Chapter 39
Iris
How much noise and vibration can the human eardrum withstand?
I’m not asking hypothetically. Not asking for a friend. I’m wondering this because my eardrums currently feel on the cusp of bursting like two little grenades inside my head.
The wall of sound, the frenetic energy, the palpable electricity in this massive stadium are unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
And that’s coming from someone who’s attended every single one of Roman’s loud, raucous games this season, including the hard-fought playoff games he won before making it to tonight’s Big Game.
Everyone told me, “Nothing compares to the Super Bowl, Iris. You’ll see. ” Turns out, they were right.
I’m in Roman’s box, which cost him a pretty penny, and I’m cheering him on with all the usual suspects and then some.
Even my best friends, Harper, Tatiana, and Kaylee, flew in for the game, at Roman’s generous invitation.
The only usual suspects not present in Roman’s box today?
Marco, Nicola, and Marco’s closest family members, all of whom are sitting in Marco’s box across the stadium and rooting for his team, the Knights.
Naturally, since Marco’s team is the Thunderbolts’ formidable opponent tonight.
It’s a crazy thing to root against a beloved family member. But that’s football, folks. At least, when you’re a lucky member of the Maguire clan. In fact, we’re all rooting for Marco’s team to get dog-walked tonight.
It makes me feel better rooting against Marco to know he’s already experienced the thrill of winning a Super Bowl, while Roman hasn’t.
Although, admittedly, even if the situation were reversed, I’d be rooting for Roman and his Thunderbolts to deliver an unequivocal beatdown to the Knights tonight anyway. Sorry, Marco.
Here’s where things currently stand in this topsy-turvy game: The bad guys are ahead by three and there are eight minutes and six seconds left in the game.
A touchdown would put the good guys ahead by four, assuming we successfully kick the point after the touchdown; a field goal would tie things up.
“Third down,” Harper mutters next to me after our best running back gets tackled a yard shy of the first down.
She’s been watching Roman’s team on TV in Orchard Blossom this whole season, along with her whole family, so she’s become a bit of a diehard Thunderbolts fan.
In fact, I think it’s fair to say she’s been rooting for the Thunderbolts even more than her beloved Seagulls this season.
I feel someone grab my free hand, and when I look, it’s my beloved Luca. “Sorry in advance if I barf on you, sis,” he chokes out. “I’m freaking out.”
I squeeze his hand. “No need to barf. Roman’s got this.”
“Fuck yeah, he does,” Luca shoots back reflexively. But even as he says it, I can hear the quaver of doubt in his voice. Unlike me, Luca’s sat through three of these damned things. And each time, he’s had to watch his big brother’s team lose by the skin of their teeth.
I return my attention to the field and hold my breath as Roman lines up behind his center.
He licks the fingers on his throwing hand, like he always does at this point, shoves his hands up his center’s ass, basically, and shouts a string of gibberish that ultimately signals the center to snap him the ball.
With Roman in motion, everyone on the field follows suit and springs to life.
In the blink of an eye, Roman fakes a handoff to his running back before stepping deep into an immaculate pocket.
He searches for his favorite target, Tyrell—my favorite player, besides Roman.
At the moment, Tyrell is in the process of running his route at full speed.
And, of course, given his incredible talent, he’s saddled with the usual double coverage.
But even so, in this do-or-die moment, Tyrell somehow manages to elude one Knight completely and get himself a half step in front of the other.
A defender breaches the O-line and barrels toward Roman in the pocket, but as the guy rushes toward him, Roman releases the football in a perfect spiral that’s headed straight for Tyrell.
Oh my God, no.
No, no, no.
I grab at my hair with both hands, disbelieving my eyes, as a Knights player leaps through the air from out of nowhere and steals the pass headed for Tyrell.
Thankfully, the Knights player is immediately taken down at midfield.
No yards gained on the interception. But the damage is done.
The Knights now have possession of the football, which means they’ve got the chance to score again, in the waning minutes of the game, while Roman is forced to stand on the sidelines, watching helplessly.
“Shit!” Luca screams. “Fuck!”
“I can’t believe it,” I murmur, clutching my stomach. “That pass looked perfect.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Luca bellows. “Fuck!”
My gaze shifts to Roman on the field. He’s been playing like a football god throughout this entire game. That was his first mistake, if you can even call it one. If you ask me, that pass was right on target—the interception, a total fluke. At any rate, it’s the first sign Roman is human, after all.
As my boyfriend marches to the sideline, his body language is tight. Clearly, he’s livid with himself. He flops onto a bench and immediately throws his helmet to the ground in front of him with full force. Not a good sign. Roman never does that.
A rather brave—or stupid—player approaches Roman on the bench and attempts to mollify him.
But Roman visibly shrugs the guy off with an angry wave of his hand and a turn of his shoulder.
Clearly, Roman doesn’t want to be coddled right now.
He wants to stew in his anger and torture himself for that flukey interception. Goddammit.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Luca says on an exhale. “All we have to do is stop them from scoring on this drive, and we’ll get the ball back with plenty of time.” He glances at the game clock, and his handsome face tightens.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I murmur.
“They won’t score. It’ll be fine.”
God, I hope we’re both right.
There’s a commercial break. One of a billion, it feels like, and through the whole two minutes, I watch Roman pacing on the sidelines, sans his helmet, like a hungry, caged lion with rabies.
Mercifully, Luca’s prediction turns out to be right.
During the Knights’ march to the end zone following the commercial break, the Thunderbolts’ relatively mediocre defense somehow forces a godsend of a fumble, which means Roman and his offense will now get the ball again, still trailing by only three points.
Commercial break.
Again.
I look at the game clock again while clutching Harper’s arm for dear life.
1:04.
That’s all the time left for Roman to make his dreams come true, after his long, exhausting, hard-fought first season with the Thunderbolts.
For Roman to prove all the haters and doubters wrong.
For Roman to work a miracle and finally get that elusive “W” after his fourth attempt at winning a fucking Super Bowl.
To get that win, however, he’s going to need to put that interception firmly behind him and focus on what’s in front of him.
That’s easier said than done, I know. I’ve certainly never been in his shoes.
In fact, very few people in the history of the world know exactly what it feels like to be Roman Maguire in this moment.
Roman huddles up with Coach Hardy, presumably going over whatever play they’re cooking up next.
And when the time comes for Roman to jog onto the field with his offense, he does something he’s been doing for several weeks now, ever since our day of horseback riding that turned into an equine therapy session: He looks up at me in his box, raises both palms to either side of his head, and mimes putting on his magic blinders.
Nodding and smiling through tears, I clutch my heart with one hand and blow kisses with the other. You’ve got this, baby. Focus on what’s in front of you and nothing else.
I’ve never admitted this to Roman—because why would I?
—but, despite my stated confidence in those magic blinders, I honestly wasn’t sure the trick would work for him.
Yes, little tricks like that always worked with preschoolers, back when I was lucky enough to have a job teaching them, but I had no idea if something like that would work on a grown man.
A professional athlete. A tough nut to crack, as Roman often calls himself.
I figured Roman had nothing to lose, though.
Plus, I figured, at the very least, he might think of me and our day in the meadow together while putting on those magic blinders, which then might relax him and make him smile—which then might relieve his tension and clear his mind.
So why not give it a whirl? Little did I know, the trick would become Roman’s secret weapon over the next several games.
Thankfully, Roman doesn’t need to put on his magic blinders very often because he makes very few mistakes.
But whenever he does—nine times out of ten, anyway—he slides those suckers on and becomes a new man.
A focused one. A calm one. All I can hope now is this time won’t prove to be part of that one-in-ten failure rate.
The teams are lined up again.
The ball is snapped to Roman.
He bounds backward, looking for Tyrell, who’s once again saddled with double coverage.
Despite the two defenders, however, Roman throws a spiraling dart toward Tyrell, anyway.
As it sails through the air on a frozen rope—Edward always uses that phrase for a rocket of a pass, and I absolutely love it—every head in the stadium, including mine, swivels to watch its trajectory . . .