Candy Canes & Second Chances
Chapter fifty-nine
Declan
The cold shoulder has a way of sinking into your bones. The team hasn’t said much to me since the announcement—my wedding to one of the owners making me public enemy number one in the Strikers’ locker room. No outright blows, no screaming matches. Just silence. Cold, thick silence.
I can take a hit on the pitch, but this? This eats at me. Because I need them to trust me again. I need them to know I’m not here to screw them over.
Xavier Darcy and the Prick promised the guys had something planned. A way for me to earn my way back into their good graces. So far, though, the only plan I can see is pretending I don’t exist.
It’s December 16th, and Coach Saunders—always the genius at poking sore spots—asks us to share traditions from home. “Find the common ground,” she says. “Build some shared experiences. Remember why you play for each other, not just yourselves.”
Matteo’s the first to step up. “Since we’ve all been so mad at Declan for keeping a secret,” he says, his voice shaky, “I’ve been keeping one, too.”
Croix London groans, thick Irish accent making him sound more wound up than usual. “Here we go. This bloody team and their bloody secrets.”
But Matteo doesn’t flinch. “I passed my college entrance exams. I’m going to be a teacher.”
The room goes still and then smiles begin to form on the team’s faces, one by one.
“Why the hell was that a secret?” Justice Trager blurts out. “That’s amazing!”
Matteo shrugs, sheepish. “Because all you guys ever talk about is women, sex, and partying. Other than soccer, of course. I didn’t think you’d care. And taking this step means I’ll eventually have to step back from the Strikers. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
Justice claps a hand to Matteo’s shoulder. “We’re a team, no matter where you go. And shaping the minds of future Strikers—and Striker fans—sounds like the perfect job for you.”
“Yeah, good for you, lad,” Croix adds. “Nerd suits you much better anyway.”
Laughter ripples through the locker room, breaking some of the tension.
But then Matteo turns, eyes landing on me and Luca. “But I couldn’t have done it without Luca and Declan.”
Silence falls again, sharper this time.
“They took me into one of their private suites, studied with me all night, ran practice tests until I was ready. I know we’re all pissed at Declan for what he said, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Because he’s not that kind of guy.”
I step forward, laying a hand on Matteo’s shoulder, the gratitude heavy in my chest. For the first time in days, I feel like someone just cracked the door open for me.
Matteo clears his throat, glancing around the room. “Since it’s December sixteenth, I wanted to tell you all about Las Posadas.”
A couple of guys tilt their heads, curious.
He brightens. “It’s a Mexican tradition, from the sixteenth to the twenty-fourth of December where we re-enact Mary and Joseph’s search for a room in Bethlehem.
You go house to house, singing, until someone finally welcomes you in.
Then you celebrate—food, drinks, pinatas. The whole neighborhood comes alive.”
His voice softens, more personal. “When I was a kid, we’d start right at sunset.
My siblings, my cousins, kids from down the street—we’d walk block after block, voices cracking from singing, until finally, someone opened their door.
Then it was tamales, champurrado, laughter so loud you could hear it two streets over.
” He chuckles. “But everyone waited for one thing.”
Justice grins. “The pinata.”
Matteo nods, eyes glinting. “Always the pinata.”
I glance around the locker room, confused. I know what a pinata is—we had them back home in Argentina too—but there’s nothing hanging from the ceiling, no papier-maché donkey in sight.
My frown deepens. “So…where’s the pinata?”
That’s when the smiles start spreading across their faces—slow, wicked, way too coordinated. And then Croix lifts a rubber bat from behind the bench, Justice follows, and suddenly half the team is armed. Some with rubber bats. Others with large, inflatable candy canes.
Oh, hell.
“You,” Justice says, pointing his bat straight at me, “are the pinata.”
Laughter erupts. Before I can protest, they’ve got me tied to a bench with rolls of athletic tape, arms stretched wide like some sacrificial offering.
“Alright, alright—easy now,” I start, but the first whap hits my thigh.
Then another on my shoulder. Not hard enough to injure, just enough to sting.
“Shh! Ahh fuck!” I hiss.
With every tap, the guys let loose.
“Do you know what it felt like to hear you say you didn’t trust us or didn’t care what we thought?” Croix growls, giving me a smack on the arm.
“Not. What. I said,” I squeeze out between hits.
Matteo follows, gentler. “It hurt, hermano. You’re one of us.” Matteo winks because he was in on the secret but I don’t let the guys in on that piece. This is mine to carry. My mess to clean-up.
Then Justice. Whack! “Made me feel like I wasn’t on your team. Like we weren’t enough for you to lean on.”
Each one takes a swing, each one letting me feel the weight of what I’d said. And then, slowly, the mood shifts.
“You work harder than anyone.” A thump to the chest.
“You push us to be better.” A tap on the shin.
“You always pick up the check when the rookies forget their wallets.” Another whack, this one paired with laughter.
“You’re a pain in the ass—but you’re our pain in the ass.”
By the time they’re done, I’m bruised in body and ego, but my chest feels lighter than it has in days. They didn’t just beat me down. They built me back up.
When they finally untie me, we’re all laughing, the locker room buzzing with something that feels a hell of a lot like Christmas spirit.
And then Croix, never one to waste momentum, shouts, “And now it’s time for caroling! That’s on the Las Posadas agenda, right, ‘Teo?”
Matteo’s grin is wide enough to split his face. “That’s right, hermano! You sing, you share joy—it’s part of the tradition.”
The locker room buzzes with sudden energy. Justice hops to his feet, clapping his hands. “Let’s do it. Let’s go caroling.”
Matteo adds, “To the front office staff. They’re the ones who really need to see we’re united.”
The suggestion lands like wildfire, spreading fast. Guys start whooping, tossing sweaty shirts across the room.
Croix raises his rubber candy cane in the air like it’s a mic. “We do it shirtless. With Santa hats!”
The roar of approval nearly rattles the lockers. Someone digs into the equipment trunk, and I swear to God, out comes a box of Santa hats like they’d been planning this all along.
I shake my head, still half tied up. “I know the perfect song,” I say, grinning despite myself. “But can someone untie me before I become the world’s saddest Christmas decoration?”
Luca rips the tape free from my wrists, and before I can catch my breath, I’m swept up into the ridiculousness—twenty grown men, bare-chested, Santa hats crooked on their heads, buzzing like they’ve just won the damn championship.
Next thing I know, Coach Jones is at the front of the pack, strutting down the hallway with a radio hoisted on his shoulder like some old-school rap crew, only instead of N.W.A., he’s blasting Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays by ’N Sync.
And the Strikers—God help us all—are caroling shirtless through the executive offices—half naked, sweaty, and off-key. All belting out the chorus while the front office staff doubles over in laughter.
And of course, everyone has a phone in hand recording us.
By the time we hit Marlow’s office, Eslin and Tatum are in there with her, clearly scheming over wedding plans, I’m sure. The three of them look up, startled, as twenty half-naked Strikers crowd the doorway.
Coach clicks the radio, and the room shifts as the opening notes of O Holy Night swell through the hall.
Matteo steps forward, voice rich and steady as he begins the first verse in Spanish, his accent warm and reverent.
Croix follows, picking up the next lines in his native Irish tongue, Gaeilge, his tone rougher but no less heartfelt, the old language giving the carol a weight that settles over everyone.
Then, one by one, the rest of the team joins in English, their voices uneven but full, echoing down the corridor. It’s messy, imperfect, but somehow it feels holy all the same.
When the chorus rises—“Fall on your knees”—I drop to mine without thinking, my body moving before my mind can catch up. My head finds its place against Marlow’s belly, her warmth grounding me as the world narrows to just this moment.
“Oh night divine,” I whisper, the words sinking into her skin, into me, into the life we’re about to build. And the one we’re about to bring into this world.