstring issues.
An offensive tackle with clean medicals, but questionable conditioning, as well as behavioral issues on and off the field.
A linebacker recovering from a meniscus repair. Immediate no.
A corner with a stress fracture history that makes my stomach tighten, even though his tape was excellent and he looks perfect on paper.
We walk through each one, and I review their performance, risk, recovery outlooks, red flags, potential maintenance plans, and an estimate on how long the athlete can realistically play based on their history.
By the time we wrap up our top ten, the board looks very different from how it looked this morning.
My father folds his hands on the table. “Okay, team, so these are our primary targets.”
The coach looks at the GM, who nods. “Yes,” Coach says.
“And we feel good about our backups?” My dad looks at my sister.
Alie turns the screen toward him. “Tiered by position and adjusted for medical concerns.”
I lean forward and glance over the final list.
“Those top three are clean from a medical standpoint,” I say. “Fourth has some risk but manageable. Fifth is higher upside and higher maintenance.
Coach points to the wide receiver. “If he’s there in the second?”
“I’d want another imaging review before we commit,” I say. “But I wouldn’t rule him out.”
My mother, who rarely speaks during draft meetings unless she has something significant to contribute, looks at me. “You’re comfortable with the board?”
“Yes.”
She nods. “Then it looks like we’re ready for draft day.”
She stands, and just like that, the meeting is adjourned.
Everyone stands, gathers their folders and notes. Coaches drift out first, already speculating about trade scenarios. My father stays behind long enough to squeeze my shoulder.
“How’s my girl?” he asks.
He’s not asking casually. He’s asking about Saint, the kids … all of it.
“We’re doing okay,” I say.
He studies me for a second. “That’s good, but I asked about you.”
I reach out and set my hand on his shoulder. “I’m good, Dad.”
He nods. “Let’s do dinner soon.”
“Okay.”
“Family dinner. All of us.”
I smile. “I’ll talk to Saint.”
He leans down and kisses my head.
My mother stops next and hugs me—a real mom hug.
Then it’s just me and Alie left packing up.
“Come to my office,” she says.
I give her a look. “That sounds ominous.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does when you say it like that. Come to my office,” I tease.
She laughs. “I have snacks.”
“You could have led with that. I’m starving.”
I follow her down the hall to her office. It’s a stark contrast from the glass walls and strategy boards in the conference room. Her office has framed photos, a rug for Sera to play on, a meticulously organized desk, and at least three snack drawers that she pretends are for Sera.
I shut the door behind me and take a seat in the chair in front of her desk.
Alie holds up two bags. “Chocolate or pretzels?”
“Why can’t I have both?”
“You can. Catch.” She tosses both bags at me, and I have to lean to the right to catch them.
“I’m literally sitting across from you, and you still can’t aim?”
She laughs, but doesn’t answer.
“Your almost husband is the quarterback of this team, Aliette. You should ask him for some pointers.”
“If I do that, I’ll become better than him, and it will jeopardize his place on the team.” She smirks.
We both laugh and talk about nothing important while we eat our snacks.
She complains about one of the scouts who keeps sending urgent emails that are absolutely not urgent.
I tell her about one of the rookies from last season who still refuses to admit he hates cold plunges.
She laughs.
I eat chocolate.
Very normal sister things. Which means … she’s about to ambush me. But I can’t read if it’s about her or me.
When she leans back in her chair and studies me, I have my answer.
“So,” she says.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“My tone is lovely.”
“Your tone is nosy.”
She huffs. “It can be both.”
I sigh. “Fine. Ask.”
She leans forward, crossing her arms in front of her on the desk. “How is everything going?”
“Funny, Dad just asked me pretty much the same thing.”
“Okay, and what did you say?”
“What are you asking me, Alie?”
She rolls her eyes. “Always so direct.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Everything. Tell me everything.”
“That’s pretty broad. What do you want to know specifically?”
“With Saint. The kids. Living in his house. Being married,” she says, lifting her hands. “Your life.”
“Alie, you see me just about every day, and you’re at the house all the time.”
She smiles, but it softens quickly. “I’m serious, Pres.”
I look down at the pretzel bag and realize I ate them all, so I twist the bag into a tube.
“It’s going as well as can be expected with two kids and a best friend who just lost the most important people in their lives,” I say.
“That sounds like a general answer.”
“It’s an honest answer.”
“Presley.”
I exhale. “The kids are getting better every day. Saint is too. They’re settling into their new normal, you know?”
Alie nods.
“The pain is still there, obviously,” I continue. “It always will be. But it seems less sharp now. Or maybe we’ve all just learned to move around it.”
“That makes sense.”
“Remy’s doing well at school. He loved hockey, but he’s ready for baseball season.”
“He’s such a sweet boy. Very intuitive and respectful.”
I smile, thinking about how he’s been picking the spring flowers growing around the house and bringing them to me.
“And Rhyan?”
“You see her every day. She’s the same Rhyan here as she is at home. Always planning to overthrow multiple governments.”
Alie smiles. “Sera is prepared to stand by her side. That reminds me, I’m going to put Sera in that dance class that starts in August, and I was thinking Rhyan might like to get back to it, and they can do a few classes together.”
“Those two are a little scary together. Are we sure we want to subject their energy to a poor dance instructor?”
“Eh, they’re three and four. How much damage can they really do?”
I stare at her, brows raised.
She nods and laughs. “Fair.”