Chapter 13 Declan
DECLAN
With a caveman-like grunt, I say, “I can’t help that people are trying to get in touch with me.”
I lean back in my chair and hammock my hands behind my head, assuming the position out of habit and in line with my bad-boy persona. I play the part of Declan the Showman so I can keep Maggie at a distance, so I don’t break the rules set forth by the coach, and so she doesn’t lose her job.
The headmistress will expect her to have a difficult student on the first day, especially after my grand entrance.
“You’re a popular guy, but the messages and calls will still be there when we’re done.” She picks up my device and sets it on a table by the door.
“No fair.” I get to my feet. “If my phone gets put in time out, yours has to go over there too.”
Am I joking? Mostly.
Flirting? Nah, not with my best friend or my etiquette coach.
I swallow thickly because rarely do I lie to myself.
“The rules are rules. You have an easy enough time following them on the football field—”
“Off the turf, all bets are off. You know that, Maggie Moo.”
“Miss Byrne,” she corrects.
“This place is practically a castle. How about Princess Maggella and I’m Declan, Prince Charming to the Boston Bruiser’s pack of rough hooligan football players.” I take her hand and kiss the top of it.
The crackling inside gets louder when my lips touch her soft skin. I sense a slight tremble underneath. Either that or she’s afraid the intense headmistress is going to burst in on us.
Her face crumbles for a split second, tints pink, and then her eyes widen with what I want to call horror.
“Mr. Printz. I have a job to do. You can’t kiss me, er, my hand.
But to be clear, I haven’t been on my phone.
I’m doing my job.” She snatches her hand away and lifts her chin as though daring me to disagree.
“Technically speaking, I haven’t been on my phone either.”
“It’s been buzzing nonstop.” She presses her lips together to form a thin line.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you upset like this.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and taps her foot.
“It’s adorable.” I try not to smile.
Throwing her hands up in the air, she says, “Declan. Come on. Work with me here.”
“Alright, alright, but admit that I haven’t been using the phone.” I move toward her purse. “It’s only fair that both of our phones go on the table by the door.”
She makes the cutest noise of frustration, grabs her purse, and slaps her phone down on the table. “Fine.”
The air is charged like lightning builds in the distance, getting ever closer.
From across the room, we stare at each other intently.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my pulse is racing.
Despite our regular text exchanges, something shifts between us.
I’m not sure what to do with it, or if I like it.
No, scratch that. I do. Maybe a little too much.
Without breaking eye contact, as though we don’t trust the other not to go grab their phone, we both stalk back to the dining table.
I want to wipe the look of frustration from her face and replace it with good-natured mirth, so I tuck my napkin into the collar of my shirt like a bib.
The best friend in me wants to make her laugh.
The bad-boy inside wants more of her corrections.
Her eyes widen and she marks something in the file.
I fiddle with the little arrangement of flowers between us, put my elbows on the table, and suck my teeth a few times just to see what will happen—just to be on the receiving end of her attention.
Expression impassive, Miss Byrne doesn’t break character other than when I notice the subtle tightness in her chest as it rises and falls with each breath.
“Are you holding back a huff?” I ask.
“A huff? No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. No one is watching. We can just let down our hair.”
“You’ve clearly let down your beard.”
My hand in a V-shape, I run it along the scruff. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s a different look.”
“Back in high school, I could hardly grow one. Figured it goes with the rugged Bruisers look.”
She harrumphs like she doesn’t approve. Noted.
“Hey, I’m just having a little bit of fun because you seem preoccupied since you returned from the bathroom.”
She leans closer to me. “No, I’m annoyed because my so-called best friend isn’t cooperating. Please, Declan. This is my job. Don’t make it harder than it is.”
“I don’t mean to. But I did notice that it seems like having your phone out of your possession is making you nervous.”
“Or maybe that’s you,” she fires back. “I’m starting to think you have a fear of missing out.”
“FOMO? No, Mo-Mo-Maggie,” I say, drawing from my never-ending list of nicknames for her.
But my stomach dips with a concern of my own, considering the number on the caller ID.
The last thing I want is for the past to catch up with me, especially after I’ve moved so far away from it.
Right now, I’d rather not be tethered to my device, and sometimes feel like chucking the thing in the Charles River back in Boston, but I suppose it served its purpose by connecting me to opportunities, social media.
..and Maggie. But why did Mrs. O’Mealley call earlier?
Our entrees arrive. “How am I doing so far?” I ask as I purposely shovel bites of potato into my mouth.
I’m purely trying to get a rise out of Maggie, anything other than the crisp quiet she’s slid into after her trip to the ladies’ room. I’ve broken just about every table manner rule that I can think of.
She reviews a list in her file. “So far, well enough.” She eyes me carefully.
I don’t mind that. Not one bit. She could look at me all day, which means I can return the favor.
Is that cracking inside attraction, or lightning striking down the notion?
Or perhaps she’s doing everything in her power not to get ruffled by my immature behavior.
Maybe she’s testing me. After all, she did say it’s an evaluation.
She gave me a do-over. Perhaps I’d be wise to heed it.
Certainly, I don’t want any of this to get back to Coach Hammer or the commissioner. I check my watch.
“Have somewhere to be?” she asks.
I don’t, but I also don’t want the evening to end.
The server asks if we’d like dessert. Maggie quickly declines as though she’s only tolerating the meal with me because it’s her job.
This is something I’ve never encountered before with a woman, no less my purported best friend.
It throws me off my game. Sure, something passed between us in the hallway, but other than that, she’s as frosty as the snow on the peaks of the Concordian mountains, even now, during summer.
I straighten in my chair. “Listen, I want to apologize again for the water earlier. That was immature of me.”
“Says the guy who knows which utensils to use for the various parts of the meal, but repeatedly talks with his mouth full, slurps his drink, and has been waving his fork around while talking like he’s conducting a symphony.”
“A symphony of delicious flavors,” I say with a smirk.
Her nostrils flare.
My eyebrow arches. “So you noticed?”
“Are you purposefully making this difficult?”
My smirk deepens as I lean back in my chair. “Difficult? Well, it is becoming cumbersome to think of ways that I could get your attention, but I have a few more up my sleeve.”
“Are you experiencing a delayed case of the terrible twos?” Her eyes flash as if she’d like to drop character and put me on the naughty step. “Why would you want to annoy me, Mr. Printz?”
I lean in close and say, “Because I’m being me. That was the plan, right?” Then, louder, I say, “Because this is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to suffer through etiquette lessons. I’m a grown man. We pranked the rookie. So what?”
But what I don’t mention is that, minus a few details, this is the best possible thing that could’ve happened.
Granted, Maggereeno and I could’ve met up in Paris or some other city she loves, but we’re together again—two peas in a pod, like Aunt Maureen used to say, even though she never met my Mag-ceptional best friend.
“So what? There are consequences to your actions.” She looks me up and down.
Well aware of consequences, I draw attention to my outfit, courtesy of one of the many designers who send me clothing to wear in public as free advertising for their garments.
“What do you think of the neon yellow suit, black suspenders, and blue shirt with the cardinal print?” It’s loud and ridiculous, and I only wore it because, well, I wanted to know if the designer label would impress Maggie.
Plenty of women want nothing more than to get swag for themselves through me.
Has she changed, or is she still the kind of woman who could not care less about the latest styles and trends?
I used to know the answer, but she wasn’t wearing her usual jeans and T-shirt look that I remember when I hosed her down with the squirt guns.
Without hesitating, she says, “It’s hideous. Not something a grown man should wear.”
I love her even more for that answer. “The stylist who outfitted me before I left Boston said it brought out the warm tones in my hair.”
I’ve discovered that people treat me differently depending on whether they want something from me or not.
Mag-Mag seems only to want to get me to behave.
After my Aunt Maureen pulled me from the gutters in Dublin, she taught me manners and more, but maybe I forgot a few of them in favor of fame and the game—not the one on the football field.
The one that has consumed me as I climb as far away from my past as possible.
I roll my fingertips on the table. “I would much rather have met up with you during the offseason under different circumstances.”
“We’ve both been busy,” she says, dropping character. Maggie clears her throat as if remembering she’s not supposed to know me. “We’re going to have to work on these things until you can demonstrate that you know how to behave yourself in good company.”