She presses her lips together and then hisses, “Declan, you’re stuck with me for the next month, whether you like it or not. Please don’t make this so hard.”
“Whether I like it or not? I assure you, I like it. Not the worst consequence since you’re my teacher.”
She swats me. “Shh. We agreed that we don’t know each other.”
“Coach, I don’t think that’s in your book of manners.”
She presses her lips together as if torn inside.
Me too, Magie-lou. Me too.
“What about after thirty days?” I’m toeing the hard line Coach Hammer drew, but it’s near impossible not to because of my nature, and because of this force of nature in front of me with her long blonde hair and earthy hazel eyes. I never noticed Maggie’s lips until now. But they’re, well, they’re kind of shaped like a football. I mean that in the best way possible, with their fullness and the way they curve.
“After the thirty days, it’s probably best to keep our friendship quiet. I’d like to have a job next month too. I don’twant this,” she gestures between us, “to come back and bite me in the butt.”
The crackling inside distracts me as a smile grows on my lips. “Well, it sure as heck bit me on the butt. Bruiser Butt,”
Maggie presses her hand to her forehead. “You’re impossible. You know that?”
Arms crossed and rocking back, I say, “Actually, I’m interested in seeing what’s possible.”
Her eyes widen at the cryptic notion.
Forget Maggie’s petite little growl, a manly roar grows inside. I wipe my mouth with my napkin and toss it on the table. If I stay here a second longer, I’ll say something that could get me kicked off the team for breaking the rules. Not that it would be the worst possible thing that could happen. No, I’ve already experienced the worst possible thing. But I won’t jeopardize the other guys, no matter that the girl with the strands of sunset in her hair and sunrise sparkling in her eyes has woken something up in me that I thought had all but gone dormant.
As I exit, I grab my phone and then glance over my shoulder, snatching one more look at Maggie who, clear out of the blue, lit a fire inside me with her glowing skin, shiny hair, and a smile that is a gift to God’s creation.
I stride down the hall in the manor once owned by the royal family of Concordia, across the polished marble floor, past the lace curtains, and the gilded frames.
When I was a boy, never once did I fathom that I’d make it among the rich and elite. I grew up poor, and it was always a gamble to get a dollar, a hot meal sometimes, and clothes that would keep me from getting the snot kicked out of me.
Somehow, I found my way. Still, I’ve never gotten used to the extravagance and never tire of it either. I’ve quickly become accustomed to the finer things: several luxury cars to my name, big boy toys, a penthouse in Boston, a mansion in Los Angeleswhere the team practices in the offseason, and even a place back home I haven’t seen since I bought it with my first paycheck. Even if I don’t live there, I wanted to be the first Printz to own a piece of property in the city that all but spit me out. I vow to return to Dublin someday, but not until Aunt Maureen needs me.
Back in my room, several newspapers are arrayed on the table. One with the headlineFull Moon Over Bostoncatches my eye. I chuckle. Seems the news was a little late making its way to Concordia. Then I realize the paper is from Ireland. Perhaps my manager or someone on the team sent the paper over—that’s the kind of mild practical joke I’d pull. I don’t mind the press, even though they routinely accuse me of being a peacock, always preening and posing for the cameras. I used to relish the attention. More and more often lately, I find myself wanting to return home at the end of the day for a quiet night in. Am I getting old? They say football can age a man twice as fast.
I’m a known prankster, but never intended this one to turn into a scandal. Over the years, the team and I have been part of numerous publicity stunts, bar brawls, and pranks—the Bruisers have a reputation to uphold as being the meanest and toughest team in the league.
Of all the things, though, the mooning had to get photographed and splashed all over the news? It went viral. I wonder who captured the moment. One of the officials? The commissioner himself? Elyse?
Before Maggie imprisoned my phone, I’d glimpsed calls and messages from my agent, publicist, and a few updates from the guys talking about our new “coaches.” Then there was one from a foreign number. The one I recognized but don’t want to think about.
Why did Mrs. O’Mealley call? Do I really want to know?
As a boy, I’d been bullied but quickly toughened up. Fell in love and just as quickly lost it. After that, I found myself in heaps of trouble—fighting and thefts mostly. Aunt Maureen took me off the city’s hands.
I try to push the memories away as I’ve always done. But curiosity wins. I pull out my phone.
Oddly, the lock screen is of a highland calf in a meadow and not of me pumping the air after the team had won the Super Bowl. The latest message is fromDad. I don’t have anyone with that contact name. I’ve never met my father.
When I type in the password, it fails and I realize I have Maggie’s phone.
14
MAGGIE
Dinner was a disaster. Not because Declan was utterly frustrating. But because my father had finally responded to the messages that I’d left, letting my parents know that I’d moved out of the country.
His response? He’d sent a thumbs up. That’s all. No inquiry about why or where. No,Hey, how’s it going, kid?
