Page 71 of Always Earned, Never Given

Declan

Ifucking hate team breakfasts before an away game. I love being part of a team, I’ve always thrived off the brotherhood. But the morning before a game, I’d rather be alone and getting mentally prepared than in this noisy conference room with forty other guys talking non-stop. This morning especially. They put a rush on Chip Martin’s interview and aired it last night, building the hype for today’s game. If we win today, we win the division title along with a bye week and home-field advantage for our first playoff game.

The pressure’s on.

Maybe if I cared about eating before a game, I’d enjoy it more.

There’s a long buffet table set up with everything you can imagine, from waffles and eggs to yogurt and granola. I’m waiting in line to get a smoothie and a slice of toast with almond butter when Dean Watkins makes his way over.

“Hey, Dec. Nice interview last night. You looked good, man.” He high-fives me. “Just ignore the shit they’re saying. The fucking assholes will say anything to get ratings.”

“The hell are you talking about?” My heart sinks as the words leave my mouth.

Curt Kenny is standing behind me in the buffet line. We’ve coexisted this season with as little interaction as possible, neither of us having gotten over what happened two years ago at Notre Dame. He leans into Dean and me. “Yeah, Dec. She’s hot, but that pussy better be twenty-four karat gold to deal with the fucked up brother that comes with her.”

My heart rate speeds up as my vision goes red. “What the fuck did you just say?”

His smile grows obnoxiously big. “I said she must be able to suck like a hoover or have a snappin’ pussy to deal with that fucking re—”

I earn the hothead title today when I punch him in the face. He stumbles back, falling into the buffet table. Silver chafing dishes of eggs and bacon fly everywhere as the table breaks beneath him. I feel the entire team jump up to separate us as Dean tries to pull me back and out of the commotion.

Curt struggles to get up and lunges for me. “You hit me over a fucking jersey-chasing piece of ass? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I rip myself out of Dean’s hold on a roar, trying to get to Curt. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, you piece of shit.”

Dad enters the fray with two other coaches and moves to stand between us. “Dec, go with Coach Scap. Curt, go with Coach Campbell.” When neither of us moves, he yells, “NOW!”

Coach Scap pushes me into one of the break-out rooms we’ve been using for meetings before asking me what happened.

“I need to see your phone, Coach.” Mine is in my room, and I need to know what Dean and Curt were talking about.

Thank God, Coach Scap unlocks it and hands it to me with no more questions.

When I start scrolling sports media, it’s everywhere.

Fuck.

I didn’t even watch the interview last night. I didn’t want to. But I did speak to Hunter and Scarlet afterward. They both said it went well. That’s all I cared about.

I talked to Belle this morning. She said she watched it, and I looked handsome. Apparently, it did go well because the analysts are all saying good things.

“First-round draft picks are high-risk gambles, but the Philadelphia Kings got themselves a franchise quarterback with Declan Sinclair.”

“A born leader.”

“Declan Sinclair had no problem stepping out of the shadow of his legendary father to show football fans what talent and determination can do.”

But then they go downhill from there and start talking about Annabelle and Tommy.

Fuck me.

“Is Declan Sinclair too good to be true? With his new fling’s tragic life, is she another burden he’s taken on?”

Dad walks into the room, and I spin, holding up Coach Scap’s phone. “Did you know? Did you see these?”

He looks to Coach Scap. “Can you give us the room, Scappy?”

“Yeah, Joe.” Scap holds his hand out for his phone. “We all gotta deal with this shit at some point, kid. You’ll get through it.”

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