Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
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.
As the clock on the big screen runs out, officially ending my torture, I hang my head and let my tears flow. As it turned out, that first, awful drive that ended in an interception and touchdown for the Crusaders was, indeed, a sign, as Ava always says: a very, very bad one for Roman. He was a train wreck from start to finish. And so was everyone around him on the team. As a result, the Thunderbolts just suffered more than a simple loss. They suffered a complete, faith-quaking, demoralizing catastrophe.
As Ava, Edward, and I sit in stunned silence, gleeful people wearing Crusaders jerseys are filing out of the stadium on both sides of us, all of them bopping along to the celebratory music blaring overhead in the stadium.
“Thank God we finally got rid of that loser,” a guy says, as he passes by.
“Yup. Roman’s definitely past his prime,” his buddy replies. “Good riddance.”
I feel sick. Protective. Angry. Anyone could see the loss wasn’t only Roman’s fault. Every single player in a Thunderbolts’ uniform ingeniously found a way to screw up royally tonight. But, of course, Roman’s the one they’re all going to blame. Same as ever. Same as in Baltimore.
“Come on, ladies,” Edward says somberly. “Let’s go wait for him.”
It’s what we always do after an away game: We find the designated VIP area and wait for Roman to emerge from the locker room on his way to the team bus. We always give him a big hug and tell him good game. Or better luck next time, after that one loss. And then, we head home ourselves and, in my case, wait for Roman to stride through the front door of our house and rip off my clothes.
“Do you really think Roman will want to see us this time?” I ask. This is uncharted territory for me. Yes, Roman lost that one other time this season. But not like this. Not to mention, he didn’t act weird and distant the entire week before that game, either.
“We always go down to see him and hug him, win or lose,” Ava says confidently. “Come on. He’ll be glad to see us.”
I nod meekly. When it comes to Roman and football, I always defer to his parents. They’ve been doing this a whole lot longer than I have, after all. And not only with Roman. With Luca and Levi, too. Earlier today, in fact, they split up to attend Luca’s and Levi’s games, since those games happened to be within train rides of this one.
“I wouldn’t say much to him, though,” Edward advises. Clearly, he’s addressing me with this comment. “Just give him a hug and tell him you love him, and leave the pep talks for another time, okay?”
My stomach twists. “Got it. Thanks for the heads-up.” Something in Edward’s body language has me on edge, like he’s giving me the one-shot dismantling code for a nuclear bomb.
We find the VIP area and show the security guard our badges, and about twenty minutes later, Roman emerges from a cement corridor, his body language tight and his face somber and gray. If I didn’t know the context of this moment, I’d swear Roman just got the news of a loved one’s violent death. He looks that devastated.
Roman heads to his mother first. Which makes sense, considering she’s been comforting him after losses since his peewee football days. But even if it makes sense, it nonetheless stings a bit to watch Roman seeking comfort in his mother’s arms rather than in mine. Even after that one hard-fought loss earlier this season, Roman came to me first.
I wring my hands while waiting for Roman and fight the urge to cry. And when Roman disengages from his mother, he immediately moves on to his father, who wraps his son in a bear hug for a very long time.
When Roman finally disentangles from Edward, he comes to me, slowly. Begrudgingly, it seems—like he’s a political prisoner dragging his ass in front of firing squad. Although, admittedly, I might simply be paranoid, insecure, and out of my depths in this moment.
When Roman reaches me, I open my arms, and he falls into them and silently holds me tight. It’s a relief to feel his body pressed, without hesitation, against mine. To smell is familiar shampoo and aftershave. To feel the beating of his heart against mine.