Her voice cracks, gutted and terrified. “Eslin. I may lose everything!”
Chapter fifty-eight
Tinsel & Trust
Declan
Ispot Marlow’s father juggling boxes out of the back of the house while barking into the phone with Xavier Darcy and Will Huntley. All hands are in motion, which only drives home how big this really is.
I keep my head down, hoping to dodge him, but my new father-in-law has other plans.
“Hey, Dickless,” he calls out.
My jaw tightens. “It’s Declan.”
“Any man who marries my daughter without so much as meeting me first? Dickless. Now get over here and make yourself useful.”
Prick.
But I don’t say it out loud. Because the prick’s not wrong. Where I come from, marrying a woman without her family’sblessing is grounds for exile. And while Marlow’s dad isn’t some old-school patriarch, I still wish I’d had the chance to look him in the eye. Tell him how much I adore his daughter before… well…defiling her.
So, I stand, cross the room, and take the boxes from him without complaint. They’re heavier than he makes them look, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of showing it. I follow him out toward the garage where he’s stacking everything in neat piles.
After a beat of silence, he looks at me with that sharp, assessing stare of his. “What the hell made you think it was a good idea to join a reality show the week before signing on with the Strikers?”
I set the boxes down, dust off my hands, and square my shoulders. “Full transparency? I didn’t realize how…realit would be. I thought it was for laughs, some light distraction before the season. But once I met your daughter—” I stop, shaking my head as a humorless laugh slips out. “Everything shifted. Everything becamerealerthan I could’ve imagined. She was real. The kind of real I didn’t even know I’d been waiting for…Sir.”
I clear my throat. The word tastes awkward on my tongue, but I’ve heard American men like being called that—and if there’s ever a man whose favor I need, it’s his. Marlow might be mad at her father right now, but when she talks about him when he’s not around, it’s different. Like she forgets to be angry. Like she still sees him as her hero. I feel like I know him already. And it’s clear—she thinks the world of him. So I try to build some semblance of a rapport with him. Because making her happy means trying.
The prick studies me, skeptical but strangely quiet, like maybe—for the first time—he’s reconsidering the version of me he’s already decided on.
Maybe I’ll do the same. Because no matter how much Marlow adores him, I’ve always had questions. What kind of father parades women through the media like that? I know their bond is different. I get that. But still—I can’t help but blame him for how long it took her to trust me. To lean on me. To believe in love. Us.
“I saw your interview,” he finally says. “With that dumbass comment about the team. You’ve really gone and made a mess of things. The guys are pissed.”
I drag a hand through my hair and shake my head. “I know. And I swear I’ll fix it. I just don’t know how yet.”
“Xavier Darcy has ideas,” Grant mutters. “But you’re not going to like them.”
I frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly.” He gives me that pointed look. “Just know this, those guys don’t take kindly to being deceived. And they’ll make you pay for it.”
When it comes to being part of a team—this team in particular—I don’t take it lightly. I show up. I make sure the new guys feel welcome, that no one’s left behind, that everyone knows they belong. I’ve carried bags, stayed late, hell, I’ve even sat through hours in a high-end strip club just so Matteo could cram for his college entrance exams without feeling alone. That’s what team means to me—sacrifice, loyalty, showing up no matter what.
So the fact that this—my mistake, my recklessness—has derailed the progress I’ve made, has put a crack in the trust I’ve been building with the Strikers, it guts me. And I mean it when I say I’ll do anything to make amends. Anything to prove I belong here.
“Do you think they’ll forgive me?” The words leave me quieter than I intend, heavier than I want my new father-in-law to hear.
The prick doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me for another beat before finally saying, “If you tell them how you fell for my daughter—the same way you just told me—I think they might.”
I nod, taking that in. Then we head back inside. Grant goes straight to the bar, grabs two glasses, and pours us each a drink.
“You like scotch?”
“I prefer red wine, but scotch is fine for the occasion.”
He raises a brow. “What occasion is that?”