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)
Luca taps my arm over Maverick’s head. “Pop quiz, Riri.” He’s the only person who’s ever called me that nickname, and I absolutely love it.
“I’m ready,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
Luca motions to the field. “How many yards does a team need for a first down?”
Shoot. Luca just patiently explained this exact thing to me a few minutes ago, but, suddenly, everything he told me feels scrambled inside my brain. “Twenty?” I squeak out, just as Maverick confidently shouts, “Ten!”
Luca high-fives Maverick, while I palm my forehead. “I could have sworn there was something important about twenty yards.”
“That’s the red zone, sis.”
I drag a palm over my face. “Luca, seriously, you have to promise to poke me to stand up tonight whenever something stand-worthy happens, okay? Roman told me I’ll probably be on TV at some point tonight without knowing it, and I don’t want to look like a fool in front of the whole world again.” Roman mentioned the cameras that will likely find me throughout the game tonight not to stress me out. He told me so I wouldn’t feel blindsided. He told me so I won’t feel blindsided if I see myself in highlight reels later on. But nonetheless the end result is that I’m totally freaked out. I’ve already looked like a blazing idiot in front of the world, thanks to that stupid, viral video, and I’m determined never to do it again.
Obviously, I didn’t burden Roman with my anxiety about making a fool of myself tonight on a world stage. Why add to Roman’s stress, when he’s got much bigger fish to fry? Tonight, for the first time, Roman will be attempting to prove—to the Thunderbolts, the haters, and probably to himself—he’s truly a two-hundred-million-dollar man. I’m sure he’s feeling tons of pressure. Not that he’d admit it to me.
On the contrary, this morning over breakfast, Roman insisted he’s not nervous about tonight’s game at all, only confident and excited to show the world what he can do when he’s on the right team—one that believes in him and gives him the right teammates. But I had a hunch he might have been willing that confidence into existence, more than actually feeling it. That’s why I took Maverick into the backyard after breakfast to teach him how to do cartwheels. To let Roman do whatever pregame rituals he needed to do in peace. Luca warned me Roman can be “a cranky dickhead” throughout the season—especially on game days. “Don’t take it personally,” Luca told me. “Being a dickhead is how Rome gets himself pumped up and ready for battle.”
To my surprise, however, not five minutes after Maverick and I started playing in the backyard, Roman appeared and joined in, dazzling us with a string of cartwheels that blew mine out of the water and made Maverick cheer and scream like Elmo himself had made a cartwheeling appearance.
“There’s no need to change your usual game-day routine for me,” I assured Roman. “Luca told me you prefer to be left alone on game days.”
Roman scoffed. “Yeah, by Luca because he’s annoyingly cheerful. But that doesn’t apply to you and Mav. You two are my lucky charms. This season, I’ll need to be around you both as much as possible before every game.” To put it mildly, I swooned when Roman said that.
“And nowwwww,” a male announcer bellows through the sound system, jerking me from my thoughts—and everyone in the crowded stadium, including me, immediately bolts up from their seats and cheers. “Make some noise for your Thunderboooolts!”
I cheer wildly, along with everyone else around me, and when my eyes meet Luca’s, he yells above the din, “See? Your instincts are perfect, Iris!”
I flash Luca a grateful smile. Truly, I couldn’t love that funny, gregarious guy more, even if he were my own flesh and blood.
Smoke begins billowing from the inflated tunnel on the field, and the announcer booms, “And now, let’s hear it for number ten, your quarterback, Romannnn Maguiiiiire!”
“Daddyyyyyy!” Maverick shrieks, jumping up and down. And a second later, our beloved Roman jogs onto the field like a badass gladiator in full uniform, his golden helmet gleaming under the massive stadium lights.
I feel electrified in this one-of-a-kind moment. Also, a bit dizzy. I’ve seen Roman playing football in countless video clips, of course, and also, albeit briefly, in that preseason game, too. But seeing my boyfriend all geared up and inspiring thunderous applause from tens of thousands of rabid fans for a home game that will actually count—while also knowing that gladiator down there loves me, Iris Benedetto, above everyone else he could have picked in this world—feels surreal and amazing. Like a dream.
Too good to be true.
The deflating thought pops into my head, unbidden, and I quickly banish it. What’s wrong with me? Ever since my mother died, dread frequently taps me on the shoulder whenever I’m feeling deliriously happy, reminding me to brace myself for the inevitable fall. Thankfully, however, by the time the rest of the team’s introductions are done, I’ve quieted the voice of doom inside my head.