Welcome to American football—the other football.Where the media circus seems to be part of the training regimen.
“It feels great,” I say smoothly, pausing to glance at her name tag for the extra charm. “Rachel. Everyone has been really welcoming to me so far.”
The only thing I hate more than press conferences… areAmericanpress conferences. I have to slow my words, round out my R’s, soften my accent—just to make sure they understand me.
Every answer feels like I’m translating myself in real time. Like I have to be lessmeso they can follow along.
Another hand goes up. “The team captain says you’re just the talent that could turn things around for the team. How does that make you feel?”
Like, no shit.
“It makes me believe I’m joining a team that sees my value, Shaun.”
The cameras flash. The mics pick up every word. And I stay steady.
People always compliment me on how well I handle the media. How polished I sound. How pleasant I am to interview. But none of that comes naturally. It’s discipline. Practiced control.
I’ve trained myself to never say the wrong thing. To behave like the cameras are always watching. To make friends with the people holding the pens, running the headlines.
Because I have to.
If I don’t succeed—if I don’t stay successful—my family won’t survive. My father and my nonna back in Argentina, they’re counting on me.
That’s why the bonus the Strikers offered sweetened the deal and made my decision a little easier. I came here for my family.
How I managed to get married—and then somehow misplace a wife—in the short time I’ve been here in Cowboy Country? Well, that’s an entirely different story.
I’ve done what I could with the limited American resources I have. Looked everywhere. But the night we got married, we slipped into the hotel through the back entrance—where cameras are conveniently turned off to keep paparazzi away. And when she left the next morning, my lovely mystery wife swiped my favorite hoodie, pulled it over her head, and walked out without ever showing her face to the cameras.
All I know is this: her name wasMaddy Mills.Her best friend was getting married the next day.
That’s it.
Though, the only Maddy Mills I managed to find died years ago.
My wife gave me a fake name. Great start to our happily ever after, honey.
After the press conference wraps, I head down to the field to meet the team at practice. But not before making one important stop—upstairs, at the executive offices.
I knock on the door three times. He told me he’s rarely in the office, but made it a point to be here today for my arrival.
“Declan! Come in!” Xavier Darcy opens the door and pulls me into a hug like we’ve known each other for years. “How was your trip?” He asks, sounding like a real American cowboy with his accent.
“It was good, Mr. Darcy. Really good, thank you.”
“Please,” he waves his hand, “call me Xavier. Only my wife calls me Mr. Darcy.”
Weird.
“Noted. Thanks, Xavier. The jet was a bit...over the top.”
He laughs it off, as if flying across the world in private luxury is standard. “It’s the team jet. It actually belonged to someone else. We bought it at a discount for the team.”
I can’t help but laugh.A discount plane.That’s billionaire logic for you. “Well, it was a nice surprise. And an even better flight over.”
Xavier didn’t want me here at first. At twenty-five, he figured I was already too old for a transfer like this—at least by European standards. He thought I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the pace of the league, wouldn’t bring enough long-term value to justify the move.
In his mind, I was already closer to my peak than my potential.
