Part 2Say Please Mr Montgomery

For his culinary debut, Declan opted for a classic American diner scramble—eggs, bell peppers, and onions.

He didn't make any catastrophic, burn-the-house-down mistakes, but he stopped to ask me a question at every conceivable micro-step.

""How big do I chop the peppers?""

""How many eggs?""

""How hot should the oil be?""

""The recipe says 'salt to taste.' Whose taste?""

I stood in the doorway, my arms crossed. After answering his fourth question, I finally broke.

""Mr. Montgomery, are you cooking this, or am I?""

He held the spatula like a scepter, his face a mask of pure innocence. ""You’re the Coach. Coaching is literally your job description.""

It was a solid argument.

Except for the fact that his eyes weren't on the pan; they were locked entirely on me.

I walked over and reached past him to turn the burner down. ""Dice the peppers small. Whisk the eggs in a separate bowl first. Go light on the salt—you can always add more, but if you over-salt it, it’s ruined.""

Declan stared down at the sizzling pan, giving a slow nod as if absorbing ancient wisdom.

Five minutes later, the scramble was plated.

It looked acceptable, but the peppers were raw, the onions were scorched, and the eggs were so salty they were practically bitter.

Sloane took one polite bite and immediately lunged for her water glass.

Harrison carefully set his fork down. ""Consuming this level of sodium will severely elevate our renal metabolic load.""

Declan looked at me across the table. ""You try it.""

""The chef always tastes his work first.""

He picked up a forkful, put it in his mouth, and his expression went completely blank for a second. Then, with superhuman composure, he swallowed.

""It's fine.""

I slid a glass of tap water toward him. ""You’re literally tearing up. Don't be a hero.""

Dinner was a bust. I used a fraction of our communal budget to buy a loaf of cheap white bread, pulled a jar of generic peanut butter from my own stash, and we made do.

Declan refused.

He sat at the table, his posture rigid, watching the rest of us eat our sad sandwiches. His face was a mask of icy indifference. ""I’m not hungry.""

A second later, his stomach growled. Loudly.

I informed him that the production crew had an emergency stash of Cup Noodles. Ten dollars a pop. They retailed for about eighty-nine cents, meaning the markup was an idiot tax.

Declan scoffed. ""I’d rather starve.""

By 11:00 PM, per the show's rules, the main kitchen was padlocked.

I had just finished writing out the chore chart for the next day when three sharp knocks hit my bedroom door.

Declan was standing in the hallway hallway, holding a styrofoam cup of ramen. His hair was damp from a shower, falling over his forehead, and his face lacked any of the humility required for begging.

""Coach. Borrowing a bowl for hot water.""

I glanced at the dry noodles in his hand. ""The kitchen locked at ten. Did you not think about how you were going to boil water when you bought that?""

""Slipped my mind.""

I stared at him for a long moment. The producers had definitely cast the right people for this trainwreck.

""Why should I give you hot water?""

Declan waved the cup. ""I'll pay you.""

""I don't need ten dollars.""

""Then what do you need?""

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. ""A magic word.""

He realized what I was asking. His jaw tightened, and he spun on his heel, walking away like I’d just insulted his ancestors.

Five minutes later, the knocking returned.

Declan stood in the exact same spot. He had gripped the styrofoam cup so hard it was dented. He turned his face away, refusing to meet my eyes, and forced the words through gritted teeth.

""Coach.""

""Please.""

Satisfied, I let him use my electric kettle. I still charged him five bucks for the electricity.

Once the water was poured, he sat down on the wooden steps of the back porch to wait for the noodles to soften. The night air was damp and cool.

Out of nowhere, he spoke. ""Did you eat this kind of stuff a lot?""

""When things were at their worst, I’d split one of those cups into two meals.""

His hands stopped moving.

I braced myself for some tone-deaf, rich-boy observation about the tragedy of the lower classes. But instead, his voice went incredibly soft.

""You shouldn't eat it too often. It’s hard on the stomach.""

He looked down, quietly eating his cheap noodles in the dark.

A few minutes passed. The quiet stretched between us, thick but surprisingly peaceful.

""Sierra.""

It was the first time he hadn't called me Coach.

I looked at him. But Declan had already looked away, and when he spoke again, his tone was back to its usual, drawling arrogance.

""I won't be begging you for anything tomorrow.""

I nodded, standing up to go inside. ""Tomorrow is laundry day.""

His plastic fork paused mid-air. ""How much detergent do I use?""

I closed the screen door between us.

""Ask me tomorrow.""