Page 1 of The Pact
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 hermother’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 headingto 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.
