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)
Atlas and I exchange a nod.
“Words to live by,” I whisper.
Dad pauses for an eternal moment. Clearly, he’s distraught. But eventually, he squeezes my hand and says, “I’m with you, honey. Do whatever you need to do, and we’ll both support you.”
“Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Atlas.”
My brother takes my free hand. “Now, get in there and take that motherfucker down.”
Chapter 3
Roman
“Welcome to the wedding of Marco and Nicola!” my younger brother, Luca, booms with enthusiasm, and the crowd reacts like they’re once again witnessing Marco diving into the end zone at the Super Bowl.
There are about fifty of us assembled on this beachside cliff in Kauai for today’s happy nuptials. I’m today’s best man for my cousin, of course, dressed to the nines in a light blue suit that matches what Marco and all his groomsmen are wearing. Standing immediately behind me is Levi, Luca’s twin, followed by some teammates of Marco’s: a couple from his longtime NFL team and one from back in his college days.
“Eternal love and commitment,” Luca continues solemnly. “Soulmates. New beginnings. Family. These are the revered things we’re here to celebrate on this picture-perfect day in paradise.”
I bite my tongue to keep myself from snorting. Luca never talks like this. Obviously, he’s doing a bit—role-playing a wedding officiant who takes his job seriously. But come on, what the hell does twenty-six-year-old Luca Maguire know about soulmates, eternal love, and lifelong commitment? Not a goddamned thing, unless you count the lifetime he’s spent watching our parents’ happy marriage.
Granted, I don’t have much more knowledge than Luca about any of those things. I admit I don’t have the best track record for long-term commitment myself. But at least I’ve managed to fall in love a time or two in my thirty-two years, if only briefly. My brother’s an even bigger player than I was during my twenties, and that’s saying a lot. What was Marco thinking when he said yes to his bride’s request to have Luca of all people officiate the wedding today?
Mid-speech, Luca pauses dramatically, drawing out the silence for an inordinate amount of time. Finally, he scans the audience and somberly declares, “Mawwiage.”
Everyone bursts out laughing at the gag, including me. But nobody more so than the bride, Nicola. I’ve never seen The Princess Bride all the way through. Only clips of it on the internet. But even I know that’s what Luca was referencing, to hilarious effect.
“That was for you, Nicola,” Luca says to the bride with a wink. “I know how much you love that movie.”
“It’s my all-time favorite,” Nicola confirms with a giggle. “That was perfect, Luca.”
Huh. Maybe my little brother’s gonna pull this off after all? Could it be Nicola wanted Luca to officiate today precisely because he’s a loose-cannon weirdo wild card, and not in spite of that fact—and Marco’s too in love to deny his beautiful wife-to-be anything? Either way, it occurs to me it’s a good thing Luca’s got something fun to sink his teeth into—something to help him feel good about himself again. When he got cut by yet another team at the end of last season, we all know he took it really hard, despite the smile he always manages in a crowd.
Luca calls out to the maid of honor, “You’re up, Cordelia. Delight us with those golden pipes of yours!”
With a little squeal, Nicola’s sister scurries to grab a ukulele from behind a floral arrangement. A moment later she’s enthusiastically performing a lilting ballad that instantly makes me want to take a long nap. Or maybe that’s all the spiced rum punches I’ve been guzzling all week. I’ve definitely been overdoing it.
I always give myself some latitude during the offseason to let loose and have fun, in terms of my strict diet and exercise regimen. Life is short. But even I have to admit I’ve taken the latitude thing too far this week, probably because I’ve been looking for any way to distract myself from the current precariousness of my career. What team will I be joining next season? It’s all up in the air for the first time since the Baltimore Crusaders selected me eleven years ago as the overall first pick in the NFL draft that year.
Nobody but my closest inner circle knows this, but I didn’t sign a contract extension with the Crusaders, despite our winning record and playoff run last season. Instead, I instructed my longtime best friend and agent, Cameron, to feel things out with some other select teams.
Apparently, my top pick, the Thunderbolts in LA, are desperate to have me, at least based on what they’ve been telling my agent—but so far, they’ve been dragging their feet on meeting my salary demands, so who the fuck knows how things will end up?
My phone in my pocket vibrates as the maid of honor continues her languid song. Is that Cameron texting me with an update on negotiations? My fingers are physically twitching with the desire to pull out my phone and find out, but obviously, I can’t do that while standing here as Marco’s best man. If my mother in the front row saw me checking my phone at a time like this, she’d leap out of her chair, bat my phone out of my hand, and tackle me to the ground faster than any cornerback.