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)
When I catch Ava’s eye, I shoot her a look that says, “He’s got this,” which she returns. From there, I turn to look at Maverick at the back of the box. He’s not looking my way, though, so I can’t catch his eye. He’s far too engaged in conversation with his beloved mommy, Vanessa, to look around the box.
Dare I say it, Vanessa’s become my friend over the course of this football season. I see her often, since she enjoys bringing Maverick to home games, and Roman’s all for it. Plus, we all joined forces to celebrate Maverick’s fifth birthday, too. And sometimes, Roman and I stay and chat for a bit when we return Maverick to Vanessa’s house after our allotted time with him.
Is Vanessa one of my best friends? No. Not even close. But I have to hand it to the woman, she’s made a real effort, and I’ve reciprocated. The result is, we’ve formed a friendly, genuine bond that makes co-parenting Maverick a true joy.
Luca bats my shoulder, jolting me from gazing at Maverick and Vanessa behind me. “Focus,” Luca commands. “Roman needs your good juju the most, Riri.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. I find Roman on the sideline and consciously send him good thoughts—good juju—as he confers with his coaches during the time-out. Roman’s got his helmet on at the moment, so I can’t see his face. But, even so, I can perfectly picture the game face he’s wearing. Furrowed brow. Laser-sharp eyes. Tight mouth. If I know Roman, he’d rather die than leave this game as the loser, again, for the fourth fucking time.
The time-out ends.
All players on both sides line up again.
“Here we go,” Luca says, taking my left hand as Harper simultaneously grabs my right.
Once he’s in position and everyone is lined up, Roman looks to his left, as always, and then to his right, making sure everyone is precisely in place and ready on his side of the ball. He licks the fingers on his throwing hand, as usual. But before he shoves his hands up his center’s ass crack, like he always does before the snap, Roman first mimes putting on his magic blinders. This time, without looking up at me. This time, without making it a cute thing between us. Well, that’s a first.
With his imaginary, magic blinders in place—this time, only for himself—Roman slides his hands into position and shouts a string of gibberish signals to his teammates. And two seconds later, Roman’s got the ball firmly in his large hands and he’s scanning the field for an open target.
Before Roman gets the ball off, however, a Knight breaks through the O-line and barrels toward him at full speed, prompting Roman to scramble to avoid decimation.
I scream at the top of my lungs as Roman takes off running to avoid a tackle and then continues running well after he should have slid to the ground, as most quarterbacks would do in the same situation to avoid getting tackled and possibly injured.
Oh my God. He’s not looking to get rid of the ball any longer! He’s clearly intending to reach the end zone himself!
The entire stadium stands and screams in unison, some in support of Roman, others in support of the Knights running after him to take him down.
Three defenders close in on Roman. Based on their trajectory, he’s not going to make it. He’s going to go down a few yards short.
Oh my God. Without warning, Roman hurtles himself into the air and well over a leaping, flying, careening defender’s body. And a second later, Roman comes down like a ton of bricks in the end zone. He did it. He scored the go-ahead touchdown, all by himself.
The nearest referee shoots both arms into the sky, signaling a touchdown, and Roman bounces up from the ground and starts celebrating like a madman with a cluster of elated teammates. Their celebration is short-lived, however, because the point after needs to be kicked. Which it is. Successfully. But with six seconds left on the game clock. Unfortunately, that’s enough time for the Knights to throw a Hail Mary pass, take the lead again, and squeak out a win.
Shit. Why’d I let myself think that? Jinx, be gone. Jinx, be gone.
“Fucking commercial breaks,” Luca mutters. He wipes his brow. “I really think I might barf this time.”
“Then go stand next to Levi,” I say, swatting him. “I don’t want your barf on me when I go down there to congratulate Roman on his first Super Bowl win.”
Luca claps his hands together. “Okay. I needed that, sis. I’m back. He’s got this.”
“Atta boy. No bad juju.”
“No bad juju. I’m back.”
Ava leans forward in her seat to shout at Luca and me. “We all need to send whammies to that motherfucker as a family.” She’s talking about the Knights’ stupendous quarterback. And I’m not surprised at all by her word choice, by the way. Whenever we’re at a football game, Ava Maguire turns into a swearing, violent sailor. The transformation was shocking to me at first, though highly amusing, but I’m used to it by now. In fact, elegant Ava’s propensity for foul language at games is one of the many things I adore about her.