Chapter 8
Declan
Six Weeks Until Finale
Neil Steel: Well, well, looks like our budding love triangle might be losing a side.
Which would make it a love…
? I don’t know, I was rubbish at geometry.
Zoe Park: ‘I’ve been torn between them.
I mean, Oliver is so sweet, but I think Declan and I have a more genuine connection.’
Neil Steel: What’s the line?
You miss 100 per cent of the shots you don’t take?
There’s too much maths in this intro.
Well, better luck next time, boyo!
Saturday had become Declan’s favourite day of the week.
It was their day off, so he let himself sleep until the designated wake-up time, and it also meant no cameras, no microphones and no drama.
This week, the producers were driving them to a private beach while the villa got a much-needed deep cleaning.
Even the glaring lights of the villa flickering on mercilessly in the morning couldn’t dampen Declan’s good mood.
He got up quickly, grabbing his swim trunks and sunglasses as Zoe yawned and stretched on the other side of the bed.
He was lucky to have found her so early in the game.
Encouraging Oliver to try to win her back and fabricating a love triangle between the three of them had been a brilliant move on her part.
Not only had it got them all more screen time, but it had given Declan an excuse to interact with Oliver.
‘Ready?’ Declan asked Zoe, and she nodded, following him out to the vans.
He watched Oliver mumble something to Maeve as they climbed in, still seemingly half-asleep.
Avoidance was Declan’s usual plan when it came to men he found attractive, but with Oliver it was harder than it had ever been before.
He was always exactly where Declan didn’t want him, slumped drowsily in the kitchen when Declan went for his morning swims, lying shirtless by the pool while Declan worked out, running his hands through his ridiculous hair whenever Declan happened to be close.
Finally talking to him had been a relief, even if it was only to trade insults.
Declan hadn’t thought Oliver would have had it in him to pick petty fights for the cameras, but he had been amazing, parrying Declan’s barbs with his own sharp wit.
Something about the look in his eyes, when he finally realised the game, had given Declan a twisted thrill.
When they arrived at the beach, Declan immediately ran down to the surf, diving head-first into the crystal-blue water.
After so many mornings spent in a tiny pool, he revelled in the expanse of the ocean, swimming out as far as he could.
Jack shouted behind him, and Declan turned to watch him flip himself forwards and land face-first in the wake of a wave.
‘That’s what I meant to do,’ Jack said, struggling through the choppy water towards Declan.
Declan clapped him on the back.
‘Sure, sure.’
Holly and Owen joined them, and they talked about their lives back home, enjoying the peace of not being recorded.
Holly told them about her first job tending bar at a wild club, recounting a story about a man offering her a lap dance in exchange for another drink.
‘Holy shit,’ Owen said.
‘That was my mate Cillian. Swear on my life.’
Holly laughed.
‘It’s so refreshing to be with someone who has banter.
I just got out of a relationship with a man who never made me laugh.’
She splashed Jack.
‘Hey!’ Jack yelled in mock outrage.
‘I’m funny, take it back!’
He lunged at Holly, lifting her and throwing her into an oncoming wave.
Declan and Owen cheered him on as Holly screamed with laughter.
‘Oi!’ Brian called jovially from the beach.
‘Save it for the cameras!’
Jack stuck his tongue out at Holly when she resurfaced, and the group agreed it was time for lunch.
The production tent was stocked with snacks and alcohol, and for the first time since the beginning of filming, nobody was cutting the contestants off at two drinks.
After they finished eating, Holly poured out tequila shots, and Declan quickly lost count of how many he’d had.
Full and more than a little tipsy, Declan glanced across the beach and noticed Oliver sleeping nearby on a towel.
He was curled in on himself, his hands tucked under his chin and his hair mussed by the ocean breeze.
Without thinking, Declan walked over.
‘Hey,’ he said, his eyes tracing over Oliver’s bare chest. ‘I think it may be time to reapply.’
Oliver blinked at him sluggishly for a moment before jerking up and adjusting his glasses.
‘Oh shit. I can’t burn.
That’d be it for me, I’m sure of it.’
‘Easy,’ Declan said, grabbing the bottle of suncream nestled in the sand between them, his fingers hot from the alcohol pulsing through his veins.
‘I can get your back.’
Oliver raised his eyebrows, then shrugged.
‘All right.’ He turned his back to Declan, who shuffled closer on his knees to get a better angle.
As he rubbed the cream into Oliver’s back, fixating on a small constellation of moles on his left shoulder, Declan realised he was at least three drinks past tipsy and playing a very dangerous game.
Remembering why he’d kept away from Oliver in the first place, he gruffly slapped the suncream on in a way that could only be seen as platonic and heterosexual.
‘You should be all good,’ he said stiffly, sitting back and plastering on a smile.
Oliver looked bemused.
‘Cheers.’
Declan cleared his throat.
‘So, uh…’ Words usually came easily to him, but he couldn’t think, the lines of Oliver’s collarbone making him stupid.
‘You a swimmer, then?’
‘Pardon?’ Oliver said, his eyebrows drawing together.
‘I mean,’ Declan backpedalled, waving a hand at Oliver’s lean frame.
‘You’re built for it, right?
And you’re cut, so I figured maybe you were a swimmer.’
His cheeks burned as his brain caught up with his words.
‘I don’t know how to swim,’ Oliver said, still frowning.
‘And I’m a ballet dancer.’
‘Oh, right,’ Declan said, nodding.
Oliver didn’t look convinced.
‘It’s the running joke between Owen and Jack right now.’
‘Is that why they were talking about tutus?’
‘You’re not that observant, are you?’
Oliver teased, smiling slyly, and the tension eased from Declan’s shoulders.
‘When it’s not about me?’
he said, droll. ‘Nah, can’t be bothered.’
Oliver let out a loud laugh at that, and Declan grinned.
‘You’re not bad to look at when you lighten up a little,’ he said, without thinking.
He blinked, not letting embarrassment show on his face, though he wished he could stop telling Oliver how attractive he was.
‘It’s getting easier,’ Oliver said, seeming not to notice.
‘All the cameras, constantly being recorded, it’s not exactly my thing.’
‘Shouldn’t you be used to performing?
You did a good job last week when we were fighting over Zoe.’
‘Like I said, it’s getting easier.
Once I realised that’s what it was, a performance, I could go through with it and not worry so much.’
Oliver sighed, swatting some sand off his towel.
‘I guess it’s a little hard to explain, but when I’m dancing, I don’t have to think.
There’s the routine, and I follow it.
Nothing is up to me.’
Declan nodded along, caught in the striking contrast between Oliver’s green eyes and the bright blue of the sky.
‘But here,’ he continued, ‘I think about everything. I think about how I walk, and sit, and stand, not to mention I’m constantly thinking about the words coming out of my mouth.’
‘Sounds to me like you’re over thinking it,’ Declan said.
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Oliver said.
‘You never slip up. It’s impossible to tell what you’re thinking.’
Declan shrugged, relieved by that assessment.
He’d certainly had enough practice.
‘I’ve got used to it.
My job is constant press conferences and talk shows and people feeling entitled to take my picture any time I leave my flat.
But none of it’s real.
Sure, I can turn it on, but to be honest, I’d rather not be in the spotlight at all.’
‘Then why come on reality TV?’ Oliver asked.
The functioning portion of Declan’s brain told him to exercise caution.
‘Well, it’s like I said, my career makes it difficult to meet someone.’
Oliver stared at him, biting his bottom lip, and said nothing.
Incapable of doing anything other than stare back, Declan felt like all the air on earth had evaporated.
‘Sure,’ he continued after a moment, his tone sharper than he intended, ‘I play things up for the drama, but I like Zoe. I want to find someone to spend my life with.’ He could picture Georgia rolling her eyes, but it had the desired effect on Oliver.
‘Huh,’ he said, looking down.
‘Between you, Niall and Stella, I seem to gravitate towards the saps.’
Declan cleared his throat, not wanting to think about Oliver gravitating towards him.
‘Plus, my wrist is still useless, so I figured this would be a nice holiday.’ He let out a humourless laugh.
They both knew too well that this was no holiday.
He looked out at the ocean, realising that he’d just admitted for the first time that his break from boxing wasn’t entirely voluntary, and didn’t catch what Oliver said next.
‘What?’ Declan asked, but Oliver was looking somewhere slightly over his shoulder, his frown smoothing over.
‘Hey, boys,’ Paige said, laying a towel at their feet.
‘How are we doing over here?’
‘Oh, grand,’ Oliver said.
‘Yup,’ Declan said, clapping Oliver on the knee.
‘We’ve bonded over our athletic abilities and decided to be mates.
I hope that doesn’t ruin your plans for us.’
‘Of course not,’ she said.
‘These storylines only have a shelf life of about three episodes anyway, and everyone loves a bromance.’ She looked between them in her calculating way.
‘Is there anything specific you bonded over?’
‘I asked Declan about his last fight,’ Oliver said.
‘Oh?’ Paige asked.
‘I’m sure you know all about it,’ Declan said quickly.
‘I saw your press conference afterwards,’ Paige said, eyes alight with interest. ‘But I never saw what actually happened.’
She turned to him and Declan found it suddenly difficult to breathe.
As much as his time on the show had been more difficult than he had expected, it had provided a decent distraction from his career.
Now it was like he was back in the ring again, the bright lights beating down on him and the roar of the crowd echoing in his ear.
Declan cleared his throat.
‘I, er, took a pretty bad beating on that one.’ He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, not looking at Paige or Oliver.
‘Alexei has a killer right hook, which I, uh, underestimated. But I guess I had got a bit cocky. Thought I was invincible, right?’ His cheeks flushed and he started talking faster, as if the quicker he relayed the story, the less it would hurt.
‘He finally caught me across the cheek in the sixth round and I went down. I woke up with my wrist fucked… landed wrong, broke it clean through.’ Declan shoved his wrist out stupidly as proof, the pink of his scar stark in the dying sunlight.
Oliver took it gently in his hands and brought it close to his face for inspection.
His long fingers were cool against Declan’s overheated skin, his calluses rough.
Their hands touched and, for a crazed moment, Declan had the bizarre urge to lace their fingers together, wanting something to ground himself, to remind him that he wasn’t still fighting.
Oliver caught his eye, and Declan, for the first time, had no idea what the other man would see in his expression.
He hoped he looked normal and calm and not like he’d been pulled too thin across his skin.
Oliver cracked a smile, that charming smile.
‘I think you’ll live,’ he quipped, dropping his wrist, and Declan could breathe again.
Paige laughed at Oliver’s joke, and Declan startled, remembering she was there, watching.
‘Oh, this could be good.’