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)
Yes, I bared my soul to Roman, and he never returned the favor—but I was forced to do that by that stupid, viral video. If not for that, would I have kept my traumas to myself, as originally planned, and pretended to be a carefree sex kitten with Roman throughout our entire time together? If I’d done that, would I have thought of myself as the villain in the story, the same way I’ve been painting Roman in my mind? I doubt it. More likely, I would I have justified my actions to myself, the same way Roman justified his actions to me.
The team owner on TV speaks, drawing my attention back to the screen above the bar. “So, now,” he says, “let’s hear a few words from the man of the hour—the Thunderbolts’ new quarterback, Roman Maguire!”
With the same wicked grin he wore countless times in Hawaii while looking up at me from between my bare thighs, Roman leans into the bank of microphones and says, “Hello.”
Gah. At the sound of his deep, sexy voice, my body involuntarily shudders and zings with desire. In a flash, I’m barraged with memories of that same deep voice dirty-talking in my ear. Those big hands greedily caressing my naked body. Those dark eyes practically boring holes into my face, while Roman fucked me into oblivion.
“First off,” Roman says, “let me say I couldn’t be happier to be a Thunderbolt, and I couldn’t be happier to play for Coach Hardy again.” With that, off he goes, talking for several minutes about his excitement, his journey to get here, and his historic partnership with Coach Hardy.
As Roman speaks, I’m transfixed. Screaming internally at myself for not swallowing my pride in Kauai and following him to LA. True, doing that likely would have felt like compromising my integrity and turning myself into an undignified, pathetic little puppy. But so what? Seeing him now, I’m thinking it’s distinctly possible I would have been happier getting to be with Roman some of the time in LA, however briefly and unpredictably, rather than sitting here in Orchard Blossom, watching him on TV in my present state of heartache and yearning.
Roman wraps up his remarks, and Coach Hardy, a broad-shouldered man with a twinkle in his dark eyes, is given the floor. The speech he makes echoes his star quarterback’s, mostly, and as he speaks, two things become clear: One, the man has a likeable, commanding presence. And two, he absolutely adores Roman Maguire.
Eventually, the team owner invites Roman to hold up a Thunderbolts jersey for a photo op—a jersey imprinted with the number ten and MAGUIRE on its back. As Roman poses with the jersey, first with the team owner, then with Coach Hardy, and then on his own, flashbulbs pop from every direction. And when that display is done, the team owner invites questions from reporters.
To kick things off, a female reporter yells out, “Roman, is there something you’d like to say to all the Crusader fans cursing your name or feeling upset about you leaving Baltimore?”
Roman chuckles, like he couldn’t give two shits about disgruntled fans of his former team. But what he says is, “We had a great run in Baltimore together, and I’m grateful for that. But nothing lasts forever, and this is what’s best for me now.” It momentarily seems he’s done answering the question. But after a beat, he leans into the microphones and adds, “Also, specifically to any Crusaders fans cursing my name right now, I’d like to say . . .” He looks straight into the camera. “I can’t wait to make you curse my name even more this season, when the Thunderbolts kick the Crusaders’ ass.”
“Roman,” Coach Hardy chastises, shaking his head as the pod of reporters reacts loudly. But it’s clear from the Coach’s delighted facial expression he absolutely loves Roman’s fiery words. So does the team owner. In fact, the white-haired guy is eating them up.
As someone asks Coach Hardy a question, Darcy appears in front of me. “Please, tell me you had some good, old-fashioned, naked fun with that god of a man after your famous dinner date, Iris. If not, I’m going to sob into my pillow tonight on your behalf.”
I laugh breezily, even though I’m dying inside. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I had dinner with him and nothing more.”
“No.”
“Sorry, yes. Sadly, he was a perfect gentleman with me.”
“Damn,” Darcy grumbles. “He’s got quite the reputation for burning through women like popcorn at a horror flick. After you were photographed with him, I looked him up, and I couldn’t believe all the gorgeous women he’s dated. That gave me hope you’d have an extremely juicy story to tell whenever you came home for a visit.”
As far as I’m concerned, my sex life is nobody’s damned business, not even Darcy’s. And I don’t want to subject myself—or Roman—to even more online ridicule and speculation. Roman has never addressed that photo of us at dinner, so I feel like I have free rein to invent a narrative that suits me.