16. Private Jets & Press Junkets
Chapter sixteen
Private Jets & Press Junkets
Declan
Georgia. Atlanta. Hot-lanta. Though I’ve been told more than once that nobody actually calls it that.
It’s my first time in the southern part of the United States, and so far, my only real opinion is that it’s just as damn hot as everywhere else I’ve been. Vegas included.
Only difference here is Atlanta can’t make up its mind. One minute it’s hot and sunny, the next it’s hot and pouring rain. Like the air here is indecisive.
“Declan Agassi,” a reporter calls out as I stand in front of the press backdrop. “How does it feel to be wearing a US jersey for the Atlanta Strikers?”
What a dumb question. How is it supposed to feel? The same as when I wore my Italian one.
It’s my first official day as an Atlanta Striker—on loan—and apparently, someone thought it’d be a great idea to set up a press conference.
Without telling me. Or my manager.
Surprise.
Welcome to American football—the other football. Where the media circus seems to be part of the training regimen.
“It feels great,” I say smoothly, pausing to glance at her name tag for the extra charm. “Rachel. Everyone has been really welcoming to me so far.”
The only thing I hate more than press conferences… are American press conferences. I have to slow my words, round out my R’s, soften my accent—just to make sure they understand me.
Every answer feels like I’m translating myself in real time. Like I have to be less me so they can follow along.
Another hand goes up. “The team captain says you’re just the talent that could turn things around for the team. How does that make you feel?”
Like, no shit.
“It makes me believe I’m joining a team that sees my value, Shaun.”
The cameras flash. The mics pick up every word. And I stay steady.
People always compliment me on how well I handle the media. How polished I sound. How pleasant I am to interview. But none of that comes naturally. It’s discipline. Practiced control.
I’ve trained myself to never say the wrong thing. To behave like the cameras are always watching. To make friends with the people holding the pens, running the headlines.
Because I have to.
If I don’t succeed—if I don’t stay successful—my family won’t survive. My father and my nonna back in Argentina, they’re counting on me.
That’s why the bonus the Strikers offered sweetened the deal and made my decision a little easier. I came here for my family.
How I managed to get married—and then somehow misplace a wife—in the short time I’ve been here in Cowboy Country? Well, that’s an entirely different story.
I’ve done what I could with the limited American resources I have.
Looked everywhere. But the night we got married, we slipped into the hotel through the back entrance—where cameras are conveniently turned off to keep paparazzi away.
And when she left the next morning, my lovely mystery wife swiped my favorite hoodie, pulled it over her head, and walked out without ever showing her face to the cameras.
All I know is this: her name was Maddy Mills. Her best friend was getting married the next day.
That’s it.
Though, the only Maddy Mills I managed to find died years ago.
My wife gave me a fake name. Great start to our happily ever after, honey.
After the press conference wraps, I head down to the field to meet the team at practice. But not before making one important stop—upstairs, at the executive offices.
I knock on the door three times. He told me he’s rarely in the office, but made it a point to be here today for my arrival.
“Declan! Come in!” Xavier Darcy opens the door and pulls me into a hug like we’ve known each other for years. “How was your trip?” He asks, sounding like a real American cowboy with his accent.
“It was good, Mr. Darcy. Really good, thank you.”
“Please,” he waves his hand, “call me Xavier. Only my wife calls me Mr. Darcy.”
Weird.
“Noted. Thanks, Xavier. The jet was a bit...over the top.”
He laughs it off, as if flying across the world in private luxury is standard. “It’s the team jet. It actually belonged to someone else. We bought it at a discount for the team.”
I can’t help but laugh. A discount plane. That’s billionaire logic for you. “Well, it was a nice surprise. And an even better flight over.”
Xavier didn’t want me here at first. At twenty-five, he figured I was already too old for a transfer like this—at least by European standards. He thought I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the pace of the league, wouldn’t bring enough long-term value to justify the move.
In his mind, I was already closer to my peak than my potential.
But I surprised him.
I studied the team. Broke down the gaps, the weaknesses, the places I knew I could strengthen. I put together a full assessment and sent it to him and Coach Jones before negotiations even got serious.
And, of course, I sealed the deal with a little extra charm. Told them my father was a longtime fan of Coach Jones. And that my nonna thinks Xavier is “really cute.”
That part was 100% true.
“I trust you got all of your fun out of your system that week in Vegas?” Xavier says, eyeing me with a half-smirk like he already knows too much.
Before my official move to Atlanta, Xavier let me borrow his personal jet and take a few of my buddies to Vegas. A full week in a penthouse. And one night I guess you could technically call a honeymoon—courtesy of Xavier Darcy.
Honestly? He’s one of the kindest people I’ve met in this sport. Ruthless when it matters, but fair. Generous.
“Yes, sir. Plus, I’m sure Atlanta has plenty more for me to get into,” I say lightly, forcing the words to sound casual.
Hoping I don’t sound like a man starved.
A man who hasn’t slept or eaten right since that night. Since her. Since the woman who flipped my life upside down and disappeared before I could even learn her real name.
Xavier laughs, but there’s not much humor behind it. More like a warning wrapped in a smile.
“Well, not too much fun, okay? One of the reasons you ended up being good for this team was because you came with no baggage.”
What about a—how do you Americans say it?—ball and chain?
“Right!” I nearly yell. “No baggage here, sir.”
I stretch out my hand, giving him the most polished version of my ‘model professional’ grin. “Well, I’ve got to get to the field to meet the team. Coach will have my ass if I’m late on my first day.
“We can’t have that.” He claps me on the back. “Let’s get drinks soon.”
I nod. “You bet,” I say, and I actually mean it. Because right now a forty-something-year-old man is about the closest thing I have to a friend here.
As I head toward the field to meet my new team, there’s this strange pull sitting low in my chest.
But it isn’t heavy.
It isn’t uncomfortable.
If anything...it feels familiar. Strangely familiar.
Maybe it’s the way the leaves are starting to shift on the trees, how the air smells like the start of something new but steady, like the seasons themselves are gearing up for another chance.
Even driving here earlier, walking these halls now—it all hums with this quiet rhythm I recognize but can’t quite place.
It feels peaceful.
Settled.
Almost like home.