9. Declan
Declan
It was a million tiny little things that,
when you added them all up,
they meant we were supposed to be together.
~ Sleepless in Seattle (1993)
Winona’s moving around me in what’s turning into a routine. It’s midafternoon and she just arrived. I always wonder what she’s been up to during the time since her last visit, but asking feels intrusive, so I just watch her as she goes through the motions.
She puts the cuff on my arm. This time she actually gives my bicep a squeeze. It’s not exactly professional, but she manages to make it feel innocent.
“What does a man do to get arms like this?” she asks, staring at my bicep like it’s abnormal. “I don’t think I remember you being this big in junior high or high school. Not that I paid much attention to you.”
She just says whatever’s on her mind.
“You didn’t pay attention to me?” I ask her.
“I know. Shocker, right?” She laughs.
“Honestly, yes. I’m a little shocked. Maybe slightly offended.” I’m mostly joking.
I did have scouts visiting and an agent already by the time I was a junior in high school—thanks to my dad. But why would Winona have tracked me in high school? She was two years younger and we didn’t really cross paths. She doesn’t follow sports—obviously.
“I was born with really big arms,” I say, just to mess with her.
“Your poor mother.” She shakes her head and I can’t tell if she believes me or she’s just playing along.
“I’m kidding, Winona.”
“I know, Declan.” She says my name with a teasing note to it, but there’s warmth there.
I’ve started looking forward to the hours she’s here more than any other hours in the day.
I’m a private person. I have a few close friends on the team and my family.
I found out a long time ago that people aren’t always what they seem.
As soon as fame enters the equation, you can never quite tell what a person’s motives are for wanting to be near you.
Winona’s an exception.
She’s fully and wholeheartedly unimpressed by me—except my biceps. She likes those. But even that isn’t usual. She’s not staring at me like I’m a piece of meat on a butcher rack. She’s curious—intrigued. Definitely not attracted.
Is that weird? Unfortunately, yes.
I don’t usually meet women who are immune to me.
It’s … refreshing. And unnerving.
I think, given time, we could even be friends.
We’d have one of those friendships you see on the Nature Channel where a hippo and a lion become besties and lay in the tall grass together.
One should be the predator, the other the prey.
But somehow they met at the right time and circumstances made them drop their guards and now they have this connection …
“Declan?”
“Yeah?”
“I was asking if you know how the Thunder did in their game.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about … the Nature Channel.”
“You were … ?”
“Yeah. Never mind. We won. They won. We … won.”
“I’d go with we,” she says easily. “You’re still on the team. You’re just … benched?”
“Not quite. Benched is when the coach decides you don’t go on the field to play. I’m on injured reserve.”
“What are they reserving you for?”
I chuckle. “It’s just the term they use.”
She mutters, “Of course it is.”
The doorbell rings, the palatial tones sound through the hallway, bouncing off the tall ceilings and slick floors.
“I’ll get it,” Winona offers while I snag my phone out of the box she brought me to pull up the app.
I stare at the box for a beat.
Who does that? She noticed how my stuff was always scattered everywhere and just showed up with a box—one she paid for with her own money.
I’d offer to pay her back, but I’m pretty sure she’d turn me down.
And those crutches? I chuckle softly. The look on Patrick’s face when she slammed into him.
Good thing he’s got the strength and agility of a fireman.
By the time I open the security app to check the porch, the clicking of heels sounds on the floor. Whoever it is, Winona already let them in. And from the sound of things, it’s a woman.
Winona appears in the archway leading into the family room first. Her eyes wide and her brows high.
“You have a visitor,” she says.
Then Winona waves the woman forward as if she’s a butler welcoming a distinguished guest.
“Chantal?” I ask. She’s a model. Or an actress? An actress who models? A model who wants to be an actress? The women start to blur into one watercolor of sameness after a while.
Is it Chantal? Chanel? Chandler?
I should know. But then again, women like her tend to show up at parties, after games, and definitely through my mother’s machinations. Mom’s determined to find me a wife who “fits” my lifestyle and status.
“Declan, baby,” Chantal coos, striding toward me with movements that resemble a strut down a catwalk.
Winona’s still standing in the doorway. Her mouth twitches and hand flies up to cover her amused expression. Then she turns and walks out of the room, leaving me and the blonde woman in a skin-tight dress alone.
“I can’t believe you’re out for the season,” Chantal says, her lips pouting out for emphasis.
“Maybe not the whole season,” I say.
“Well, that’s good news.” She takes a seat in the chair next to the couch and reaches out, laying her hand on my arm. The sensation is so entirely different than when Winona squoze my bicep playfully during vitals.
Chantal gently runs her long, manicured fingernails across my arm. “Do you need a massage?”
“For a broken ankle?” I ask.
“For anything. Sometimes massages relax a man.”
“I’m good,” I say. “How did you … ?” I almost ask how she managed to find out where I live, but I stop myself short.
Seriously, though. How did she get my address?
“Your mom reached out. She said you might be lonely.”
“So you drove to Waterford?”
From where? I don’t know much about this woman. But I know she doesn’t live here in town.
“I was doing a demo in Nashville.”
A demo. She’s a singer. Not an actress. But she does model too. I remember now.
“The drive here was … quaint.” The way the word takes time to form makes it sound more like an insult than a compliment.
“Have you been lonely?” she asks, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair, but maintaining practically perfect posture.
When Winona sits there, she crosses her legs up under her and gets cozy. She’s so unassuming. The contrast between her and Chantal feels like the day I picked up a book right after I got reading glasses. I never knew how blurry the letters were until I had my vision corrected.
“Not exactly lonely,” I tell Chantal. “The guys have been by. My brother and sister live in town. I have …” Winona. For some reason I don’t want to specifically mention Winona to Chantal.
“Help. I saw,” Chantal waves a hand in the direction of the hallway. “She let me in.”
I don’t correct Chantal. Winona’s not the help. What good would it do to clarify that detail? Women like Chantal divide the world like it’s a caste system. There are the untouchables at the bottom. And then the ranking improves as you move up in wealth and notoriety.
I’m top tier to women like her. Not because of who I am—because of what I’ve achieved. She sees my status and wants to attach herself to it.
I have teammates who fell for women like her—beautiful, alluring, but not at all interested in the man behind the jersey.
“I love your house,” Chantal says, looking around. “Who decorated it for you?”
“I think my mom had a local designer do most of the work.”
“Nice.”
Winona enters the room. “It’s time for your meds, Declan.”
Chantal gives Winona a pageant-worthy smile.
Winona smiles a thin-lipped grin in return.
“I’ll be out of your way in just a minute,” Winona says to Chantal. “He’ll get a little drowsy. Just giving you a heads-up. You might want to get any coherent conversation in within the next fifteen minutes.”
Winona smiles at me and I smile back, like a man grasping at a life ring.
Save me!, my eyes plead with her.
She either doesn’t speak eye-language, or she’s not interested in being my savior, because she dispenses the pills into my hands and gives me a glass of water to chase them down.
I empty the glass and hand it back to her.
“Okay. Well … I’ll just be in the kitchen. Call me if you need anything.”
I watch her go.
“I could stay here,” Chantal offers.
Winona’s not even at the doorway. She pauses for a moment and then disappears into the hallway.
“I have an overnight bag in the car,” Chantal says, her eyes soft and full of promises.
“You would … ?” I feel my brows draw in. “Why?”
“To take care of you,” she shrugs. “How hard could it be? I can read a pill bottle.”
“She does more than that,” I defend, a surge of protectiveness for Winona roaring through me unexpectedly.
Winona does a lot more than pass pills. She keeps a watchful eye—notices my needs, anticipates them, even. At some point I stopped questioning her competence. I don’t know when. She’s quirky and lighthearted. But she knows her stuff—as long as that stuff isn’t football.
I smile to myself.
“I’m sure she does.” Chantal’s tone is dismissive—or worse, suggestive.
I force a yawn. “I’m feeling tired.”
“Oh. Of course. Well …”
I feel bad. Chantal drove up from Nashville. But I didn’t invite her. My mom obviously did.
“I think I’m just going to rest,” I tell her.
“Well, you have my number. I’m in Nashville for the week.”
“Thanks,” I say.
I try to think of anything else I could say to let her know I won’t be calling, but nothing sounds kind without feeling like I’m leading her on. So I let the silence linger until she finally stands.
“Take care of yourself, Declan.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“And you know how to reach me.”
Before I know what’s happening, she leans down and places a kiss on my cheek. I turn my face away from her so her lips land closer to my ear. It’s awkward and only serves to put more discomfort in the air between us.
Thankfully, my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Chantal stands and watches me answer.
I check the display: Delaney.
I silently mouth, “Thanks for stopping by,” while pushing the green button to take the call.