Tinsel & Trust
Chapter fifty-eight
Declan
Ispot Marlow’s father juggling boxes out of the back of the house while barking into the phone with Xavier Darcy and Will Huntley. All hands are in motion, which only drives home how big this really is.
I keep my head down, hoping to dodge him, but my new father-in-law has other plans.
“Hey, Dickless,” he calls out.
My jaw tightens. “It’s Declan.”
“Any man who marries my daughter without so much as meeting me first? Dickless. Now get over here and make yourself useful.”
Prick.
But I don’t say it out loud. Because the prick’s not wrong.
Where I come from, marrying a woman without her family’s blessing is grounds for exile.
And while Marlow’s dad isn’t some old-school patriarch, I still wish I’d had the chance to look him in the eye.
Tell him how much I adore his daughter before… well…defiling her.
So, I stand, cross the room, and take the boxes from him without complaint. They’re heavier than he makes them look, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of showing it. I follow him out toward the garage where he’s stacking everything in neat piles.
After a beat of silence, he looks at me with that sharp, assessing stare of his. “What the hell made you think it was a good idea to join a reality show the week before signing on with the Strikers?”
I set the boxes down, dust off my hands, and square my shoulders.
“Full transparency? I didn’t realize how…
real it would be. I thought it was for laughs, some light distraction before the season.
But once I met your daughter—” I stop, shaking my head as a humorless laugh slips out.
“Everything shifted. Everything became realer than I could’ve imagined.
She was real. The kind of real I didn’t even know I’d been waiting for… Sir.”
I clear my throat. The word tastes awkward on my tongue, but I’ve heard American men like being called that—and if there’s ever a man whose favor I need, it’s his.
Marlow might be mad at her father right now, but when she talks about him when he’s not around, it’s different.
Like she forgets to be angry. Like she still sees him as her hero.
I feel like I know him already. And it’s clear—she thinks the world of him.
So I try to build some semblance of a rapport with him. Because making her happy means trying.
The prick studies me, skeptical but strangely quiet, like maybe—for the first time—he’s reconsidering the version of me he’s already decided on.
Maybe I’ll do the same. Because no matter how much Marlow adores him, I’ve always had questions.
What kind of father parades women through the media like that?
I know their bond is different. I get that.
But still—I can’t help but blame him for how long it took her to trust me. To lean on me. To believe in love. Us.
“I saw your interview,” he finally says. “With that dumbass comment about the team. You’ve really gone and made a mess of things. The guys are pissed.”
I drag a hand through my hair and shake my head. “I know. And I swear I’ll fix it. I just don’t know how yet.”
“Xavier Darcy has ideas,” Grant mutters. “But you’re not going to like them.”
I frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly.” He gives me that pointed look. “Just know this, those guys don’t take kindly to being deceived. And they’ll make you pay for it.”
When it comes to being part of a team—this team in particular—I don’t take it lightly.
I show up. I make sure the new guys feel welcome, that no one’s left behind, that everyone knows they belong.
I’ve carried bags, stayed late, hell, I’ve even sat through hours in a high-end strip club just so Matteo could cram for his college entrance exams without feeling alone.
That’s what team means to me—sacrifice, loyalty, showing up no matter what.
So the fact that this—my mistake, my recklessness—has derailed the progress I’ve made, has put a crack in the trust I’ve been building with the Strikers, it guts me. And I mean it when I say I’ll do anything to make amends. Anything to prove I belong here.
“Do you think they’ll forgive me?” The words leave me quieter than I intend, heavier than I want my new father-in-law to hear.
The prick doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me for another beat before finally saying, “If you tell them how you fell for my daughter—the same way you just told me—I think they might.”
I nod, taking that in. Then we head back inside. Grant goes straight to the bar, grabs two glasses, and pours us each a drink.
“You like scotch?”
“I prefer red wine, but scotch is fine for the occasion.”
He raises a brow. “What occasion is that?”
“That you didn’t murder me for marrying your daughter.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.”
He hands me the glass. I raise mine. “I hear congratulations are in order for you too?”
“Let’s not celebrate just yet. Not until we see if Marlow let her live. They’ve been in the study for a while now, and it’s gotten awfully quiet.”
“Yeah. Your daughter’s pretty violent when she wants to be.”
“She throws things,” we both say at the same time. That earns a laugh and a toast from my father-in-law—the prick.
Right on cue, the study door opens and my wife and Coach Saunders step out. Their eyes are red, proof they’ve been crying, but the smiles on their faces tell me it wasn’t for nothing. Whatever happened in there, it mattered—and it worked.
Thanks Nonna.
And like a couple of idiots in love, me and the prick just stand there—grinning like fools at the women we call ours.
Marlow
When Eslin and I step out of the study, my chest feels hollow and full all at once.
The tears dried on my face aren’t pretty, but the smile tugging at my lips is real.
She and I finally said the things we needed to say—the ugly, the honest, even the ones that hurt—and somehow, it stitched us back together.
My eyes sweep the room until they land on my dad. His expression softens the way it always does when he sees me. I square my shoulders and force the words out before I can chicken out.
“Daddy,” I say, voice low. “I’m sorry. For making it seem like you were the only one who could derail my career.
That wasn’t fair. The truth is…I carry just as much responsibility for that.
And, as luck would have it, it’s my scandal—the mess I created—that could undo everything for me and everyone else. ”
Something shifts in his gaze, and before I can say anything else, Dad pulls me straight into his chest. His arms are solid, grounding, and for a second I let myself sink into it like I did when I was a little girl.
“No more secrets,” he murmurs into my hair.
I nod against him, whispering back, “No more lies.”
“Never again,” he promises.
When he finally lets me go, he reaches for Eslin, pulling her close too. She startles at first, then melts against him, and I open my arms wide, stepping in so we’re all wrapped up together.
It feels like a choice—his, mine, all of ours. A quiet promise that we’re a family now. That no matter how messy or complicated it gets, Eslin belongs here too. She’s home.
***
By Sunday, Eslin, Dad, and even Declan have all thrown themselves headfirst into crisis clean-up mode.
But Saturday night felt like a different world—Eslin in the kitchen whipping up homemade hot cocoa, Declan pulling out his special biscotti recipe, the four of us ending the night with a ridiculous game of truth or dare just to peel back another layer and learn each other better.
For a while, it felt…normal. Like we weren’t patching together some messy, unconventional family, but stepping into one that had always been waiting for us.
And I love it here.
But Sunday isn’t about cozy. It’s about action. And the best thing about my family—and the ones who’ve stepped in when I’ve needed them—is that when it’s time to get down to business, no one wastes a second.
We call Tatum and the rest of the PR team, settle around the dining table, and dive headfirst into strategy mode.
Declan, suddenly the paranoid one about unsecured phones—a side of him that keeps peeling back more of who he really is—insisted everyone come to the lake house in person.
Daddy didn’t argue. In fact, he agreed right away, pointing out that Kennedy clearly had access to information he shouldn’t, and until we figured out his source, we needed to keep everything close to the chest.
Even Daddy’s blood seems to run cold when Declan mutters, “He’ll be handled by morning.”
None of us knows exactly what that means—and none of us dares to ask.
When the crisis team shows up, ideas fly fast—damage control statements, staged photo ops, spin tactics that might soften the scandal while keeping my job secure, my image intact, and my pregnancy hidden. Every option feels impossible, reckless, or both… until one finally lands.
“A Christmas wedding!” Tatum belts out.
I clutch my belly like I can already feel what’s growing inside. “I’m sorry, what?”
“O.M.G. It’s perfect!” Eslin claps, eyes shining.
I glance at my phone and the date, panic spiking. “It’s less than two weeks away!”
“I’m sorry, have you met your Stand-Ins?” Tatum fires back. “We could run the world with a smartphone and a Google calendar.”
“We’re not talking about some Halloween party or back-to-school bash, Tay! This is my life. My career. And a wedding thrown together in two weeks cannot be how it all comes to a head.”
Tatum reaches across the table and grabs my hand, steadying me in the midst of my spiral. “Look. I know you’ve only seen me pull off events that are all spectacle and champagne fountains. But I need you to hear me right now—this isn’t just about optics for the Strikers. This is about you.”
Eslin slides her hand on top of ours, grounding me with her calm as well.
“If you let us carry this with you—” she glances at Tatum, then back at me, her voice soft but certain, “—we’ll make it more than damage control.
We’ll make it beautiful. Intimate. Like it was always supposed to be this way. Like we’ve been planning it all along.”
I look between them, my heart squeezing. My new best friend and the woman who feels more like a sister every day—standing shoulder to shoulder, ready to fight for me, for us. For the family we’re somehow stitching together out of chaos.
It’s the only plan that makes sense. An announcement obnoxious enough to drown out whispers, turning the conversation from shame to celebration. Not a scandal—an event. Something bold and impossible to ignore.
Eslin and Tatum throw themselves into the details, sketching out ways to weave the team into every part of it—photo spreads, behind-the-scenes clips, even small personal touches that make each player visible.
Not props. Not background noise. Family.
The kind that fights, messes up, but still shows up when it matters.
“The story shifts from scandal to unity, framing the Strikers not as fractured, but as something stronger than ever,” Tatum adds.
Declan rubs a hand over his face. “A unit? How is that going to work if they’re all pissed at me from that interview?”
Eslin just smiles, her confidence cutting through the doubt. “More on that later. For now, we have less than two weeks to pull off a wedding so beautiful, so magnificent, that your little secret looks intentional.”
I glance at Declan, bracing myself. “And I know how much you hate doing interviews, but Tatum’s already lined up a series. Stories about us. Our life. Behind-the-scenes visits into our home.”
Eslin jumps in, practically glowing. “We’re calling it Sweet Home Americana,” she announces proudly. “After what you’ve nicknamed her.”
“I’m aware,” Declan deadpans, face flat, unimpressed.
Then his eyes find mine. “And you think this will help?”
I shrug, because what else can I do? “It’s the best shot we have.”
He exhales slowly, then shakes his head with the faintest smile. “I just want you to be happy. But if none of this works, I’m taking you to Argentina and getting you pregnant the first chance I get.”
Daddy clears his throat, pointed and deliberate, reminding me that the secrets in this room don’t belong to me alone. “I don’t have any oaths to live by like Eslin does. If you don’t tell him, I will,” he warns.
Declan’s head snaps to me. “What’s the pr—” he stumbles, correcting himself, “What’s your father talking about?”
I let out a long sigh, slip my hand into his, and tug gently. “Come on, husband. Let’s take a walk by the lake so I can tell you about the birds and the bees.”
Five minutes later, Declan is tearing around the lake, arms in the air, shouting, “Gooooaal!” before stripping down and cannonballing straight into the water.
Guess he’s happy.
We’re having a baby.