Chapter 26
Iris
“Any minute now,” Harper, my longtime bestie from Orchard Blossom, whispers.
She’s been matching my fidgety, scattered energy all day, when what I really need is for her to calm me down.
It’s not that Harper gives a crap about some star quarterback she’s never met—especially one who doesn’t play for her beloved Seagulls.
It’s that she cares so freaking much about me, and how much I’ve been second-guessing my decisions since parting ways with Roman in Hawaii, that she’s vicariously feeling all my pain and regret.
I’m so glad I came to Orchard Blossom to process everything that’s happened to me in such a short time.
Everyone has been so good to me. So supportive.
Granted, everyone other than Harper thinks I’ve been depressed and off-kilter since I got home because of what happened with Brandon.
But of course, that pathetic sack of shit hasn’t even crossed my mind.
No, it’s Roman who invades my waking and sleeping thoughts.
Roman who makes me ache, yearn, and constantly wonder, What if?
Turning him down in Hawaii felt right in the moment.
But ever since, I can’t stop wondering if I’d be happier by his side in LA, even on his less-than-optimal terms.
“Two minutes,” Harper murmurs.
“No countdowns, please,” I mumble. “I already feel like I’m going to barf.”
Her lips pursed in sympathy, Harper pats my hand on the bar while calling out to the bartender, Darcy, an Orchard Blossom fixture who loved my mother like a sister.
“Hey, Darcy,” Harper shouts above the din.
“Will you turn up the sound on that one?” She gestures to a TV immediately above Darcy’s head.
“You bet,” Darcy calls back. She grabs a remote, and suddenly, the words coming out of the talking-head sports guys on TV cut through the wall of background noise in the bar.
I take a long guzzle of beer, readying myself to behold Roman.
Not in past photos or videos online—but live and in real time.
When I see Roman on that screen in a couple minutes, I’ll know he’s existing in the same moment—albeit a thousand miles away, and in a city where he doesn’t think about me, even though I can’t stop obsessively thinking about him.
All of a sudden, the scene on TV cuts from the talking heads to a press conference.
And there he is. Roman Maguire. Sitting behind a long table with two older gentlemen—one with a salt-and-pepper short-cropped Afro and the other with combed-over white hair—in front of a bank of microphones.
Behind the three men, the backdrop is covered in thunderbolts—the logo of Roman’s new team.
I take Harper’s hand and squeeze it, feeling physically ill.
You’d think Roman’s gorgeousness wouldn’t bowl me over anymore, after all the internet stalking I’ve done of him over the past ten days—but seeing him on air and knowing that’s him in the present moment is like seeing my Roman again.
The man who rolled around with me in bed, naked, for the better part of a week.
The man who generously planned date after romantic date and kindly held me close when I cried.
To this day, I don’t know why Roman did all that for me, especially now that I know he was never interested in pursuing an actual relationship. But the fact remains he did, and it was swoony as hell.
On TV, the older gentleman with the white hair welcomes everyone to the press conference, while a chyron identifies him as the owner of the Thunderbolts.
He makes some introductory comments about his organization’s commitment to winning, to their fans, to the city of Los Angeles.
Blah, blah, blah. Until finally, the man says the words I’m dying to hear: “Which is why I’m thrilled to introduce the Thunderbolts’ new quarterback, Roman Maguire, and our new head coach, Otis Hardy. ”
Everyone surrounding me in the bar explodes with exclamations and reactions. People are variously clapping, hooting, booing, and cursing.
I look at Harper, and she looks taken aback by the sheer intensity and loudness of the reactions all around us.
Before coming here today, I finally told another living person, Harper, the secret I’ve been keeping since Hawaii about Roman’s new team.
I also told her what Roman said about the football world losing its shit over the news.
But even with that forewarning, I don’t think either Harper or I could have anticipated the reactions happening around us.
If a bar full of Seagulls fans in a Podunk town in Washington are reacting to Roman’s bombshell news like this, I can only imagine how diehard football fans in both Baltimore and LA are reacting.
“Are you kidding me?” a guy behind us at a table booms. “How is anyone gonna beat the T-Bolts now?”
“With a solid defense,” someone shoots back. “Which is exactly what we’ve got.”
“I’m happy for Roman,” a man to my right says. “The Crusaders never deserved him.”
“When they brought in Coach Keller,” a woman says, “that had to be the final straw for poor Roman. Who’d want to play for an egomaniac like that?”
Someone else chimes in to say, “‘Poor Roman’? Please. You should be pissed the Seagulls weren’t smart enough to nab him.”
A man from a different area of the bar shouts, “Fuck my life. With both Roman Maguire and Coach Hardy, the T-Bolts are going to be unstoppable this season.”
“No, they’re not,” another man spits back. “Roman’s gonna choke, like he always does, whether he switches teams or not. The guy is washed up. A total loser.”
Several men agree enthusiastically with that sentiment.
“Jeez,” I whisper to Harper. “They’re so mean.”
From behind the bar, Darcy addresses one of the naysayers sitting on the other side of Harper. “No, it’s not a quarterback ‘choking’ when a receiver fumbles in the red zone, or when a tight end can’t catch a ball thrown straight into his goddamned hands to save his life.”
Thank you, Darcy, I think. At least someone else understands it’s not all Roman’s fault.
“The buck stops with the quarterback,” the guy talking to Darcy at the bar insists. “If Roman was an actual winner, he’d find a way to win when it counts most. Period. No fucking excuses.”
Harper leans in and whispers, “How does Roman shrug it off when people tear him to shreds like this? No wonder he felt so connected to you. He understood your viral pain on a whole other level.”
I freeze.
Holy shit.
I’ve never put that together before. Roman understood my pain. Is that why he went to such great lengths to show me a great time and help me forget my troubles?
Someone behind us says, “I’ve always figured Roman Maguire is all about the Benjamins over winning. Now we know it for a fact.”
Harper leans into me. “They must not know about Roman’s son in LA. If they did, wouldn’t they talk about Roman possibly changing teams for him?”
“Roman never talks about his son in the press,” I whisper back. “I’m sure they have no idea he exists.”
My mind is suddenly racing. My heart, exploding with regret.
When Roman told me about his son in the restaurant, I thought him not mentioning him before that moment meant his feelings for me had never evolved beyond simple lust. But now, I’m thinking my knee-jerk reaction back then might have been too harsh.
Who knows what it’s like to be a huge superstar like Roman?
I’m sure it’s incredibly difficult for him to figure out when he can safely let his guard down with anyone—especially someone new to his life.
Yes, I bared my soul to Roman, and he never returned the favor—but I was forced to do that by that stupid, viral video.
If not for that, would I have kept my traumas to myself, as originally planned, and pretended to be a carefree sex kitten with Roman throughout our entire time together?
If I’d done that, would I have thought of myself as the villain in the story, the same way I’ve been painting Roman in my mind?
I doubt it. More likely, I would I have justified my actions to myself, the same way Roman justified his actions to me.
The team owner on TV speaks, drawing my attention back to the screen above the bar. “So, now,” he says, “let’s hear a few words from the man of the hour—the Thunderbolts’ new quarterback, Roman Maguire!”
With the same wicked grin he wore countless times in Hawaii while looking up at me from between my bare thighs, Roman leans into the bank of microphones and says, “Hello.”
Gah. At the sound of his deep, sexy voice, my body involuntarily shudders and zings with desire.
In a flash, I’m barraged with memories of that same deep voice dirty-talking in my ear.
Those big hands greedily caressing my naked body.
Those dark eyes practically boring holes into my face, while Roman fucked me into oblivion.
“First off,” Roman says, “let me say I couldn’t be happier to be a Thunderbolt, and I couldn’t be happier to play for Coach Hardy again.” With that, off he goes, talking for several minutes about his excitement, his journey to get here, and his historic partnership with Coach Hardy.
As Roman speaks, I’m transfixed. Screaming internally at myself for not swallowing my pride in Kauai and following him to LA.
True, doing that likely would have felt like compromising my integrity and turning myself into an undignified, pathetic little puppy.
But so what? Seeing him now, I’m thinking it’s distinctly possible I would have been happier getting to be with Roman some of the time in LA, however briefly and unpredictably, rather than sitting here in Orchard Blossom, watching him on TV in my present state of heartache and yearning.