Chapter 8
Eight
“Did he just say—”
“Stella,” Willow says, filling in the blank as my legs turn to Jell-O, inch by inch.
“And did I hear—”
“Fiancée.” Willow wraps one arm around my back, her hand in the crook of my armpit, holding me up as if I were a toddler about to toss myself onto the ground.
“So, he did mention—”
“Marriage. As soon as possible.” Willow’s grip on me tightens just as my knees decide to buckle. I dip, but she holds me tighter and somehow, by the grace of the Almighty, I stay on my feet.
“Wait, are you—” says a woman just to the side of me. “Stella?”
I turn to a petite brunette and a tall blonde who both happen to be staring at me.
“Roman’s engaged?” the blonde says. “I didn’t think he really communicated or relationshiped or—”
“Rosalie,” the brunette scolds, shushing the other woman.
“What?” Rosalie’s eyes widen. “He’s The Graveyard. You’re telling me you aren’t a little surprised to hear he’s been dating?”
The brunette ignores her friend and looks right at me. “You’re Roman’s fiancée?”
I swallow. “I. Am. Stella.”
The woman smiles at me, then Willow. “I’m Fran. I’m Callum’s fiancée. Cal never mentioned Roman was getting married as well.” Her smile grows as if this piece of information is important.
I blink and take in her words, but … “I. Am. Stella.”
Willow’s firm grip keeps me upright, and I feel a small pat on my arm.
Fran chuckles at my repeated phrase. “It’s good to meet you. How long have you and Roman been together?”
My mouth goes dry. “I. Am—”
Willow pinches my side, and I snap my mouth closed. “They’ve known each other since they were kids. It’s long-distance.”
“And The Graveyard is private,” Rosalie says.
“And that—” Willow lifts her arm not wrapped around me and points to the blonde. “Yes. The Graveyard is private.”
“The Graveyard?” I don’t know what that means. Is she referring to Roman? Plus, what is Willow saying? Why are those words—those lies—leaving her mouth? She’s implying with every syllable she mutters that I am, in fact, Roman’s fiancée.
Fran nods, taking Willow’s half-truths as fact without one little question.
And what did her friend mean The Graveyard doesn’t relationship?
Roman was always popular, always friendly.
He was like joy inside a teenage boy. And Roman always had a girlfriend.
It was a little annoying if I’m being honest. The guy couldn’t walk two feet without a new girl throwing herself at him.
“Since you were kids? That’s so sweet,” Fran says. “Have you seen—” She begins, but Callum Whitaker, number ten, and Zevulun Hayes, number five, walk up behind the two, distracting our interrogation team.
“Willow,” I whisper, repaying her with a pinch to her arm. “What are you doing?”
“Go with it.” Her brown eyes flick from the women to me. “Roman must have his reasons,” she whispers.
He must.
Roman wouldn’t say something like that to a journalist of all people unless there was a reason. Right?
But then, do I know Roman anymore? After Brice—after graduation—Roman left, and we never heard from him again.
Roman puts an end to his current interview and starts our way.
I swear, even with Fran and Rosalie distracting me, I hear the word wedding amongst one of his last words.
He stares ahead, his look fierce, until his eyes fall on me.
He softens—immediately. His tender gaze almost seems to apologize on his behalf.
I grind my teeth, my jaw clenched, staring at the heartthrob boy who became very much a striking adult.
Yep, Roman grew up well. Besides the whole lying to the world about me bit, I have to believe he’s still the same old Roman.
Only buffer. With more facial hair. And thighs that could peel an orange.
I swallow and remove the image of Roman peeling an orange with his leg muscles.
I’m not sure what that would even look like, but right this minute, my brain is doing its best to conjure the picture.
Remove all that, and I’d guess he’s the same sweetheart he always was.
He wasn’t a liar. He was a friend to everyone.
Jogging the last few steps into the group we’ve formed, Roman chokes out a breathless, “Stella, can we talk?”
“Graveyard,” says a man hurrying up behind Roman. The man slaps his back and grins like a goof while waggling his brows. “Engaged? Did I hear that right?” He speaks with a slight accent and a cocky expression on his face.
Roman stiffens at the man’s touch. His smile is more of a grimace as he says, “Good news travels fast.”
“Yeah, it does,” the man says, and I recognize him now.
I searched the Red Tail’s roster online during our drive over.
Lucca Cruz is the only Brazilian on the Red Tails team.
“Callum heard you, Sawyer heard him, he told Tru, and Tru told me.” He beams as if he’s solved some tricky riddle.
“I can’t believe The Graveyard got a girl to date him. ”
“Hey,” I bark, more defensive than I should be. But this is Roman. I would have followed eighteen-year-old Roman anywhere—I mean, as long as my brother didn’t know about it.
“No offense, mystery girl.” The Brazilian winks at me. “I’m Lucca.”
“Her name is Stella,” Roman says, shrugging the man’s hand from his back. “And she doesn’t need to know you.”
Lucca holds up both hands in innocence, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “So sensitive. I can respect that.”
“Be straight, Graves,” Hayes says, standing next to Rosalie. “You’re engaged?”
Whitaker sets a hand on Fran’s back, and though the man is dripping with sweat, she leans into him. “And none of us knew?” he says.
I silently add, No one, not a soul, not even the supposed bride.
“For real,” Fran says. “All this time, I could have had a wedding planning buddy. Geez, Roman.” Her tone is playful, and it’s the first sense of softening I see in Roman since his teammates started asking questions. “When is the big day?”
“Soon,” Roman says, and I almost choke on my swallow. He doesn’t even glance my direction with the words. “Very soon. Uh, so, long-distance. I haven’t seen Stella in a while. So—”
“Oh,” Rosalie says. “Right. We’ll leave you two alone.” Her hand slips into Zev’s and she tugs him behind her.
“Sure, we’ll go. For now,” Fran sings before looping her arm through Callum’s and following after her friend.
Once the troops are out of earshot, I screw up my face and turn on Roman.
“I know,” he says before I can utter a word. “But hear me out.” He sets one gentle hand on my shoulder. It reminds me of the opposite—his gruffness with Lucca, his frown at Zev. I’ve never seen Roman like that. And since when did the man need to lie about his love life?
“I’m listening.” I plant one hand on my hip, attempting not to breathe in his woodsy scent. I do my best to stay grounded, to keep my weak knees strong and my head clear. I tell the fifteen-year-old girl living and crushing on Roman Graves inside of me to chill out, to grow up.
“Alone?” he says, glancing over at a quiet, very observant Willow.
“She’s going to tell me everything,” Willow says—she’s so confident. She’s also most likely right.
“And yet, I’d like a moment,” Roman says to my friend.
“It’s okay, Willow. I’ll meet you at the car.”
Willow groans and flaps her arms at her sides, making a fuss. But when neither Roman nor I invite her to stay, she stomps off in the opposite direction.
“She isn’t normally so dramatic,” I tell him.
His tone warms as he glances from Willow back to me. “She seems nice.”
I sniff, my head buzzing, yet I keep up his casual conversation.
“She is.” I tilt my head, peering into Roman’s blue eyes.
Those eyes always reminded me of something precious, like a sapphire or a robin’s egg.
Sighing, I set one hand on my hip. “Roman, what’s going on?
Did we have some kind of courtship that I forgot about?
” I wrinkle my nose and give him a mocking grin to go with my sarcastic tone.
He slips his hand into mine, pulling me to an abandoned corner of this field. I haven’t seen the man in almost nine years, and now he’s holding my hand and announcing our marriage. It’s all a little … much. Even for that fifteen-year-old girl inside of me.
My fingers tingle where our skin meets, but I tell myself to ignore it. I’m failing. But I pretend anyway. I should be mad. So, I choose to focus on that.
“Roman, what if my parents see that article?” I say. “What if they hear that interview?”
“It’s more of a Southwestern U.S. thing. It rarely goes national.”
“But it could. They could see it,” I argue.
He runs a hand over the short bristles of his hair. “I know. I know. We’ll figure it out. Let’s sit.”
“On the grass?”
He gives me a pointed stare, and I pull my hand from his, a fresh wave of fluttering leaves with it. I cross my arms, ignoring the dissipating sensation, and plop myself down on the cool grass.
“It’s sixty degrees out here, Roman,” I whine. I am totally entitled to whine right now.
He doesn’t care about my complaint. And really, I just need him to start explaining. He paces twice in front of where I sit before crouching down in front of me. “Stell, recently life has been brutal to you.”
All at once, my eyes prick with unshed tears. How does he know that?
“I am certain you didn’t deserve to get fired.”
I shake my head, my eyes stinging. “I didn’t.” At least, I don’t think I did. Joan might disagree.
“And kicked out of your place? No way. Not your fault.”
“A little my fault,” I whisper. “But completely accidental. Very innocent.” And one hundred percent Joan’s fault. If she hadn’t stressed me out that morning, I wouldn’t have distractedly rushed to start the dumb dishwasher, filling it with dish soap.
“No one deserves to be kicked out of their home,” he says, picking my hand back up in his. “And that award—you deserved it. I’m certain of it. I realize I never got to see the piece, but you had talent ten years ago. I can only imagine how amazing you are now.”
My throat tightens and I swallow down the avalanche of tears that threaten to join this reunion. “How do you know all that?”
“And,” he says—because he isn’t finished, “maybe I can’t do anything about all that. But I’m not going to let them discontinue your visa early.” His eyes pierce mine.
“My visa?” I say, my voice breaking—he’s lost me now.
“You aren’t leaving.” Roman brings my hand up to his face, his breath warm on my skin, and the bristles of his short beard tickling me with their touch. He presses a kiss to my palm. “I’m going to fix this.”
“Roman, I’m not—” I say with a swallow. I’m slow and befuddled. It’s not my fault. Roman Graves just kissed my hand. His lips on my skin. Something my brain has been curious about for years.
“Do you want to move back to Canada?” he asks, and I think about my mother and how that sweet woman would have me packed and on a plane if she knew any of the things Roman just spoke of.
I shake my head. “No. Not now.”
Roman threads his fingers through mine, squeezing my hands and holding them to his chest. “You don’t have to, Stell. We’re going to get married. We’re going to get you a green card. We’re going to figure this out. Together.”
I hear him. I understand what he’s saying. But I don’t know how to respond. Clearly, Roman doesn’t know that I have dual citizenship. My heart thumps in my chest and finally I get my question out. “Who told you all that?”
“Willow. While you were in the bathroom. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I was so distracted—”
My head drops. “Your red card. Roman—” My throat tightens. Did that man get ejected from his final game of the season because me and my hot mess express had him frazzled?
“None of that’s your fault. That’s on me. But Stell, we can do this. I can help.”
A shaky breath falls from my lips.
“Let me help you.”
I simply stare. Words won’t come.
“You’ll be helping me in return,” he says.
And I am all at once intrigued.
“I bought a cabin, but unless there are extenuating circumstances, I can’t move in.” Roman clears his throat. “My contract states that as a single guy, I must live in the team apartments.”
“A single guy,” I say.
“Yeah.” His Adam’s apple bobs, and my eyes lock on his throat.
“But that’s not why I said those things, Stell.
I want to help you. You don’t have a place to live?
You can move in with me. You don’t have a job?
I can give you room and board while you look for one.
You don’t want to leave the country? I can fix that.
” He clears his throat. “It just so happens that you’ll be helping me too. ”
I bite my cheek. Roman wants to help me. I certainly haven’t helped myself. I’m not sure I can do anything right anymore. And while correcting him is on the tip of my tongue, he said I would be helping him in return.
My parents loved Roman. They’d approve of him any day.
News like this might even make them happy.
Instead of Stella got fired, it would be Stella got married.
Instead of Stella got evicted from her home, it could be Stella’s moving in with her husband.
Instead of Stella lost that award—who am I kidding, my parents don’t remember that I was up for any award.
But they’ve always loved Roman. My life is a mess. But do my parents need to know that? It’ll only cause them pain. Pain I could prevent.
And Roman needs this too.
For the first time since I heard the insane words leave Roman’s mouth, I’m actually considering going through with this.
Sure, marrying a guy to get out of all your big fat failures may not be moral, but at least it’s not illegal. Roman is willing to commit immigration fraud. For me. At least in my secret scenario, he’s an innocent man staying out of prison.
My heart patters in my chest. Pat-pat. Pat-pat. It’s like a rolling thunderstorm only growing more wild.
I swallow, peer up into Roman’s sapphire eyes, and leap. “Okay.”