Epilogue Chelsea #2
Cameron scoffs. “I didn’t break that rule last time. I was unjustly accused.”
“Like hell you didn’t,” Levi says.
“I had to brush some hair out of my eyes.”
“A likely story,” Marco teases.
Cameron’s never played football professionally, but he played in college with Roman before an injury sidelined him for good after only one year, so I bet he’s still got some good moves in his repertoire—at least, in the context of a friendly game of tag football.
As half the beach relitigates their old beef with Cameron, I share an amused look with pregnant Iris nearby in her beach chair.
This whole family is insanely competitive—every bit as competitive as my own, which is saying a lot.
It’s why I love them so much, and also why Iris finds them slightly terrifying.
“Moving on,” Levi says. “Maverick doesn’t need to be drafted. He’s a rover who can play with whichever team he wants, whenever he wants. He can even switch teams, mid-game, as long as he lets everyone know.”
Maverick snakes his tiny arm around his father’s powerful thigh and presses his cheek against it. “I only want to play with my daddy.”
“That’s my boy,” Roman says. “Thanks, buddy.”
As everyone swoons over Maverick’s devotion to his beloved daddy, Levi says, “I think that’s everything, other than that Marco and Roman aren’t allowed to play on the same team, so they’re both team captains again.”
Everyone agrees the rules are acceptable, and the draft commences. A coconut is flipped to determine which team captain will pick first, playground-style, Roman or Marco, and when the latter man wins, he predictably selects his wife first.
“Nicola the Nuke!” Marco says, and his wife makes her way across the sand toward him with a flex of her bicep.
“Well, damn, the pressure’s on now,” Roman mutters. Rubbing his palms together, he surveys his options on the beach, and to my horror, his gaze soon lands and then lingers on me. “What do you say, Chelsea the Cannon? If I picked you, would you try to sabotage me from within?”
“It’s a fair question. And I truly wish I could pull that off.
But unfortunately, I’m too competitive to throw a game under any circumstances, even to thwart the Prince of Darkness from winning yet another football game.
” My statement isn’t entirely true, as of a few hours ago, anyway.
This morning, for the first time ever, I threw a game of UNO with Maverick.
I didn’t know I had it in me, honestly. But once I saw Maverick’s extreme glee when I genuinely forgot to yell “Uno!” with one card left in my hand, I realized I cared more about Maverick having fun than anything else.
So, after that, I conveniently forgot to yell “Uno!
" again and again, until Maverick inevitably walked away with the win.
“I’m not sure if I believe you,” Roman says, rubbing his chin. “But then again, I’ve always loved living dangerously. Come on over, Chelsea the Cannon. Roman’s Wreckers officially pick you as our next selection.”
“Aw, crap.” I start dragging myself toward Roman, but Luca tells me to stop. “Come on, Roman. Don’t torture her. You know she’d rather die than help you win at anything.”
“It’ll be good for her. A chance to grow and mature and hopefully leave the toxicity of her silly grudge behind.”
My mouth hangs open. I know he’s baiting me. Hoping to get a rise out of me. But even so, I can’t help myself.
“Okay, first of all, it’s not silly and it’s not a simple grudge.”
Roman looks deeply amused. “Rivalry. So sorry, little Buckeye.”
“No, it’s not even that.”
“Uh-oh, Roman,” Ava says. “Looks like you just pulled the pin out of Chelsea’s grenade.” To me, she says, “Tell him, honey. What is it?”
“It’s a religion. A moral code. A way of life.”
“That’s right!” Ava shouts, raising her glass. “Even if the Buckeyes are inferior in every conceivable way, I fully respect your unwavering loyalty to them!”
Everyone laughs at that, even me.
“Thank you, Ava. I think.”
“Man, you’re fun to tease, Chelsea Parker,” Roman says. “Now that you’ve got that out of your system, get over here. With Iris out and Nicola taken, I need you.”
“Roman, come on,” Luca says. “Don’t do this to her.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll survive.”
“No, Luca’s right,” Ava declares. She addresses Roman.
“This is Chelsea’s first time on a family vacation with us, so we all need to pretend we’re nice and easygoing so we don’t scare her away.
Once she’s got a wedding ring on her finger and she’s been totally duped, we can reveal our true colors. But until then, be nice, Roman.”
As everyone laughs, Roman rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll let Chelsea off the hook, just this once. But only because Iris just now shot me a look that made it clear that’s her wish, too.” He shoots a wink at his pregnant wife. “Yes, dear. Message received.”
With a sigh, Roman scans the faces on the beach, and this time, his dark gaze settles on his mother. “Tell the truth, Mom. Are you too far gone on happy juice to throw a reliable dart?”
Ava scoffs. “Booze only increases my accuracy.” To emphasize her point, apparently, she mimes throwing a ball in a way that makes the drink she’s holding in her other hand slosh violently.
“Mom, you’re obviously not in top form.”
“Who would be better, though? You can’t have Iris, Chelsea, or Nicola, so I’m still your best option.” She addresses the other women on the beach. “No offense, ladies.”
“None taken,” they all reply. Everyone here knows full well the Maguire boys got their insane athleticism from both parents but their killer instincts from only one: their darling mother.
“Okay, Mom. Shimmy on over here.”
“Whoop! Let’s go, Roman’s Wreckers!” With the requested shimmy, Ava dances exuberantly toward her team captain across the sand, and the draft continues. But after a few back-and-forth picks, Marco breaks protocol and picks Luca and me as a twofer.
“A twofer?” Roman bellows. “We never agreed that’s possible.”
“Oh, come on, Satan,” Ava teases. “Just pick two players yourself and let’s get this show on the road.”
Roman turns to his father. “Ref? What’s the ruling on the field on the twofer?”
Edward raises his cocktail like a referee calling a foul. “The twofer on the field stands!”
Half the beach cheers wildly while the other half boos and feigns heartbreak. But in short order, we continue with the draft to completion.
“Okay, huddle up, team!” Marco commands, and our newly formed team crowds around our fearless leader, while Roman and his team do the same across the beach.
“What’s the play, Parker?” Marco stage-whispers in the huddle, surprising me. “Roman’s being ridiculously competitive—”
“Surprise, surprise,” Luca interjects.
“So we’ve got to come out guns blazing and shut him up.”
“Shock and awe, baby,” I whisper with a nod.
Marco mimics my nod. “Let’s do something tricky that will singe Satan’s hair off.”
“Love it.”
It’s hilarious for Marco to refer to Roman as Satan in my honor, considering how much he adores his cousin.
Not to mention, it’s ridiculous for a Super Bowl–winning tight end in the NFL to ask me of all people to call our first offensive play.
Marco’s an offensive player, after all. Surely, he’s got a boatload of great trick plays to suggest for our initial plan of attack.
But, hey, since I’m not one to back down from a challenge, and since Nicola’s now insisting I should play quarterback out of the gate, instead of her, to “rub salt in Satan’s wounds,” I’m more than willing to throw out an idea.
I draw my suggested play on my palm with my finger, and everyone in the huddle expresses delight at my silly, fake-out switcheroo of a play.
Marco whisper-barks a series of assignments, letting each of us know our duties on the play, and while he does that, I lean my cheek against my fiancé’s broad, hunched-over shoulder next to me and sigh happily, suddenly feeling total and complete fulfillment.
I don’t know how I got so lucky as to have found the great love of my life, along with a career I’m obsessed with and family and friends who not only love me but also love the man I’ve chosen as my life partner.
The only thing I know for sure is that whatever happens next, whatever twists and turns fate chooses to throw my way, I’ll tackle all of it with Luca, my forever teammate, as we march down the football field of life toward our very own happily ever after.