Chapter 9 Chelsea #2
I shoot daggers at him. “First of all, this is a Satan-free zone. Don’t bring up that name again, especially out of nowhere and without warning.
Talk about a jump scare. And second of all, it’s not like I was Mata Hari on a mission to get state secrets out of you in Bloomington, Indiana.
I omitted some irrelevant information to keep my identity a secret because the college football world is a small one and I knew I’d never see you again. ”
“Except that you have.”
“But I didn’t know that would happen, obviously. Now, please, can we talk about something that actually matters? Namely, me helping you make it to the end of training camp?”
The expression on Luca’s face reflects nothing but amusement, which causes an intense feeling of déjà vu to wash over me.
Way back when, he looked at me this exact same way while we were eating our ice cream cones, as I recall, while I explained my love of math to him.
I’ve never forgotten that precise moment because after I finished explaining how “totally me” I feel while solving a complex math problem, Luca grinned at me and said, “That’s exactly how I feel while I’m on the field in a football game. ”
“Have I said something to amuse to you?” I snap.
I didn’t mean to ask the question in such a snippy tone, but the warm and fuzzy memories flooding me aren’t welcome ones.
On the contrary, I don’t need or want the distraction of feeling a damned thing regarding Luca Maguire, other than professionalism and focus.
Luca takes a big bite of his food and answers simply, “I just find you extremely entertaining, that’s all. Who’s this Matty Whoever person you were nothing like?”
“Huh? Oh. Mata Hari. She was a famous spy in World War I. Men never suspected her because they couldn’t fathom a woman being smart enough to get the better of them. My point is that I had to lie out of necessity, unlike Mata Hari, because you were a prince from an enemy kingdom, and I—”
“You thought of me as a prince?” He snickers. “Finally, the woman tells the truth!”
“From a rival kingdom. Don’t forget that part. To me, you were a Montague and I was a Capulet.”
An epiphany visibly slams into him. “That’s what you meant when you said ‘Montague’ before bolting out of my hotel room?”
“I didn’t bolt. I left calmly and politely because I needed to get a good night’s sleep for the finals the next day. But yes, that’s what I meant. I was mad at myself for letting my relatively harmless flirtation with a Montague over breakfast get so totally out of control.”
Luca runs a large palm over his face. “And here I thought you were calling me Romeo because you didn’t believe a word out of my mouth.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“Don’t people call lover-boy types who come on way too fast and strong Romeo? Isn’t that a thing?”
“Maybe, yeah. But that’s not what I meant at all.
” I’m tempted to comment that the “lover boy” tag might not be too far off when it comes to Luca, based on what I’ve seen of his online presence over the years.
Certainly, whenever I broke my rule and googled him, Luca’s social media was filled with all manner of gorgeous girls hanging off him—and I couldn’t help noticing none of those girls made it into subsequent posts.
But since that comment would require me to admit I’ve googled him in the first place—and repeatedly—I lean back in my chair instead, fold my arms, and say, “I’m sorry you’ve been tortured for seven long years about me whispering the word ‘Montague’ without further explanation.
I assure you, torturing you wasn’t my intention.
All I cared about was keeping our brief time together a secret forever. ”
“Who was I going to tell?”
“Um, anyone and everyone?” When he scoffs, I add, “You’re telling me, if you’d known you made out with Coach Parker’s daughter, you wouldn’t have immediately blabbed the story to anyone who’d listen?”
“Not if you’d asked me to keep quiet about it.”
“Bullshit, Luca. You would’ve at least told your big brother, and you know it. And once you did that, the news would have traveled fast in our very, very small world and made it back to my father and brothers.”
He pulls a face that concedes the point. “I never said I was tortured, by the way. Just deeply confused. I thought I did something terrible to you that night, and I’ve felt huge regret and shame about it ever since.”
“For seven years?”
Luca shrugs in a way that confirms, yes, that’s the case.
“Luca, feeling ‘huge regret and shame’ about something for seven long years is the very definition of being tortured.”
He twists his beautiful lips and doesn’t deny it this time.
“Look, you didn’t do anything wrong that night, okay?
On the contrary, everything you did and said …
and offered to do … was extremely good, and I was totally on board with all of it.
Too on board, if you must know, which is why I left when I did, even more so than needing sleep for the next day’s finals. ”
Luca tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling again with a loud sigh. When he returns to me, he says, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you football rivalries are supposed to be fun? They’re not supposed to ruin the best night of your life, Chelsea.”
The best night of your life? My heart lurches. Was that a figure of speech?
“I did what I thought was best at the time. My entire family went to Ohio State, so I’ve been raised to think the Horseshoe is my church, Roman Maguire is the devil, and hating Michigan is my religion.
If you can’t understand where I was coming from, then maybe check your DNA, because you’re definitely not a biological Maguire. ”
Luca grins. “I thought you said this is a Satan-free zone.”
“Yes, for you. I’m allowed to bring him up to bash him and/or explain myself.”
He cracks up. “I get it. Being the loser in a rivalry is tough.”
I glower at him and Luca laughs in reply.
“Why didn’t you go to Ohio State like your whole family, if the stupid rivalry is so damned important to you?”
“The math program at Northwestern is better, and eighteen-year-old Chelsea thought it vitally important to make a name for herself on her own merits.”
“You don’t think that way anymore?” He motions to our general surroundings, impliedly referring to the fact that I’m now working for my father.
“No, I still want to forge my own path. Eventually. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a single interview with any NFL team when I applied out of grad school.
So, when my father got this gig and offered me the opportunity to put an actual NFL job on my résumé—even a nebulous, pretend one—I leaped at the chance. ”
“You went to grad school?”
I nod. “MIT. I studied statistics.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Damn.”
“A lot of good it’s done me. Without any official football experience on my résumé, nobody’s willing to take a chance on me. That’s the only reason I was willing to rely on my father to get my foot in the door here, even though I’m totally embarrassed about it.”
He flashes me a sympathetic look. One that makes me realize we might have something in common in this area.
“Same question to you,” I ask, shifting in my chair. “Why didn’t you go to Michigan, like everyone in your family? Did you want to prove yourself apart from your family’s famous name, too?”
Luca leans back, biting the inside of his cheek. “That’s the answer I usually give whenever somebody asks me that. But the truth is I didn’t get into Michigan because my grades were shit. My twin brother did, but not me.” He runs a hand through his dark mop of hair. “It was so embarrassing.”
I flash him a sympathetic look, the same one he flashed me a moment ago, feeling grateful Luca chose to meet my uncharacteristic vulnerability with some of his own.
As our gazes mingle, a new kind of energy suddenly courses between us, like we’ve just now forged some kind of bond, however slim. Or at least, I think it’s now fair to conclude Luca’s forgiven me for my sins in Bloomington.
“Luca, I know I could help you so, so much,” I blurt. “Please, let me coach you.”
“Sorry, I really can’t do that, Chelsea.”
“Don’t you see? Our interests are totally aligned here. If I do really well with you, then everyone at the Mastodons will see what I can do, and then maybe—”
“You swear to God I didn’t fuck up by offering to make you … you know?”
“What?”
“In Bloomington.” He looks around to make sure nobody’s within earshot. “Okay, I admit it. I’ve been tortured about that ever since.”
“I thought we’d moved past that topic and onto more important things.”
“Have mercy on me. For years, I’ve been kicking myself for pushing you too hard. I need closure, Chelsea. I need reassurance.”
“And I already told you: You did nothing wrong.”
“I don’t believe you, though.” He smiles seductively and licks his lower lip. “I need some convincing.”
My breathing suddenly turns shallow. Man, he’s a sexy beast when he turns up the heat, isn’t he? I thought he was hot back then, but this is a whole new level.
“We need to stop talking about this. Especially when other people are around.”
“Okay, let’s talk about it tonight then. After curfew. My room or yours?”
“Would you stop? I swear on a stack of bibles you did everything right, other than being a Maguire, and that I was every bit as horny as you were that night, okay? Now, please drop this forevermore.”
Like a dog with a bone, Luca leans forward, his dark eyes lit up. “You admit you were horny for me, huh? Exactly how horny were you? If you spell it out for me, I’m sure that’ll go a long way toward giving me the closure I need.”
I shouldn’t continue down this naughty road. He’s clearly flirting with me now and trying to lead me down an extremely dangerous path. But then again, after seven years of self-doubt and second-guessing himself, he’s got a good point that he’s entitled to at least some form of closure, right?