Chapter 2 Declan
DECLAN
They say I can charm my way across the football field. I prefer to think of it as pure, unfettered skill.
In the locker room, I have the reputation for enjoying a laugh. My pearly white teeth gleam behind my mischievous smile. “We could glue his hands together while he’s sleeping,” I suggest.
When the guys are silent, whether contemplating my suggestion or figuring out how to talk me out of it, I add, “With regular glue. Not extra-strength adhesive this time.”
“Declan, he’s our new center. We need him to have use of his hands,” Grey says, ever the practical one.
“Yeah. Coach Hammer says his hands are gold.” Wolf grunts as though that remains to be seen.
“The commish says he’s like the rising sun and any team would be lucky to have him.” Chase lifts and lowers one shoulder as if that’s up for debate.
“Luck has little to do with it. I say he’s in it for the paycheck.” Wolf cut his eyes in Chase’s direction.
Grey sniffs.
“Now, now. Let’s give him a chance,” Chase says. “You felt the same about me.” He arches an eyebrow, referring to his start on the team as a legacy player.
“You proved yourself,” Wolf says.
“So will Brandon.” Grey speaks like this is a foregone conclusion.
“We’ll see. Brandon Campos will have to do more than prove himself. He’ll have to endure our killer practices, show that he’s a team player and not a showboating—” Wolf goes on to use what the coach refers to as “locker room words,” aka language he doesn’t stand for.
Coach Hammer keeps things neat and tidy around here—says it’s a family affair. He insists we wear suits pregame, doesn’t allow salty language or rumor mongering, and if he had his way, we’d all be happily married with families.
That’ll be the day.
Back to the matter at hand. I rub mine together. “Brandon Campos, the newest player for the Bruisers, will have to prove himself for sure. First, he’ll be initiated—carrying on the decades-long tradition of pure mischief and malarkey.”
The guys chant, “Malarky.”
“How about we replace his toothpaste with mayonnaise?” I wrinkle my nose because the idea alone grosses me out. After a late-night party, I ate fries with aioli—what Wolf calls Rich Kid mayo—and it didn’t sit well. Haven’t touched the stuff since.
Chase tilts his head from side to side. “We could always use the old standby.”
“No. We’re not covering the toilet seats with plastic wrap. Coach Hammer made me clean it up last time. Never again, man.” Wolf shakes his head.
“Doughnuts filled with mayo? Mayo in Oreos?” I suggest while trying not to gag. It’s moments like this that the remains of my Irish accent comes through.
“What’s with you and mayo?” Chase asks.
Giving a sharp shake of my head, I say, “Forget I mentioned it.”
“I know what we’re going to do.” Wolf’s lip curls with mischief.
“Oh, boy. He has that look.” Grey turns his head slowly from side to side as if he’s already seen the slow-motion train crashing into the dumpster fire. “Whatever it is, I’m not sure I want to take part.”
I cuff him.
“No, you’re not backing out. With Rylen off on his honeymoon, we need all the manpower we can get.”
We huddle around Wolf and he tells us the plan.
I chuckle despite myself. “Brandon Campos is not going to be impressed.”
“Sure, he will,” Wolf says with a wink. “Let’s see. Macy, Stacy, Allison, Keisha... They all seemed impressed by my—”
Grey holds up his hand in the universal gesture to stop. “We do not need to hear about your latest conquests.”
Chase shifts uncomfortably.
“I think Rylen would approve,” I say.
We hash out the plan to prank the newest member of the team, throw our hands into the center of our tight-knit circle, and holler, “Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’”—the team slogan.
We convince Chase, the most amiable of the crew, to send Brandon a text inviting him to hang out in the team lounge at the Bruiser’s training facility here in Boston.
Chase’s phone pings with a reply a moment later. “Brandon says that he’s on his way.”
Wolf grins. “Perfect.”
Grey rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I let you guys talk me into this.”
Wolf stops short and shoots Grey a glare. An outsider would think the two men are going to throw fists, but it’s just one football brother to another, reminding him of who he was. Grey needs that from time to time. Otherwise, he wanders too far down a lonesome path. He’s one of us, like it or not.
“Who started the newbie initiation, Grey?” Wolf asks a moment later as if to reinforce his point.
Grey Adams is the oldest player on the team, and arguably the best, because the guy can practically play football with his eyes closed. The game is knit into the fibers of his muscles. Imprinted on his palms. It’s in the platelets of his blood.
The linebacker doesn’t answer but holds his ground with a grimace.
“Who was the original mastermind behind all the pranks?” Wolf probes, knowing the answer.
Grey’s lips form a thin line and his jaw twitches.
“Don’t forget who you are. Don’t let it get you. He wouldn’t want that.” Without another word, Wolf turns back to the room.
Grey exhales and then nods. No more needs to be said for him to glean the meaning behind the reminder.
Despite our winning smiles, attitudes, and abilities, we don’t have good-boy pasts, which results in being bad boys at present. Chase being an exception.
Following the play we just drew, which has nothing to do with offense, defense, or gaining yards, the four of us assume our positions while waiting for Brandon.
Footsteps echo from down the hall. It’s go time. I live for this—for shock and awe. But mostly to make people laugh and feel good. Although in this case, I don’t think Brandon will feel good. More like want to wash his eyes with bleach, but that’s the point.
I lean in. “On the count of three...”
The guys adjust their stances, preparing.
I count down. As the door opens, I say, “Now.”
...And at that moment, whoever stands in the doorway gets an eyeful of four Boston Bruisers’ star players’ backsides.
“It’s a full moon in Boston,” I shout over our laughter.
Wolf howls.
Someone gasps.
A camera flashes.
A low voice groans.
As the four of us turn around, it isn’t only Brandon in the doorway. Pro league Commissioner Starkowsky, his daughter Elyse, and several other team officials stand with their mouths agape.
The commish, shielding his daughter’s eyes, starts yelling.
We hastily make apologies. This was not the plan.
Elyse wiggles out of her father’s grasp. “Dad, I’ve been in and out of locker rooms for almost thirty years. I’ve seen—”
Starky’s face turns purple. “Boys, you are excused,” he blusters to us.
It all happens in a split second, but we flee from the lounge, dispersing like kids caught ringing the neighbor’s doorbell and running.
In the chaos, one of the guys elbows my nose, leaving it bloody and bruised. I could be mad, but this is what I signed on for—I’ll always take one for the team. They’re my only family.
I can run a ball down the field with no problem, but it’s harder to keep trying to outrun the past, and I’ve taken more than a knock to the nose to survive that.