Page 3 of Always Earned, Never Given

Two years later

“Could I take a selfie with you, Declan?” the pretty waitress asks as she drops the check on the table in front of me.

I lean in without touching her and smile for her selfie while my sister, Nattie, tries hard not to laugh. We’re used to this. We come from this. Our mother is a retired model, and our father played professional football before he started coaching. We’ve had media coaching for years, and yet, it’s not really something I’ve ever become comfortable with.

Used to it—yes. Comfortable with it—no.

When I was drafted last spring to the Philadelphia Kings, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Every football player dreams about being a first-round draft pick. Hell, most just dream of being drafted in general. But I was drafted by my own father, complicating things.

Joe Sinclair is in his second year as the head coach for the Kings. His first season didn’t go so well when both his starting and backup quarterbacks suffered career-ending injuries. He needed a quarterback he could count on, so he took me.

My dad’s a fucking awesome coach, but nobody thought it was a good move, me included. But you don’t get to choose which team drafts you.

The first headline I saw was “Declan Sinclair Drafted By Daddy.”

Every sportscaster in Philadelphia has been talking about it for months.

Will I live up to the hype?

Did my dad show the ultimate case of nepotism?

Can I help the Kings have the winning season this year that eluded them last year?

Not to mention that the owner of the team died last year while he was in bed with a very pretty twenty-five-year-old model, while his very pretty twenty-five-year-old former Olympic figure skater wife was pregnant with his eighth kid. The team has been tabloid fodder ever since.

The upside of being drafted to Philly is that I live in the same city as one of my siblings for the first time since I left for Notre Dame five years ago. My sister, Nattie, and I have a standing Tuesday morning breakfast date. She’s a freshman at the local university, living off campus with her boyfriend, Brady, and two friends.

When the friendly waitress walks away, Nattie throws a piece of bacon at my head. “Have you heard from Cooper?” Cooper is my little brother and her twin. He’s currently killing it in Navy bootcamp.

“Not since last week. You?” I pick the bacon up and put it back on her plate. Can’t eat that shit during the season.

“Me either,” she frowns.

My phone rings, and I groan. I’d normally ignore a call when I’m with my sister, but I can’t. “It’s Dad,” I tell her before answering. “Hello?”

“Declan, why do you sound like that? Are you still in bed?”

Tuesdays are our only day off during the season. I may sleep a little later, but not nine in the morning late. “I’m at breakfast with Nattie, Dad. What’s up?”

“Hi, Daddy,” Natalie calls, smiling from across the table.

“I need you to meet me at the office today at ten.”

I check my watch. “That’s in thirty minutes, Dad. What’s going on? Why the last-minute meeting?”

We’re eight games into the season with eight more to go. We’ve won six of those eight games, but our back end is loaded with division rivals. The pressure is mounting, and my game is dissected second by second every day. At least the nationally televised assholes only do it during pre- and post-game shows. Last night, the local sports show spent half the program discussing whether I was worth the salary they’re paying me or whether I’m a vanity project for an ambitious father. It doesn’t help that one of my teammates and I have a rocky history, perfect for the tabloids, and that we lost on Sunday. I’m guessing this has something to do with the need for a meeting today.

“Nothing to be worried about. I need you to meet with the GM and me. Ten o’clock, Dec. Don’t be late.” He clears his throat before adding, “And bring me a coffee.”

The phone clicks off, and I close my eyes. Tuesdays are sacred.

No practices.

No weightlifting.

No meetings.

Coach’s rules.

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