Page 64 of The Pact
“What’s going on?” I ask.
His throat moves. “Mr. Grant will explain.”
What the fuck?
I hate that answer.
I hate how quiet everything is as we walk.
The building should be alive with sounds of guys cleaning out lockers, staff moving equipment, coaches’ voices carrying in the hallway. But instead, every sound seems separate from everything else.
Like the hum of the overhead lights. Our footsteps on the tile.
My own heartbeat.
Something’s wrong.
We stop outside Mr. Grant’s office, and Jonah knocks once, then opens the door.
I step inside and halt my footsteps.
Mr. Grant stands behind his desk, one hand braced against the polished wood, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s a powerful man. Very controlled. The kind of owner who walks into a room and can change the temperature without raising his voice.
But in all the years I’ve played for him, I’ve never seen him look devastated.
And that’s how he looks right now.
Presley’s mom sits on the couch near the window, her face streaked with tears, crumpled tissues in one hand.
She stands when she sees me.
“Saint,” she whispers.
My stomach drops again.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Neither of them answers.
Mr. Grant comes around the desk in measured movements. “Sit down, son.”
Yeah, I don’t like that.
Son.
He’s called me a few things over the years: St. Clair, Wyatt, Saint. And once or twice, after I got fined for unnecessary roughness, something a lot less polite.
But neverson.
“I’m fine standing,” I say, my voice gravelly.
Presley’s mom reaches for me then, taking both of my hands into hers.
Her fingers are cold on mine … and shaking.
“Please,” she says.
I sit because she guides me down, not because I want to.
