Page 107 of Oh, Puck!
Rose outdid herself on the design. That girl really earns her pay with everything she does just to get her father to notice her. The Bears logo is blazing against a sunset-orange background,THE THUNDER ROLLS IN. THE BEARS ROAR BACK.is set in letters big enough to read from a passing surfboard, and beneath it, the details of everything I've spent the last week bleeding for.
The rivalry game. The sellout crowd. And the party Colin signed off on for the night before it. A full boardwalk street party, complete with live music, food trucks, player meet-and-greets, and the carousel running free rides until midnight.
The whole works. The whole town.
If Beachside doesn't show up for this, I'll eat the staple gun.
"You could try looking happy about this, you know," I say, stepping back to admire my work. "You know… smile… radiate captain energy. Inspire the community or something."
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm still in the middle of the last task you gave me," he grumbles, shifting the stack to one arm. "The 'stop coasting' one. That was supposed to be a whole season's worth of personal growth, and now you've got me doing manual labor on my only day off this week. I came to this town specifically to avoidbothof these things."
"And how's that working out for you?"
He looks at me with that slow drag from my ponytail down to my sneakers and back up, lingering somewhere around my ass. It's absolutely not subtle and definitelynotappropriate for a public boardwalk at eleven in the morning.
"Mixed results," he says.
"My eyes are up here, Captain."
"I'm aware."
God, this man. I turn back to my staple gun before I drag him behind the churro stand and remind him exactly how I got him to stop coasting in the first place.
We keep moving down the boardwalk, and I'll admit… Beachside is showing off today. The morning sun is gorgeous, and the ocean is sparkling. I can already smell the kettle corn and fresh waffle cones drifting from the stands that are just cranking up their awnings.
I'm one week into the biggest target I've ever set myself. A week of this. A week of permit applications and vendor contracts and a budget meetings where I made Colin Holden sign off on the street party funding before he could escape to the golf course. I literally had to stand in front of his office door with the paperwork like a hostage negotiator.
He signed. Mostly because I brought Goldie's cookies as leverage.
But through all of it, one question keeps circling my brain like a seagull over dropped fries.
What's the deal with us?
Declan and I haven't talked about it since the charity event. Not once.
He's been busy with practices, media obligations I forced on him, the family stuff he still won't fully explain. And I've been buried under promotions and sponsorship commitments.
We've had exactly one stolen hour in his Rover behind the arena and it was mostly spent with my mouth on parts of him that definitely weren't conducive to conversation.
Which was great. Genuinely. I give myself a ten out of ten for my blowjob technique.
But it also means I've still got no idea where we stand.
I glance at him now, his arms locked with effort as he holds the posters steady against the wind kicking up off the water. We're all alone, and we've got the focus of the job at hand to act as a cushion for the awkwardness I know this conversation will bring.
There isn't really a better time to bring it back up again.
So, I decide I'm done waiting for the perfect moment and go for it.
"So," I say, aiming for casual and absolutely not sticking the landing. "You thought anymore about... us?"
"No."
I staple another poster and wait, but apparently, that's it. That's the whole answer.
"Wow," I say. "Riveting reply. Truly a masterclass in communication."
"You asked a yes or no question. I answered."
