Chapter 36
Iris
It’s Sunday night.
An away game for the Thunderbolts.
And our opponent is Roman’s former team in Baltimore: the Crusaders.
I’m seated alongside Ava and Edward for the big game in the Crusaders’ stadium—the same place where Roman gave his blood, sweat, and tears to his teammates, fans, and coaches for eleven excruciating years.
Mostly, Roman poured his heart out to raucous cheers and support, but, sometimes, especially toward the end of his career here, he did it to boos and jeers from turncoat “fans” who’d decided Roman Maguire hadn’t lived up to his talents and potential.
Not surprisingly, Roman wants to win this game, badly. In fact, he desperately wants to deliver a beatdown of epic proportions to his former team. Can’t say I blame him. I’d want to shut up all the naysayers, meanies, and haters in my old stomping grounds, too.
I look at the pregame clock underneath the big screen, and when another wave of anxiety shocks through me, I gulp my drink to calm my nerves.
As I bring my cup to my lips, Ava, sitting next to me, points at my cup. “Vodka cranberry with a twist?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good girl.” She holds up her own cup. “Gin and tonic, of course. I’m always doing my part.”
We clink and drink.
Holy mother of pearl, I’m sick to death of vodka cranberries with a fucking twist by now.
But because that random, spur-of-the-moment decision to copy everything Nicola did during the Thunderbolts’ dominating, crushing victory during week one, it’s now inked onto the List of Things Iris Absolutely Must Do During Every Game in Support of Roman.
My God, football people are superstitious motherfuckers.
I mean, vodka cranberries are pleasant enough.
But they’re not my favorite. Especially now that I’m not allowed to drink anything else during games.
The good news is that when I confessed my increasing disenchantment with vodka crans to my football mentor, Luca, he assured me the “we must do everything, exactly the same as we did during the first win” clock resets, so to speak, either once we reach the playoffs or with the start of each new season.
So at least I know I won’t be stuck with vodka cranberries forever.
Speaking of Luca, he’s not here tonight, but for a fabulous reason: He played in his team’s winning game earlier today.
That’s right. Recently, our beloved, hardworking, keeping-his-chin-up Luca finally got promoted from his team’s practice squad to their fifty-three-man roster—and he’s been kicking ass ever since.
Levi and Marco aren’t here, either, by the way, since both men played for their respective teams today.
Maverick’s not here, either. Although he never travels to away games anyway.
In this case, however, it wouldn’t have been possible regardless.
Vanessa got a big job in Vancouver for the next three weeks, so Maverick traveled with his excited mommy.
“They’re taking the field,” Edward mutters.
When he points, it’s to Roman and his teammates as they amble toward the sideline in full uniform.
The visiting team never gets a fancy introduction, so it’s not unusual to find them wandering onto the field unannounced.
What is unusual, however, is the way the crowd is reacting to the opposing quarterback’s appearance.
At their first sight of Roman, a large smattering of the hometown crowd—the minority, I’d say—has started applauding their former star quarterback, presumably to thank him for his years of stellar service.
The majority of the crowd, however, has started booing Roman.
Loudly. In fact, as their negativity gains steam, their boos are becoming a virtual cacophony.
Roman doesn’t react to crowd, of course.
He’s got his game face on down there as he confers with Coach Hardy on the sideline.
But even if he’s not bothered by the fans’ lack of sportsmanship, I am.
In fact, I’m livid. Ready to throw down on his behalf.
How dare these people abuse my boyfriend like this, after everything he’s done for them and this city!
Not only on the field, but for schools and charities, too!
Do these people have amnesia, or are they simply heartless and cruel toward someone who poured his heart out for them, week after week, year in and year out, for eleven freaking years?
Ava pats my hand, apparently reacting to my furious body language. “Don’t worry about any of that, sweetie. Roman will use the boos to fuel his competitive tank that much more.”
“Absolutely,” Edward seconds with a decisive nod. “Romie loves proving the naysayers wrong more than anything. Trust me, he’s going to enjoy shutting them all up.”
God, I hope he’s right.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” a deep-voiced announcer booms over the stadium’s sound system. “Get on your feet, and let’s hear it for your Crusaderrrrssssss!”
Everyone in the stadium, except for our trio and anyone else wearing Thunderbolts gear, rises from their seats and cheers wildly as the Crusaders bound into the stadium, accompanied by blaring music, plumes of smoke, and a whole lot of shaking, sparkling cheerleaders’ pompoms.
As mayhem swirls around us, Ava leans into me and shouts above the din, “I can’t wait to watch Roman make this place go dead silent!”
“Woohoo!” I reply. But I’m worried. Granted, I worry before every game.
But this time, my anxiety is through the roof.
Roman wasn’t his usual, relaxed self this entire week, as he prepared for his momentous return to Baltimore.
In fact, he was noticeably quiet and intense.
And so, I gave him a wide berth and left him alone.
Walked on eggshells whenever we were both home, which was rare.
I was willing to do it, of course, given the special circumstances of this week’s game, but I certainly couldn’t live like that every single week. Honestly, it was exhausting.
Luckily, I know we’ll reconnect after the game.
After Roman’s big win. Indeed, we’ll snuggle in our big bed, like we always do after games, and revel in all the highlight clips on the sports channels.
After that, we’ll make celebratory love and belly laugh together about Roman making all these booing Crusaders’ fans eat a buffet’s worth of crow.
“Please rise for the national anthem,” the announcer commands. And a moment later, the song is performed beautifully by a confident woman dressed in a military uniform.
The referee performs the obligatory coin toss, and it’s determined Roman and his Thunderbolts will start the game on offense.
That’s a great sign. Roman loves to come out of the gate swinging.
Several minutes later, after a commercial break and a kickoff, Roman jogs confidently onto the field, his helmet strapped on and his body language confident, as his teammates file into their designated positions on the line of scrimmage.
As always, Roman crouches behind his center to prepare for the snap, and Ava takes my hand and squeezes it in anticipation.
And we’re off.
Roman’s got the ball. All the players on the field are in motion.
Roman takes several bounding steps backward into the pocket while looking for his target.
And when he spots an open receiver, a tight end named Bradley Williams, Roman releases a perfect spiral that lands smack into Williams’s outstretched hands.
Shit.
Williams immediately drops the ball during the tackle that follows his attempted catch. Crap. The pass is ruled incomplete.
“That’s okay,” Ava shouts, as Crusaders fans cheer wildly around us. “Roman’s aim was dead-on accurate. That’s a great sign.”
The Thunderbolts line up again. And this time, we get a running play that doesn’t do squat to advance our position on the field. No worries, though. We’ve still got one more chance to get a first down.
“Come on, Roman,” Ava mutters, as Roman and his team line up again their opponents again.
Once again, the center snaps the ball to Roman.
And once again, our Roman steps back into the pocket, looking for an open receiver.
But before Roman gets the ball off, a massive, hurtling Crusader breaks through the Thunderbolts’ offensive line—the players specifically assigned the duty of protecting their quarterback from exactly this sort of onslaught.
As the Crusader comes barreling at Roman, he throws the ball toward his teammate . . . and a second later, a leaping, hurtling Crusader flies through the air and catches the ball Roman intended for a Thunderbolt.
“No!” I scream. “Nooo!” But it’s worst-case scenario. After making the interception, the Crusader who caught the ball evades three tackles while sprinting all the way down the field into the Crusader’s end zone for a touchdown. It’s a pick-six, as they say. A calamity.
The crowd around me catapults into euphoric madness, while I cover my face with my hands, feeling sick to my stomach. It’s literally the worst thing that could have happened in this situation, besides Roman getting hurt.
Ava touches my arm and shouts, “It’s okay. He’ll use it as fuel!”
As I lower my hands from my face, Edward leans across his wife and shouts, “You’ll see. Romie will come roaring back after this and have his best game yet.”
Spoiler alert: Roman did not, in fact, have his best game yet.
On the contrary, it was his worst.
By far.
Not only of the season, but of his entire career.