Epilogue Chelsea
EPILOGUE
Chelsea
One year and a few months later
Fiji
“HAVE YOU EVER been in an ocean this warm? Wow.”
I’m asking the question while wearing the cutest pink bikini ever and hanging from Luca’s broad chest like a baby monkey, as my boyfriend—sorry, fiancé—stands in waist-deep water dressed in swim trunks the color of my eyes.
It’s day two in Fiji, and we’re surrounded by nothing but white sand, teal water, and our benefactor Roman’s all-time favorite people.
“The water’s this warm in Hawaii, too,” Luca says.
“But I like Fiji’s ocean much better because I get to stand in it with you.
My beautiful fiancée.” At that last word, he flashes me a wide, dimpled smile.
He keeps calling me that, and always with a giddy grin, ever since he popped the question to me last month.
“Aw.” I squeeze my arms and legs around him even more tightly. “That’s so sweet of you to say, but Fiji and Hawaii are in the exact same ocean.”
“Really?” He cracks up. “Okay, then this corner of the ocean is way better, thanks to my fiancée being here with me.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I peck his lips.
“Getting to be here with you is almost worth the pain of watching Satan win his second Super Bowl ring.” In celebration of Roman’s big win, my soon-to-be brother-in-law splurged on this vacation for everyone he loves the most—and lucky me, I’m now a part of that group.
“You should brace yourself for even more pain inflicted by Satan,” Luca teases. “He’s dead set on a three-peat.”
“Not on my watch. We’re this close.”
“Hell yeah, we are.”
Now that the Mastodons are no longer the worst team in football—we almost made the playoffs this season!
—our hopes are sky-high. Some might say we’re delusional to think we’ve got a chance in hell of making a playoff run next season, let alone winning the Super Bowl.
But what great things in this world have ever been achieved without a healthy dose of delusion?
With a happy sigh, Luca leans in and gives me an enthusiastic kiss, and we make out for a while as the mai tais we drank earlier at lunch combine with the glorious sunshine beating down to elicit a perfect mixture of joy, relaxation, and horniness.
When we pull away from kissing, I dreamily raise my left hand behind Luca’s wet neck to look at my pretty engagement ring and gasp loudly when it’s not there.
“What? A shark?”
I roll my eyes at myself. “For a split second, I forgot I took off my ring before coming out here.”
“Jesus, Chelsea. Don’t gasp like that when I’m standing in the ocean.”
“Sorry.”
Sharks and snakes. The man who fearlessly hits the gridiron every week is deeply terrified of both.
“I feel like it bears repeating,” Luca says, “but I wish you never would have—”
“Brought my ring on the trip. I know. But how could I leave my pretty bauble behind, when it’s become my entire personality?”
Luca chuckles. Right after he proposed last month, I immediately started doing all sorts of silly bits with my left hand, all of them designed to put my gorgeous diamond front and center in highly awkward and unnatural ways.
Oh, you want to know where I left the scissors?
Over there, my darling—right where my sparkling diamond is pointing the way.
Oh, you’re feeling a bit sleepy? Me, too, my darling. Yawn. Sparkle. Wink.
The bit is especially hilarious when performed with a rock the size of Rhode Island.
Seriously, the diamond Luca gave me looks like it should be worn by a famous movie star on a red carpet.
Or by the wife of a superstar player like Iris.
But that’s Luca for you. He goes big in everything he does, thanks to his favorite mantra: “How you do anything is how you do everything.”
Take Luca’s proposal, for example. I thought I was bringing my boyfriend home to our off-season family home in Columbus for a simple Sunday night dinner with the fam.
But what I got instead was my surprise engagement party, attended by every person who’s ever loved me, besides Roman, Iris, and Maverick.
Those three all wanted to be there, of course.
We’ve all felt like family for quite some time by now.
But unfortunately, Satan’s team had just advanced to the Super Bowl by then.
For a second time. Fucking hell. So, Satan was kind of busy getting ready for that.
But other than those three, everyone else most important to me was standing in my parents’ living room when I opened their front door.
Confused at the sight of all those familiar faces smiling at me, I turned to look at Luca standing behind me with a question on my face, and that’s when my sweet boyfriend sank to his knee on my parents’ porch, held up that breathtaking ring, and begged me to become his wife.
When I shrieked out my yes—the easiest yes of my life—Luca slid that massive rock onto my finger, followed by his treasured mathlete medal over my head, and gave me the kiss of a lifetime.
It was a perfect proposal. Emotional and magical.
And I know everybody witnessing it felt that way, too.
Even Lincoln looked teary-eyed when he hugged us both afterward.
Although, full disclosure, when I said, “Hey, Linc, I guess this means Roman Maguire’s going to be your brother-in-law, huh?
” he gruffly snapped at me to “shut the fuck up.” But even that retort was a fabulous moment for me.
I’ve never laughed so hard in all my life.
Later that night, when Luca and I were alone in my childhood bedroom, I gushed to my new fiancé about his proposal, the party, and the ring, but I also mentioned my concern that he’d spent way too much on my flashy diamond.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I love it. But—”
“Then that’s the end of the discussion,” he declared. “I’m a high roller now, baby. What else is all my superstar money for, if not to spend it on my fated mate?”
What could I say to that? Nothing. So, I fucked his brains out and let it go.
Luca’s not Roman when it comes to the zeroes in his bank account.
But who is? Also, he’s not quite the “superstar” he claimed to be, either, though he’s certainly well on his way.
Once Moriarty got traded to the Admirals in a blockbuster deal right before the trade deadline last season, Luca became the Mastodons’ biggest star, and he’s been expertly parlaying that popularity into an even bigger, national profile.
Indeed, Luca’s becoming so in demand these days as one of the most liked and recognized players in the NFL, the Mastodons recently sealed a multiyear deal with him intended to keep him in blue and black for many years to come.
Luca was beyond thrilled when he inked his long-term deal with the team, obviously, since he loves playing for the Mighty Mastodons with all his heart.
But his new deal was equally thrilling for me, too, not only because I love him, but because it meant I can continue working alongside my father and boyfriend—sorry, my fiancé—and also for Ginny, too, without any kind of long-distance situation with Luca ruining our fun.
After the roaring success of my first season as a dynamic duo with Ginny, she recently gave me the green light to hire three new people for my analytics department during the off-season, with all of them reporting to me.
And not only that, but Bellamy has become pretty tolerable to me.
He’s still not my favorite person, but he’s also not quite as big a blowhard as I originally thought.
Once he started showing me genuine respect and actually listening to me in meetings, thanks to Ginny, I slowly let my guard down and returned the favor.
The result has been a slowly formed professional relationship that’s working for the benefit our mutual goal: making the Mastodons as great as they can be so we can make a run for the Super Bowl in the very near future.
“You’re thinking about football, aren’t you?” Luca murmurs, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“No, I’m thinking about how much I love you. And football.”
Laughing, he kisses me again. And predictably, that one kiss leads to lots more. But before we get too hot and heavy out here in this ocean, we’re interrupted by the sound of Luca’s mom calling to us from the sandy shore.
“Hey, lovebirds!” Ava says. When we break apart to look at her, my future mother-in-law raises the colorful cocktail in her hand, whoops, and performs a cute little shimmy. “Come to the beach! It’s Fiji Bowl time!”
“No tackling; tag only,” Roman barks to his family members and closest friends assembled on the private beach he’s rented for the week. He tousles his son’s dark mop. “Unless, of course, you’re Mavvy, in which case you can do anything you want to take anyone down.”
Little Maverick fist-pumps, and everyone laughs at his adorableness.
Roman motions to Iris, who’s in a beach chair with a hand on her tiny baby bump. “Even without my secret weapon at QB this time, I still vote that all the same rules as last time apply again, including only women playing at quarterback. Everyone cool with that?”
Several people murmur that sounds great to them, but Luca raises his hand.
“Since we’ve got a newbie here …” He jerks his chin toward me. “We should probably go over the full list of rules.”
“You don’t remember all of them, do you?” Levi deadpans.
“Not a single one.” Luca laughs. “I think I’d imbibed more than a few rum punches when we played last time.”
“Whoop!” Ava says, raising her colorful beverage, and everyone chuckles.
Roman looks at Levi. “Do you remember all the rules we came up with, Evil Levi? Your brain’s a steel trap.”
“Yup.” Levi claps his palms together and addresses the group.
“Like Roman said, only women can be quarterback. Also, all past or present players, whether pro or college, have to play with their dominant hand behind their back on offense.” He glares at Cameron, the Maguire brothers’ agent. “No exceptions.”