Chapter 33 Chelsea
Chelsea
MORIARTY’S BEEN KILLING it in today’s away game against Miami so far, our first game of the season.
But otherwise, our team is getting slaughtered.
It’s midway through the third quarter, and I’m standing next to our defensive coordinator on the sideline feeding him stats and data.
And thank God for that, because otherwise I’m sure I’d be thinking about Luca again, the same way I’ve been doing all week long, despite my best efforts.
I meant it when I made my eternal vow of silence.
Luca needs to learn a lesson about how to treat me.
My father always says, “If you don’t have your integrity, then you’ve got nothing.
” And so, come hell or high water, I’m determined to prove him right.
But as I’ve been finding out, being determined and brokenhearted aren’t mutually exclusive things.
Frankly, I’m furious with myself for continuing to mourn the loss of what I thought I had with Luca, but I can’t help myself.
I’ve been a husk since he broke up with me.
A shell. A zombie. I can’t eat, sleep, or fully concentrate.
Truly, it feels like there’s been a death in my immediate family—that’s how much this is affecting me.
And even though I don’t want to feel this way, even though my brain keeps screaming at me to snap out of it and move on, my heart won’t bounce back.
On the field, Moriarty almost sacks Miami’s quarterback—their QB throws the ball away to save himself, just in time—and the action on the field shifts my focus to Morarity’s swaggering frame for a long moment.
Thank God I’m no longer assigned to that man.
He’s been working with Raul this past week, while I’ve been relegated to helping out whichever coach or coordinator asks something of me.
The good news is that’s meant nobody has cared or noticed all that much what I do and how distracted and pitiful I’ve been lately.
The bad news is that my newfound nebulous role makes it abundantly clear my time with the Mastodons probably isn’t going to lead anywhere good.
A time-out is called by Miami, a commercial break ensues, and the defensive coordinator asks me for some data, mercifully saving me from my wandering thoughts, if only briefly.
I quickly find the information for him, which he conveys to Moriarity.
And when the game resumes, right off the bat, Moriarty uses the intel to break free of Miami’s tight end, find daylight, and take down the bad guys’ quarterback with a sickening and delightful thud.
It’s a massive defensive play—one that stops Miami’s drive and prevents them from adding even more points to the scoreboard—so Moriarty understandably celebrates enthusiastically with his teammates before jogging off the field.
As Moriarty makes his way toward the sideline, he beats his chest pad and bellows, “They say if you love someone, you should set ’em free, so I caged that fucker up and took him down, baby!”
The comment gets a big whoop and fist pump from every teammate and coach within earshot, but I’m suddenly too dumbstruck with an epiphany to move or make a sound.
Oh my God. If you love someone, set them free. Like a thunderbolt, it hits me with full force: That’s what Luca must have been trying to do a week ago! Set me free.
Because he loves me.
Luca loves me.
Luca, Luca, Luca. He’s such a fool! A dumbass fucking fool!
Just this fast, I’m positive he thought he was doing something good a week ago. Something selfless and gallant. When in reality, he threw a Molotov cocktail into everything I thought I knew about the man.
In a flash, I see our entire conversation in that hallway through an entirely different lens.
Luca felt wounded and unworthy in that moment.
So much so, he decided to set me free through any means necessary, even if it meant forcefully and cruelly pushing the little birdie out of her happy home.
He thought he was pushing me out of a cage and forcing me to fly toward my own dreams, didn’t he?
When all he was doing, in reality, was lighting my feathers on fire!
“Did you like that sack, Parkette?” Moriarty calls out as he strides toward me with a beaming smile on his sweaty face.
“Consider it my gift to you.” With a laugh, he reaches out his massive arms to telegraph his plan to swing me around like he’s done in before, but I jump back and hold up my palms to fend him off.
“No,” I bark. “Don’t touch me.” As his face falls, I add, “And don’t call me Parkette anymore, either.
I hate it.” My breathing quickens. “Actually, don’t speak to me again, unless you’re responding to something I’ve said directly to you.
Can you do that for me? And even then, you’ll need to keep it professional and respectful from now on, or I’ll go to my father and tell him you’re not respecting my boundaries and making me feel uncomfortable. ”
Moriarty’s smile is long gone now. Indeed, his rugged face has drained of color.
Good. He’s been acting like I’m his own personal plaything for weeks now, and I’m sick of it.
Frankly, my only regret is that I should have said this stuff to him much earlier, like during our first one-on-one session, which is when he first started calling me pet names and acting like I’d been assigned to him as part of a harem rather than as a professional coach.
Glaring at me, Jacob mutters, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“I shit you not.” With that, I turn on my heel and march toward my father to emphasize my point.
Dad is way too busy to even notice me coming to a stop next to him, but his sheer proximity makes me feel safe and warm.
Not to mention powerful. Surely my decision to stand next to the head coach who’s also my staunchly protective father is sending a message to Moriarty, loud and clear.
When the moment passes and my heart rate slows down, I focus on the game again, just in time to witness our rookie quarterback fumbling the snap.
Goddammit! As one of Miami’s players falls on the ball, securing offensive possession of the ball for his team yet again, everyone on our sideline groans loudly.
Everyone but me, anyway. I don’t care about the latest Mastodon misstep on offense in this moment. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Luca loves me.
Now that I’ve deciphered the puzzle of what went down between us last week, I feel alive again.
Like my heart can beat anew. The bad news, of course, is that I still can’t talk to Luca or tell him what I’ve figured out about his stupid motivations for trying to decimate me.
Not till he kneels and earns the privilege of hearing my voice directed at him again, like I demanded in that hallway.
But the good news is I’m confident that day will arrive, and sooner rather than later.
Luca’s stubborn, but he’s no match for me.
So I know he won’t be able to resist making amends and begging for my forgiveness before too long.
In fact, I give him a week at the most. Two at the outside.
And when he finally relents and grovels, I’ll then coax him into confessing he loves me, since I refuse to say it first. And everything will go back to normal.
In fact, considering how nebulous my job has become again, I bet I’d even be able to convince Coach Martinez to let me go back to personally coaching Luca to get that man onto the active roster.
Not because of Bellamy’s job offer this time, but because I genuinely believe that’s where Luca Maguire deserves to be, if only he can get out of his own fucking way.