Saint: A Football Romance (The Nighthawk Series Book 1)

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  When my phone vibrates across my granite counter I know who it is. Very much like me, Jason is prompt. I'm pretty sure it's him calling to let me know that he's on his way. He's supposed to be here in about thirty minutes.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey Sabrina, I'm outside. I came a little early, so we can watch some of the pregame coverage."

  What! I'm showered, but I'm dressed in my ratty Spin T-shirt and a pair of baggy sweats. I'm not wearing any make up, and I still have to empty this bucket of dirty mop water.

  "Can you give me a few minutes?"

  "I'll watch the pregame show while you finish doing whatever you're doing. Don't worry about me. I'll stay out of your way. Is it okay to park the car across the street in this neighborhood?"

  Ugh, I guess I can't leave him sitting in his car. That would be seriously rude on my part.

  "Umm, your car will be fine across the street. You can park there all day on Sundays. Alternate street parking is only during the week."

  "Actually I was asking if it's safe. Have there been any break-ins in this area lately?"

  Okay, I feel some kind of way about that comment, but I'm going to let it go. I realize that Jason lives in a more upscale neighborhood than I do, and that many people make assumptions about the safety of Brooklyn. As if it's still stuck in a crime ridden 1980s time warp. I just thought he was smarter than that.

  "Not that I'm aware of. I'll unlock the front door for you because I have to run into the back for a moment. Let yourself in."

  "Will do."

  I live in a small garden floor apartment of a brownstone house in Brooklyn, New York. It's a revitalized neighborhood which is close to the Brooklyn Bridge, so it takes me only about thirty minutes to get to work, which I love. It's just long enough of a train ride, so that I can get a few chapters read of a book, but not too long of a ride that I fall asleep and end up lost somewhere in Harlem.

  I unlock my deadbolt and literally run straight down the hall to my bedroom and shut the door. Before I started mopping earlier, I laid out two outfits across my bed for today. A modest but casual T-shirt dress and a pair of jeans with a V-neck long-sleeved tee. Now that I'm looking at them for the hundredth time today, it seems pretty ridiculous to wear a dress to watch football in my own house no matter how casual the dress looks. So I go with the jeans and tee.

  I hear the door slam.

  "It's me, Sabrina." Jason calls out. "Hey what's that smell? It smells fantastic in here."

  "Some chicken I have in the oven. I'll be out in a minute. The flat screen is in the first room to your left."

  I swiftly put on my clothes, try smoothing my frizzy ponytail, and waltz out to my first "working" football Sunday with Jason.

  "Hi there."

  "Well hello to you." He takes a longer look at me than I think he ever has. "I think this is the first time I've ever seen you in a pair of jeans."

  I think it's his version of a polite compliment, but funny how the only thing I can think of is how Saint seems to like me in my skirts.

  "Is the chicken ready?"

  Oh, right the chicken.

  "Yeah, it smells ready. Did you want something to drink while I'm in there?"

  "Do you have any beer?"

  "Sure do. I'll be right back."

  As I walk towards the kitchen, I turn back around to take a quick look at Jason. It's weird having him in my house. I mean I've always dreamed of spending a lazy Sunday afternoon with him, but I never thought it would be because of a football tutoring session. I also thought I'd feel more excited about it. What's my problem? I decide to check in with Marisol really quickly about it.

  Me: I feel like I'm 14 again.

  Marisol: Awww, why?

  Me: Because I feel the need to check in with you about my love life.

  Marisol: Love life?! I like the sound of that. Is my boy there?

  Me: Don't be so excited. He's here, but I'm not on cloud nine like I thought I'd be. I don't know what I'm feeling.

  Marisol: You're just nervous.

  Me: Maybe

  Marisol: He just got there. Give it some time. Stop overanalyzing everything, and for God's sake drink something alcoholic. It will loosen you up.

  Me: Lol! I'll try.

  After bringing out the wings, some blue cheese for dipping, a beer for him and ice water for me, I settle down on the couch making sure that I am sitting an appropriate distance from him. I don't want it to appear as if I'm under any delusions that this is a date. The word "professional" keeps ringing in my ears in Saint's accusatory voice.

  "So right now these five guys are talking about all the games that will be played in the NFC conference today. Then if we click to another channel we'll see another team of analysts talking about the games coming up in the AFC. Each network has an exclusive deal with the conference games they show. The Nighthawks are in the NFC, so that's why we're watching this channel."

  "Gotcha."

  I should probably be taking notes, but how hard can this be? It's not rocket science.

  Jason takes a bite of one of my wings and seems pleased with what he tastes. It's actually a family recipe. I have a lot of family from Buffalo, New York where any self respecting citizen knows how to make a good Buffalo-styled hot wing.

  "Wow, these are good. I'm going to have to add a mile to my run tomorrow, because I'm going to eat a lot of these today."

  "Good. I couldn't find any healthy football snack recipes online. Not ones that sounded good anyway," I chuckle. "So I made these."

  It's no secret in the office that Jason is one of the most health conscious employees we have, but I do know a few things about sports and one is that most men like junk when they watch football, and definitely not crudités.

  "Aww that's all right. We can make this our cheat day. No big deal."

  I already had my protein shake and a handful of raw almonds before he got here. Hot wings would throw me completely off track. I only made them because I've been told that I make really good ones. I'm sure he won't notice that I'm not eating them.

  "Look," Jason points to the screen. "They're talking about your new client."

  "So do you think it's a slow start or is there something very wrong with Nighthawk's star Saint Stevenson?"

  "Well I don't think we can blame him for everything that's wrong with the Nighthawks, Bill."

  "Not everything but a lot. When there's no strong leadership, there's no strength, and Stevenson is definitely not leading the Nighthawks in the right direction this season."

  "Or last season." Another commentator adds.

  "I don't know where the Gunslinger is that we saw back in Capital City. He hasn't been able to consistently get any deep passes into the end zone this season."

  "His QBR rating is pretty low so far."

  "I have some hope for the kid. I still think he can turn this around. He was the number one draft pick for a reason."

  "Well hopefully for New York, Coach Ryan can do something to get that offense going today, or they're going to have another long and miserable season."

  "Sheesh! They sure didn't have many nice things to say about him did they? I thought he was some sort of big deal in the league."

  "He is a big deal, and that's why they devoted ten minutes to talking about him. Always remember that any press is good press for an athlete. Regardless of what they're saying, at least they're talking about him."

  "I get the whole any press is good press thing, but I guess what I'm not understanding is why he's being talked about at all if he's been playing so badly for so long."

  "There was a lot of hype surrounding him when he was in college. He was the number one college player both his junior and senior year. He won the Heisman Trophy which is the highest award a college player can receive."

  I remember reading about that in my file.

  "He also won Capital City a championship that same year. First time in the school's history. Plus he's from a football family. His brother plays in the league. His u
ncle and dad both played. I think a cousin did too. Not to mention that he's physically the biggest quarterback playing the game right now, and it takes several men to bring him down, which is called a sack by the way. The play in which a defensive player brings a quarterback down.

  "Anyway it's really quite unusual for the quarterback to be so big that he's hard to sack, but in addition to that, Stevenson's biggest claim to fame is that he can deliver the ball deep and downfield with speed and precision. That's why they call him the Gunslinger. His arm is like a very accurate cannon.

  "I just think that all the analysts out there aren't totally convinced if he's actually the real deal or a college fluke. He has yet to deliver on his number one draft ranking. This is his fourth season with them, and they're still playing really badly."

  "I read up a little on our home team the Nighthawks. I see that they have had a pretty dismal record for a long time, so isn't that why they were able to draft Saint in the first place? Because they suck? Don't the bad teams get the best players in the draft?"

  Jason takes a sip of his beer, and looks up at me above the rim of the can. "I don't know why I keep underestimating you, Sabrina. Of course you did your homework."

  "Of course," I grin.

  "And you're right. Even though there's a lottery system in place, the worst teams typically get the best picks in the draft. The Nighthawks didn't have the number one pick, but they traded up for Stevenson. They needed a quarterback desperately, and he was the best pick that year. That's why he's in a tough situation. The organization gave away a lot to get him."

  "I guess there's a lot of pressure on him to deliver then."

  "Twenty-two million dollars worth of pressure. Not such a bad deal to me. I'd take it."

  "True."

  "So you never talked about your initial meeting with him. Obviously it went well since he went ahead and signed the contracts, but did he say why he chose Carson Financial? I was just wondering, because the Stevenson family is infamous for not signing contracts with outside business managers or agents. His father is very big on keeping control of every penny. Did he have a split with the family?"

  "We didn't really talk much about why he signed with us. We were too busy debating hoagies versus sub sandwiches," I laugh.

  There's no way that I'm going to tell Jason the real story about how Saint Stevenson swiped one of my business cards during a chance meeting and only agreed to sign with us as long as I was the account manager. I take no pride in that. I wonder what Peter is thinking. His imagination has to be running wild about why this sports superstar would specifically request me.

  "We did agree that learning about football is one of his requirements if I handle his account."

  "And so you are." Jason smiles.

  "That's right. I am." I smile in return.

  "Hey is that your phone ringing?"

  I left my cell phone on top of the counter in the kitchen and can hear it vibrating loudly against the granite. It's Sunday, so it could only be my mom or possibly Marisol calling. But when I pick up my phone, I notice it's a text, and I'm floored by who it's from.

  Saint Stevenson: What are you wearing?

  Me: Really!?

  Saint Stevenson: I want to know.

  Me: Jeans

  Saint Stevenson: Thanks for that boring visual. Saying a skirt would have been much better.

  Me: Are you always like this?

  Saint Stevenson: I'm usually better:)

  Me: I hope you realize that you aren't holding up your end of our agreement.

  Saint Stevenson: And are you holding up your end?

  Me: Shouldn't you be getting ready to throw a ball pretty soon?

  Saint Stevenson: So you are watching:)

  Me: I said I would learn didn't I?

  Saint Stevenson: I like that you can follow orders, Miss White. It will make things go a lot smoother later between us.

  Oh good grief.

  Me: I'm not following orders you lunatic. I'm watching a football game with a friend.

  Saint Stevenson: What friend?

  Me: I'm pretty sure you need to be warming up or something shouldn't you?

  Saint Stevenson: Pay closer attention, Miss White. I don't play until later at four. There's plenty of time.

  I just assumed when Jason mentioned that the Nighthawks were playing today that they were the team we would be watching together, but I was wrong. Evidently there's a one o'clock and a four o'clock game on Sundays, and Saint doesn't play until four. It doesn't matter much for our purposes though. A game is a game, and Jason's been taking a lot of pleasure in teaching me the rules of pro football.

  While this isn't a date by any stretch of the imagination, I'm having a nice time. He's only looked at his phone during random commercials, and he helped me clean up the mess we made with the wings. All in all, I feel like this was progress in more ways than one. With Jason and with learning the game.

  So why can't I seem to get off of my mind the fact that Saint was thinking about me of all people on game day.

  "I'm going to head out now. I'll see you in the office tomorrow."

  "Thanks for helping me clean up, Jason, and for the tutoring session."

  "No problem. Make sure to watch the Nighthawks later, and pay attention to the commercials. Maybe you and I can come up with some sort of strategic endorsement plan for both of our players."

  Jason was given player Douglas James to manage. A newly drafted basketball player for New York City. Sounds like he wants us working even further together. Marisol is going to pee in her panties when I tell her.

  "Okay, sounds good," I say casually.

  I watch as Jason crosses the street and then bends over and makes a complete circle around his car with his hands checking for scratches or dents. I'm not really surprised. He's already expressed his reservations about living in Brooklyn (he's a Jersey boy), and he definitely loves that car of his.

  I chuckle to myself as I'm reminded of Saint's comment about Jason possibly overcompensating with his car. Eh, like he's one to talk. I'm sure someone like Saint has a ton of expensive toys he uses to overcompensate his shortcomings with. Although I'd be hard pressed to name what one of his shortcomings would be.

  Oh that's right, his personality.

  I pour myself a mug of herbal tea and sit back down in front of the television, but this time with my laptop, so that I can take notes and start outlining a strategic plan. I've been thinking back on my conversation with Abby and it sparks something inside of me. If I'm ever going to show that I'm ready to be promoted to the next level, I'm going to have to make my mark with this Cro-Magnon athlete, and the only way to do that is to make the egomaniac some more money.

  So that's what I'm going to do.

  Chapter Ten

  SAINT

  I'm pretty sure that this day couldn't get any shittier. Even though it was only by a narrow margin, we still lost the game by a field goal. On top of that I'm going to be fined, because I didn't feel like answering any questions at the press conference after the game. They were dumb ass questions as usual, and I was pissed that they were waiting to throw daggers at me about my lack of performance. So I walked out.

  I can't believe that the league expects me to take that shit from those vultures week after week. I'm not a machine. I'm flesh and bones with fucking feelings believe it or not.

  I've been warned before by management to stop avoiding the press. That's why most games I try to answer some questions and avoid some of the others, but today I couldn't do it. We should have won that game and everyone knows it.

  Everyone blames me, because I'm the star. The draft pick that this city has been waiting eons for. Fans are chomping at the bit for me to deliver, and I wish I could, but not with this ragtag team of players I've got backing me.

  I can't wait for free agency status. Then I can finally leave New York. It would be the best thing for everyone involved. They don't want me anymore, and I don't want to be here. It's as simple as that. A
nd the icing on this shitstorm cake is that my family is here tonight, because I'm playing in my hometown of Philadelphia, one of the Nighthawks biggest division rivals.

  I feel a familiar and powerful thump on my back.

  "Tough loss today, Gunslinger."

  Kimball is the most respected veteran on the team and captain of the Nighthawk's defense. He knows how much I wanted to win this one for my hometown. Even though they're the competition, I realize that I have plenty of people who follow my career and kids who look up to me here, and I feel like I've let them down.

  "Yeah, it sucked ass."

  "No doubt, young boy, but let me tell you something a player once told me when I was a rookie. Everyone doesn't make it to the pros. It's not your right to be here. It's a privilege. And the real measure of how much you honor that privilege is how you face adversity when it meets you week after week on the field."

  "I'm trying my best, Kimball."

  "No, you aren't. Not by a long shot. Your head isn't right. I caught some of your games when you were in D.C. You're used to being the star of a team. The best player on that team. The best player in your division no doubt. But it's not like that in the pros, man. Everyone was the star of their college teams in the pros. Everyone was that go to player. So now you have to set yourself apart from an entire league of elite players. And the only way you're going to accomplish that magical shit is to get the fifty-three men here invested in helping you win week after week. That would be trying your best."

  "I would've thought that their paychecks would be all the motivation they needed to become invested in winning. That and the fact that losing sucks."

  "Then that's your first mistake, and one you've clearly been making your last three years here. Most football players aren't moved and shaken by dollars. Real warriors have to be motivated by something more. Something bigger than dollars and cents."