“Getting revenge when you least expect it would be more satisfying. But considering all the rules at this place, it’s safe to assume we’re not supposed to know each other, Declan. We have to fake not having a friendship,” she whispers.
Shifting from foot to foot, I say, “I’m a football player, not an actor.”
“Thank goodness,” she mutters.
“And I apologize about the water guns. As I mentioned, I figured the guys from the team would be in here.”
“Didn’t you travel together?”
“The moment the plane landed in Concordia, I went to check out the city—Intherness.”
“Meaning you went MIA. No wonder you were late.” Disappointment laces her voice.
“The locals were nice enough. Unlike Wolf, Chase, and Grey, I’d heard about Concordia. Probably helps that it isn’t all that far from Ireland. But I’ve never been here. From time to time, while growing up, I’d encounter a Concordian—they speak English but with a distinct accent that sounds like a split between British English and French. Though it was never clear to me why they’d leave their home country. It’s among the wealthiest on the planet, even though it’s one of the smallest and most obscure. It has a timeless yet old-world feel. I instantly fell in love and thought of you—the two of us exploring the shops and cafes as we did in Boston so long ago. Too bad our trip here isn’t under different circumstances.”
“Nice try, Declan. Trying to kiss up to the teacher? Not going to work.”
That wasn’t my intent, though I admit that my stream-of-consciousness comment does sound a bit romantic. “Oh, so you play hardball? Conveniently, that’s my specialty.”
“Ha ha.” She steps closer, but I don’t see laughter on her face. “Listen, I need this job. I can’t have you trying to sabotage me on my first day.”
I give my head a little shake. “Hold up. Let’s catch up.”
“Remember our text exchange the other day?—?”
“Yeah. But you didn’t mention working as an etiquette coach. I’m just putting two and two together. When I imagined arriving at the Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia, I came up with a plan.” I wink. “Once my teammates were thoroughlysaturated with my smoking water guns, the teachers would parade in and formally introduce themselves. I was just told to show up at eleven. I thought it would be funny?—”
Wincing, she smooths her hair away from her face and opens her mouth to say more, but again, I interrupt. A viral video I saw on the flight flicks through my mind. “Wait, Maggie, were you?—?”
She dips her head, almost like she steps into her own shadow. It’s as if she knows and dreads what I’m about to ask. Unlike the water gun thing, the woman dressed as Cinderella falling into the fountain with some creepy kid wasn’t funny. The way he looked at the poor girl made me want to throw Cinderella’s glass slipper at him, but I lock down my questions, suspicions, and anger because she seems uncomfortable and likely still upset. I’ll address it later.
I change course, “How about we get you some dry clothes?” I unbutton my custom-tailored suit jacket. I may show up with water guns, but I’m no slouch. At least not when it comes to dressing properly. As soon as I was able to shrug off my uniform of hoodies and jeans, I invested in quality threads.
I loosen the top button of my pressed shirt, prepared to give it to Maggie. Looking up from the contents of the file—presumably a folder containing the misbehavior that landed me here—I start to unbutton my shirt.
Maggie waves her hands to stop me as her eyes widen. “My room is upstairs. I can go change.”
“Listen, I’m really sorry. I feel terrible. I truly thought—” Feeling awful, considering My Maggie-ee was quite likely the victim of the Cinderella Spill, I drape my suit jacket over her shoulders.
With an arched eyebrow, she says, “Apparently, you also thought the rookie player on the Boston Bruisers would be theonly person walking into the room when you and the other guys on your team decided to moon him.”
“So, you’re playing bad cop? That was usually my role.”
“Someone has to keep you in line.”
“And that’s going to be you?” I ask with a smile and an air of disbelief.
Stepping closer, I can’t help but smirk because her eyes finally take on some light, glowing slightly as if she remembers the fun we used to have.
“Declan, I need this job and if I’m not mistaken, you’d like to remain on the football team. You have to be on your best behavior and let me be your etiquette coach, not your Maggie-whatever.”
“In my defense—wait.” Once more, she gives me pause. “You read the article where we explained what had actually happened?”
Various news outlets reported that we’d intentionally mooned the commissioner. Ordinarily, I don’t object because, as far as I’m concerned, any press is good press. But in this instance, I’d prefer the truth and not end up on probation at a finishing school.
“What’s the real story?” she asks.
“We were just having fun with Brandon Campos, our newest player.”
