Ever since my eighteenth birthday almost a month ago, the dynamic between Saint and me has changed. I don’t know how to quite describe it, but there’s a warmth whenever he’s around. What used to be filled with animosity is now laced in stolen glances and short embraces whenever we meet. It’s as if it’s normal—the expected—as if he isn’t the man I despised for three years straight for slaughtering my flowers.
Every time I look at Saint Lisconti now, my chest erupts in violent butterflies. It never stops. Especially not right now as Saint dives into the ocean water seconds after my father.
It’s the start of May and although not summer, it certainly feels like it with how warm and sultry Sacramento currently is. I wouldn’t be lying if I said the combination of my father’s best friend and a little eye candy never hurt anybody. That and a huge pair of sunglasses to hide the fact that I haven’t taken my eyes off Saint since the start of our day trip to Stinson Beach this morning.
For a few weeks now, Saint’s been talking about this stunning beach being one of Northern California’s best hidden gems. My father has always been adamant to go, and the timing was perfect with a freed-up weekend and a belated birthday getaway.
It was a two-hour drive from Sacramento to Stinson Beach, one that was filled with writing my own poetry, impromptu karaoke tunes from my father, and Saint driving his sleek Maserati. Two hours filled with stealing glances at Saint. There’s this burning fire inside of me, this heat whenever he’s near, and being confined in a car with this man and not being able to talk to him like I do because my father was in the front seat was a challenge.
I found it impossible to zone out of the conversations he was having with my father about work, boxing, UFC, and solid guy talk because I was so intrigued to hear his wise opinions and thoughts. There were times during the drive up here where I was pretending to go through my poetry book, but instead was listening to the conversation. To Saint’s sexy gravelly voice, which I swear I could listen to forever. On and on and on.
We haven’t messaged since he sent me that cupcake. I didn’t mention it to my father and Saint never did either. So, the gift became our little secret. There wasn’t any harm in it. It was simply a treat.
During the hour and a half mark, just when I thought Saint wasn’t looking, I glanced up at the rearview mirror, only to find his deep ocean eyes lift and find mine at the exact same moment.
At. The. Exact. Same. Second.
It was so synchronized, as if we planned it. My father was too busy looking out the window at the scenic route to notice. The warm Californian heat through my opened car window blew through my hair as I flashed Saint a bright smile, and he returned it. And although moments after he slid his black aviator sunglasses on, that smile didn’t fall from his lips the rest of the drive.
Saint’s hype for this beach is paying off. It’s gorgeous. This is my place, he said as we stepped out of his car. But right now, I so desperately want this to be our place.
The refreshing scent of the ocean… Willow trees that make up some of the green hills behind me that work to seclude some of the long expanse of the beach to the quaint little town… The sandy, clean coastline surrounding some rocky cliffs farther east… The endless channels of water swiftly moving strong waves from the shore out to the North Pacific Ocean…
So beautiful.
For the past few hours here, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off Saint. Lying down on my front, my breasts squeeze against the yellow and white striped beach towel and warm sand surrounds me as I set my poetry book beside me, letting go of the words hammering my brain. Those can wait. What’s unfolding in front of me can’t.
Saint resurfaces from the water looking like a god and says something to my father before both men throw their heads back in laugher. Despite all the people crowded around at the beach, I can’t seem to look away from Saint and at just how perfectly his toned biceps tense as he rakes his hands through his wet dark hair, effortlessly slicking it back as if he’s on a shoot for Men’s Health magazine and they need a sexy slow motion of him exiting the water.
Saint’s definitely a walking (or in this case, swimming) sex god. Like a twisted fantasy I can’t get out of my mind. The longer I let my eyes take in the way his beautiful European olive skin becomes bronzed in the hot Californian sun, the more I want to trace my fingertips over every one of his tattoos as he explains the meaning behind them all.
The more I want to put my mouth to work and kiss every inch of his skin.
The more I want his hands to slide across every single part of my body and recklessly ease the current throbbing between my thighs as I squeeze my legs together.
Truthfully… I just want him. All of him.
But I know Saint can never be mine or want me in the way I so desperately need him.
I haven’t taken a dip in the water yet and although today’s plan was to act normal, that all changed when Saint stepped through my front door with just a pair of white swim shorts and a white T-shirt. The moment we embraced to say hello, a few seconds were enough to feel every single inch of him through his clothes and my white embroidered sundress. The hardness of his abdominal muscles. The strength of his board chest and shoulders. The heat in the hand that rested on my lower back.
I almost melted right there and then, which definitely wouldn’t have been a good look, especially with my father finalizing his beach bag upstairs. Saint and I pulled away and the second those blue eyes met mine, my blush deepened. In a bid to break the ice, I flopped my hands about like a pigeon under attack and smiled, muttering something stupid about our clothes matching color, then proceeded to accidentally brush my hand over his crotch through his swim shorts when I clasped my hands in front of me.
Yeah… I almost died right there and then.
I think I said I was sorry about five times in a row and was expecting some sly smartass comment from him, but there weren’t any. I don’t know if it was because of my father’s soft footsteps approaching down the stairs and Saint didn’t want him involved in our conversation, but Saint just continued gazing down at me. The sexy flame in his eyes persisted in rupturing with awe as he smirked, then spun to meet my father by the stairs as if nothing had happened.
That incident is the reason why I haven’t left this spot on the sand all day. I told them it was because I wanted to get some poetry down, when in reality even after the two-hour car ride, I’m still reeling from being so close to Saint’s cock… his semi-hard cock.
I rub a hand over my face just thinking about it. God, I’m such a mess.
Not even a hot mess. Just a mess.
Biting my lower lip, I stretch out my legs as I attempt to stop myself from writing the lines of poetry that haven’t stopped playing in my mind for the past hour…
Sometimes I see you and it’s as if I’m floating,
Into another world, with or without you
I shake my head to myself. No. I’m not going there. Writing poetry about Saint is the definition of forbidden. He’s off-limits. He’s older. He’s the complete opposite of me.
Don’t go there.
Saint and my father are talking amongst themselves, throwing a football to each other in the shallow area of the water as if I didn’t need to see more of his gorgeous arms flexing at every move.
With his back to me, my father is closest to the shore, while Saint is on the other side, practically forcing me to watch them play a mixed game of water polo meets tennis.
Okay, maybe not forcing… more like tempting.
Pulling off my sunglasses, my eyes squint at just how bright it is. Jesus, so this is what Damon Salvatore feels like during the day. I slip them back on. Where I’m lying is close to the water, so I can see them well.
For a split second, Saint’s eyes find mine and I swear it’s all in my head until it happens for a second time. This time, longer… much longer. My entire body feels like it’s on fire and it’s torture the way I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, thump after thump after thump.
Do something, Paisley.
Don’t just stare.
Grinning, I raise my hand and wave to him. Great. Now you seem obvious. And desperate.
Saint shoots me a lopsided smirk and it lingers on, even when he focuses back on my father.
Sometimes I see you and it’s as if I’m floating,
Into another world, with or without you
With your ocean eyes
My flowers will never die
Just as I’m about to pick up my poetry notebook, a loud bang has me rushing a hand to my heart and glancing over at my father and Saint. My father bursts out in laughter, and Saint joins along as he shouts, “Oops! My bad!”
“What happened?” I call out, my heart beginning to calm.
Saint gestures behind me and I turn, finding the football by the bottom of the huge green hill, a little farther away. “Guess my aim was off. Wasn’t concentrating and threw too far.”
I glance between the football, Saint, and my dad numerous times before returning his ocean blue gaze. “Want me to get it?”
“Nah, I’ll come over. Wouldn’t want to disturb the poet.” The Devil of Sacramento grins, jogging out of the water. My pulse rises when he turns to walk my way and… holy fuck.
Someone hand me a fan. Right. Now.
Gulping down, I can’t help but roam my eyes down the length of Saint’s body and take in every. Single. Inch. Of. Him. He’s dripping in water, his entire body this dreamy glistening wonderland as I eye his defined V-line, alongside the sexy trail of short dark hair below his navel that disappears into the waistband of his swim shorts and the dark tattoos that lace certain areas of his skin… and that’s not even the start of it.
Those white swim shorts cling to his toned thighs, almost transparent and taunting me with the slightest outline of his cock, which leaves nothing to the imagination. Ohmygod. This moment is so freaking hot. I feel my nipples harden and poke through the material of my bikini top. Biting my lower lip, the smile on my lips doesn’t fade as I ask myself why the most mysterious man I’ve ever met has to be the most blessed.
Almost nearing me, Saint catches me red-handed checking him out, and that damn cocky grin rises, killing me a little more with those gorgeous dimples and the quick wink he shoots my way when all my father can see is his back.
It’s then—when Saint is moments from passing me—I feel my father’s eyes switch to me and I automatically grab my notebook the most subtle I can, alongside my pen.
Shit. Shit. Shit. That was too close. Too close.
I continue writing the piece of poetry about Saint, adding God knows what to it as long as it seems I wasn’t just ogling a man I shouldn’t be.
Sometimes I see you and it’s as if I’m floating,
Into another world, with or without you
With your ocean eyes
My flowers will never die
Oh my good God.
Oh my good God.
You, Paisley Reign, you’re going to hell after this.
“Writing about me, huh?” Saint’s sexy, raspy voice so close has me gasping and sitting up quickly. I turn to find him crouching down beside me, those amused eyes on me.
Of course that smirk is still there. At this stage, it’s his trademark.
Breathe.
“Oh, please.” I laugh nervously, rolling my eyes as I nonchalantly set the notebook on my lap facing down. “I’ve got better things to do than to lose my mind over you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Hmmm, interesting,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw, the other holding the football. “Thought I saw ocean eyes on there…”
Shit.
I shrug casually. “I could have been writing about anybody.”
“Who else do you know with blue eyes?”
Only you.
I almost laugh. “God, Saint, it’s not like you’re the only person in the world who has blue eyes!”
“Oh, I know.” He chuckles. “But I’m just intrigued to know who else you know with blue eyes. It’s pretty rare to come across.”
“Personally?”
“Mhmmm.”
Literally nobody but you.
“Why do you want to know?” I tease, arching a playful brow. “Jealous or something?”
Saint rolls his eyes, that smirk still on his lips as he casts a glance at my father. Dad’s completely oblivious to the conversation, talking to two enthusiastic male surfers who just jogged down the shore.
Oh, thank God. He won’t let them go now for ages. My father’s always been fascinated by riding the waves. I remember he once told me that when I was a few months old, he brought me to a beach with my mother. With them both being such young parents at twenty-two, any zest for adventure in their lives had to be put on hold. Yet, that summer day pro surfers were teaching surfing lessons and my father was so adamant to join. He would have if it wasn’t for my mom, who practically swore to never forgive him if something tragic happened while he was riding a wave and she was left with me on her own. A lump still forms in my throat at the words she spoke about me to him.
Saint’s eyes turn back to me. “I’m not jealous, just want to know who the bastard is so your father and I can kick his ass.”
Every single inch of me craves his touch so badly. Boldness takes over as I lean forward, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Okay, I’ll stop playing,” I whisper softly. “It is about you. Now what?”
When I pull back, I ignore my rapidly beating heart and graze my tongue across my lower lip, wetting it in the California heat. That’s when Saint’s piercing gaze lingers on my lips. I certainly don’t anticipate the soft moan that escapes his throat. It’s so unexpected and… sexy.
“Got a little crush, Pais?” Saint teases with a chuckle.
“As if!” I laugh and playfully shove his chest, feeling his warmth transfer through me. But Saint’s an intelligent man and I swear sees straight through my lie as my cheeks burn up.
As our laughter fades, this thick tension between us reemerges. A hot, angsty tension that’s so sexually driven, for me anyway. It only gets worse as Saint sets the football down on the sand and takes a seat beside me on the beach towel, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, and hands effortlessly pressed behind him on the sand to hold him up.
Slipping off my sunglasses, I set them on my notebook and sit up to match his pose, crossing my legs over each other. I sneak a glance at my father, who’s still engrossed with the surfers as they talk while gesturing to their boards and to the sea. But when I turn back to Saint, I find his hot gaze never left mine. Yet, the second I catch him, he glances in the distance behind me, as if it’s been where he’s been looking all along.
The biggest smirk sprawls on my lips. Yeah, I totally saw that, Saint.
“You’re not going back in the water?” I ask.
Saint shakes his head. “Nah, not for now. Going to take a breather. Your father doesn’t seem like he’s missing me too much.”
“The Saint Lisconti just got replaced. How does that feel?” I tease.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You’re good at this game of avoidance.”
“Thank you. Just call me Ocean Eyes from this point forth,” he jokes, rising his right hand and motioning it in a horizontal line in the air as if he’s reading a headline. “Ocean Eyes, the face of the man troubled by avoidance, replacement and stepping on flowers seven days a week. Any inquiries, just call Paisley Reign. Actually don’t, she’ll lock herself out of her house getting to you.”
I practically roll my eyes as Saint looks back at me with the sexiest, naughty grin. “Gee, thanks. You really know how to make a woman feel special.”
His grin fades and he gets all serious with a clenched jaw. “No, I really don’t.”
“Bullshit. Let’s face it, you’re hot and you work in a fitness studio. I’m sure women go crazy for you.”
“Did you just swear? And, hold the fucking phone, did you just call me hot?” Saint laughs, snapping out of his gloom in two seconds. “’Cause that’s when I stopped listening.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
“I don’t know, am I that predicable?”
It’s ironic how a group of four guys around my age walk past us at that exact moment. One catches my eye and throws me a wink, a sly smirk on his lips as he nods toward me.
“She’s with me, fuckers. Keep. Fucking. Walking.” Saint growls and the guys take one look at the man beside me before apologizing and practically speed walking away.
That’s when I finally roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile on my lips as I turn to Saint. It takes a full moment for his narrowed gaze and clenched jaw to ease and move off the guys who are now well away from us and return to me.
“So predictable.” I nod, all flustered, nibbling on my lower lip, and his eyes drop there for the second time today. His gaze darkens and I squeeze my thighs closer together, the need to have his hands all over my body reaching its peak. I want that thrill. That desire. That escape.
But I’m forced to let it go. Nothing can happen. Not with this.
Just then, a thought crosses my mind.
“Who’s Lea?” I ask softly.
Saint’s eyes widen a fraction, and his body freezes up at the question, but he recovers well, stabilizing himself with a thick gulp. “Somebody I knew… I’d prefer not to talk about her.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t know that—”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know. Don’t apologize.”
Silence falls between us. I can’t look away from him, or just how cloudy his gaze on the water becomes. It’s almost as if they’ve been laced in coldness, a coldness I feel so guilty of because I was the one to bring up Lea. Now I know it’s a sensitive topic for him.
She means something to him.
It doesn’t matter how much I love the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the birds chirping in the distance, and the way people’s voices travel so smoothly across the beach, in this moment they all fade away. Nothing matters to me but how bad I feel that I’m the reason his defenses are back up, like I’ve prolonged the shattering of something inside him when it was already so irretrievably broken to begin with.
“Saint?” I whisper, hoping to get his attention.
Nothing.
Reaching out a hand, the air becomes thick as I cup the back of his neck. I feel my pulse in my fingertips as my digits glide up over his warm skin and softly run through his damp, dark hair. His eyes shut at the action, a low hum escaping his lips as he lowers his head, allowing me to take over.
“You’re quiet,” I murmur, a small smile rising at the way his body relaxes in my touch. “I’m not used to you being quiet.”
“Just thinkin’.”
“Okay.”
I hate how I need to look away from Saint to glance over at my father. Still in the clear. As much as I don’t want it to, my left hand slips away from him and returns to my lap. Saint’s eyes remain shut, so I look out at the water instead, prepared to tell him my truth and hoping it will bring us even closer.
“I used to go to a beach just like this when I was younger. My nana June and I practically lived there. When she passed, I was so torn, I used to swim out so far into the ocean, trying to find an escape from the world. I thought if I swam far enough, everything would just fade away and be better. I felt so lost. I just wanted to find a reason to breathe again without her.”
“Did you find a reason?”
You’re my reason.
“I didn’t then.” I turn to him and smile. “I might have now.”
Those piercing blue eyes stare at me for the longest time. He doesn’t give me anything, not a smile, not a light in his eyes, no indication of how little or how deep my words have hit. Instead, Saint is somber and looks at me as if he has an ache in his chest he doesn’t know how to alleviate.
“Before I started up boxing…” he begins, his voice so intimately low. “I hit this dark period in my life. I remember one night, I came to this beach past closing time and I just started swimming out to sea, not caring where I’d go. I guess looking back, I was looking for that escape too, just like you. That sense of just feeling nothing. Numb. I wanted to be numb.”
“Why?”
Saint lets out a sigh. “You really care?”
“You know I do.”
“Because… I didn’t feel capable enough. I still don’t. I still don’t feel like I’m enough when it comes to certain aspects of my life. It’s like I’ve failed. Another version of me would have been married, with a family by now. Instead, I have no fucking idea where I am, how I got here, or what I want.”
“You’re enough,” I whisper, reaching out to clasp his right hand, and it’s then I notice the long white scar that runs from the center of his hand to the pad of his thumb. “I know you may not always feel it, but believe me when I say you have a heart of gold underneath. You’re always here for me. Let me be here for you.”
Saint shakes his head and lets go of our intertwined hands. “You don’t understand the brunt of my life, Paisley.”
“Then help me understand.”
“No, you shouldn’t give a shit about me. You should just be concentrating on school, on your future. You’re far too beautiful and intelligent to care about me. If your father were right here beside us—”
“I don’t care about what he thinks. I’m not letting go of my truth.”
“What is your truth?”
I can’t back down from a stare so intense. This is it. The moment.
I swallow my pride and say, “That I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re my escape… my reason.”
Once more, Saint shakes his head adamantly and a piece inside me breaks. “I’m on your team, Paisley, but that doesn’t mean I’m your escape or your reason. I’m not your reason. I can’t be that for you.”
I’m on your team, Paisley.
“I can’t help the way I feel.”
“Please,” Saint whispers, his pained eyes never leaving mine as he lifts my left hand to his soft lips, holding only the fingertips. Starting with my pinkie, he softly kisses my every knuckle anti-clockwise with each staccato word he says…
“Please.” Kiss.
“Stop.” Kiss.
“Thinking.” Kiss.
“About.” Kiss.
Saint tilts his head, finding my thumb’s knuckle, and whispers, “Me.” Kiss.
Oh. My. God.
And then, Saint lets go and it feels like the air has ripped out of me. Like I can’t breathe. Like I can’t… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the guilt that flashes across his eyes as he shifts them from me to my father, who’s still with the surfers.
Before I can say anything, Saint stands and jogs back toward the water with tense shoulders. He never turns back. He simply rushes away, as if nothing happened. As if my heart isn’t destined to burst out of my chest any minute now… because of him.
Gulping down, I flash my father a fake smile as he parts from the surfers and begins to walk back up to shore to me. “Oh, Paisley, wait until I tell you everything I just learned from those two legends. What do you say I finally take up surfing in a couple of years?”
“If anybody can do it, it’s you, Dad.”
“See, I know I can always rely on you, sweetheart.” He grins, jogging backward toward the water again. “Are you coming in the water with Saint and me?”
“I think I’ll stay by the sand today. This scenery is good for poetry… very inspiring.”
My father simply nods and gestures toward the water. “All right, I’ll be here. Happy writing, sweetheart.” And then he’s off, diving into the water and swimming toward Saint.
I shouldn’t be thinking about his best friend in his moment. About the man eighteen years older than me. About the bad boy neighbor who’s swimming in the clear waters several feet away. Yet I can’t help it. He’s all I can think about.
My gaze stays on Saint and it all crumbles away. It’s as if my heart ricochets, exploding bullets of both heartache and thrill. And it’s enough to confirm it all for me.
It’s not going to be that easy to forget you, Saint.
The thoughts of Saint and the words he spoke linger in my mind all night and the following morning. At school, studying for my upcoming finals is the best distraction. But as the bell rings for lunch and I make my way to the library, the thoughts of him come back in waves.
Please. Stop. Thinking. About. Me.
I shake away the echoes of Saint’s words and enter the library. The library. I love it here and it feels safe from the world in these four walls, especially after Erik Sanders—the senior year jock—gave me the stink eye in English class this morning just because I was the only one who could recite an entire piece of Sylvia Plath’s poetry.
Erik hasn’t spoken a word to me during high school, but as the weeks shorten until finals and graduation, lately I feel his eyes on me whenever I cross him in the hall. In fact, during lunch last week, I had to pass his group to get to the library and heard him call out my name. I turned and saw Erik smirking at me, his arm wrapped around his girlfriend’s waist. My entire body felt numb as he nodded toward the books in my hands and shouted, “Trying to make yourself disappear into those books, Loser?”
Erik’s entire group erupted out into mocking laughter, while I simply squeezed my lips shut. I wanted to tell him where exactly to go, but I didn’t want to cause any trouble or drama in my last weeks of high school, so I continued my walk toward the library as if nothing ever happened, yet my heart darkened at his words, which dug into the back of my head.
Trying to make yourself disappear into those books, Loser?
As I step into the library now, I love how much it is my haven. The place I go to during lunch when I want to escape the madness of senior year and get lost in poets and complete solitary. I’ve never been one to be fortunate enough to find loyal friends and God knows I’m not the type of person to be a part of the popular crowd or attend parties every Saturday night as if life depends on it. Nothing makes me happier than some warm green tea, poetry, and flowers. I don’t really need anything or anybody else. Honestly.
Being friends with the nerd turned cocky quarterback jock? No, thank you.
The catty cheerleader who puts you on her hit list if you glance at her current boyfriend of the week for two seconds? Yeah, I’ll pass.
The class clown who’s always getting suspended? Don’t think so. I’m actually dedicated to studying for finals until my eyes bleed. Yeah, I wish that were an exaggeration.
The mean girl who blows her college scholarship because of a DUI? Goodbyeeee.
Times like these, I’m almost glad it’s just me, myself, and I just like that G-Eazy song says. I don’t exactly have many friends… well, none to be honest. I guess it’s a combination of something inside me holding me back from being completely myself in front of others and trusting them to have my back. It’s hard to get close to somebody when you know that you’re either going to end up strangers or are one day going to suffer through the pain of losing them.
Until he came along and changed all the rules… Saint.
His words don’t stop echoing in my head.
Please stop thinking about me.
A thought comes alive in my mind. Look up one of his fights, Paisley. I shake my head to myself. No, no, I couldn’t possibly do it. Saint told me himself that he didn’t want me to see that side of him. As curious as I am, I need to respect his wishes. It’s only right.
But is it really? The devil on my shoulder taunts me. The whole world has seen his fights. Why can’t you?
I sit down on the plush carpet in the corner of the library and press my back against the wall, my fingers tracing against the smooth edges of my laptop, adamant not to open it up and type in his name. The entire thing is so crazy to me. The thought alone of typing up Saint’s name and pressing enter feels borderline stalkerish seeing as I know him personally.
“You’re going to hell, Paisley,” I murmur to myself as I flip up my laptop’s lid and start typing up his name on Google. My heart is beating out of my chest as I glide my pointer finger across the mouse pad, hovering the mouse right on top of search.
Click it.
Click it.
Click it.
Shutting my eyes, I slam my laptop shut and let out a suffocating sigh.
I can’t.
That devil on my shoulder resurfaces and the raging fire of curiosity in the pit of my stomach grows.
Do it.
Opening my laptop, I click search and halt my breath as I wait for the information to load. I don’t know what I’m about to uncover. All I do know is there’s something Saint’s hiding. Something he doesn’t want me to know.
Oh. My jaw drops at the gorgeous blue-eyed man grinning back at me on the screen. God, he’s so beautiful. Saint’s definitely been downplaying just how successful he truly is because as I click through his Google pages of images, videos, and news updates, each section is flooded with thousands of photographs, post-fight interviews, and current updates of him.
My God…
Pulling my laptop closer to me, I return to the first page and begin reading.
Santo “Saint” Lisconti is an American former professional boxer who competed at an elite level from 2004 to 2014. Lisconti was born on June 3, 1981, in Santa Rosa, California. Aged 35, Lisconti was nicknamed “Saint” in his early career, an infamous ironic nickname due to his reckless, relentless, yet flawless boxing technique. In July 2014, Lisconti retired from boxing, winning his final match with style in an epic Vegas battle.
Lisconti is an only child and is of Italian descent, in which he is fluent, alongside Spanish. After graduating from Stanford University studying business, Lisconti undertook short education as a personal trainer before embarking on his boxing career at the end of 2004.
Noted for his piercing blue eyes, irresistible dimples, and tattoos, Lisconti has appeared in several magazines such as GQ, Men’s Vogue, and Men’s Health magazine, and is an ex-Olympic contender of boxing in London 2012 Summer Olympic Games. Despite his winning streak, unfortunately Lisconti needed to withdraw from the Olympics due to the sudden passing of his father. Alongside the successes in his life, tragedy has also blanketed Lisconti’s life. While he maintains an extremely confidential private life, in several interviews when asked of the motivation behind his passion for boxing, Lisconti stated the loss of somebody close to him following a tragedy that occurred in 2004 before his impeccable boxing career began. Lisconti has made no other comment on the details of the tragedy, despite rumors from numerous sources claiming the white scar on his right hand was sustained from it. Lisconti has neither addressed nor confirmed these rumors.
He currently resides in Sacramento and works as a personal trainer at his Sacramento based exclusive fitness studio, Fearless Fitness. Fearless Fitness was cofounded in 2015 by Lisconti and his ex-trainer, Nico Quivez, who is also an ex-boxer and MMA fighter.
In 2015, Lisconti also founded a charity—Silent Hearts—in which he has donated twenty percent of his prize winnings to assist sufferers of mental health, homelessness, and domestic violence. In December 2016, Lisconti’s net worth was assessed as $152 million, from prize winnings and endorsements.
My jaw drops at the words I read. Holy shit… Stanford? The Olympics? A charity?
Wow.
My heart expands at every single sentence. The fact that Saint was able to pick himself up after what seemed to be two terrible tragedies in his life is inspiring. Most recently, his father, and then thirteen years ago a tragedy I believe has to do with… Lea.
I may not always understand him, and we may come from two completely different worlds… but after reading what I did, I feel closer to him than ever before. My chest aches at all the heartache Saint’s had to endure, heartache I’m sure he’s told my father about. Truthfully, I know there’s only so much Saint and I have shared with each other, but I just don’t understand why he didn’t want me to discover this side of him, this sweet, generous side of him.
It’s as if all Saint wants me to see is the reckless side to him—not all the broken, generous pieces inside of him. Because after today, I know he has them. He’s just afraid to show them to me. A part of me wants to think he’s doing this to protect me, so I don’t grow too close, but it’s too late for that.
I open a new tab in Google and search up Lea and Saint Lisconti. Nothing. Nothing comes up at all. It’s almost as if Saint’s hidden Lea from ever being searched up or spoken about. Like he doesn’t want whatever happened shared with anybody but himself, which is understandable, yet leads to so much curiosity.
I shut my computer lid with this burning desire inside of me. And as I glance around the library to ease my mind, I realize I can’t tell Saint I searched him. He was adamant for me not to. There are only two ways I can go about this… let go of the way I feel for him or step into his world.
And as much as I know the answer that would save me from heartache and a friendship between him and my father, I’ve never been more enticed by that musky oak scent, the built-up vulnerability behind his tough exterior… from him.
As much as I want to step away, the second I step into my house later that afternoon and Saint is training my father with boxing drills in the backyard, all hope fades away. As our eyes meet, one single glance at his ocean eyes is all it takes for the throb between my thighs to intensify. One single glance and my heart tells me this has only just begun and the crazy thing about the heart is… it wants what it wants.
No matter how forbidden it may be, the heart always wins.
Always.
