Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Man, this kid is a balm for my tortured soul tonight. Maverick is so wide-eyed about every little thing happening in this pregame stadium—from all the fans in Maguire jerseys packed into seats all around us to the hot dog and cotton candy he got to scarf down earlier to the cheerleaders with shimmering pom-poms who took the field a few moments ago—he almost makes me forget my heart-wrenching misery about Chelsea.
It’s the first game of the NFL’s regular season, and we’re at the Thunderbolts’ home stadium on a Thursday night. More specifically, we’re sitting in the front row of Roman’s fancy new box—the one he demanded with his hefty, record-breaking contract.
I keep telling myself being able to support Roman tonight is the upside of my new job as a lowly scrub. That it’s actually a pretty cool perk to have so much free time on game days, since my job as a practice player is done each week after our last scrimmage. But the truth is I’d give both my nuts to be suited up in a pregame locker room right now with my teammates.
Our whole family came to support Roman’s first outing as a Thunderbolt. Other than Levi, that is. The Rebels are playing on the East Coast on Sunday morning, so my evil twin couldn’t make the trip out west. But my cousin Marco came tonight, along with his parents and Nicola, since Marco’s team, the Knights, are playing on Monday night. It was a tight squeeze for Marco, but the trip from San Francisco to LA is a short jump, especially in a private plane, so he was able to pull it off.
“Any minute now, buddy,” I reply to Maverick, answering his question about his daddy’s imminent arrival onto the field. “So, get your hollering voice good and ready.”
“Oooh,” my nephew says, bopping in his seat. And somehow, despite the Chelsea-sized hole in my heart, I’m able to genuinely grin at my nephew’s exuberance.
I glance over Maverick’s head at Iris sitting next to him, and when she looks every bit as wide-eyed as my nephew about the chaos surrounding her, I tap her forearm and ask if she wants me to explain some more basics about the game. As expected, Iris replies that she’d be grateful for yet another football lesson, so I launch into tutoring my eager student once again.
A few minutes later, an announcer bellows, “And nowwww, make some noise for your Thunderbolts!” Everyone gets onto their feet and cheers loudly. But it’s what the announcer booms next that blows the proverbial roof off the open-air stadium: “Let’s hear it for Number Ten, your quarterback, Roman Maguire!”
Right on cue, Roman emerges from an inflatable tunnel on the field, and the crowd’s volume and intensity shoots into the stratosphere.
“Daddyyyyyy!” Maverick shrieks, jumping up and down along with Iris, and I share a look with my parents down the row about their cuteness.
Man, I wish I were Roman right now. Not a quarterback, obviously. I’d hate playing my big brother’s position. But I’d give anything to experience the rush of running onto a game-day playing field while feeling adored by my fans and teammates and while also knowing for a fact I’m not in danger of getting cut or benched for making the slightest mistake. Although granted, in my case, the mistakes have been massive.
After some hoopla, the game kicks off and I’m quickly swept into the action on the field. In fact, I’m so focused on the game throughout the first three quarters, I don’t think of Chelsea more than a few times. Twenty at most. But when the fourth quarter rolls around, and it’s now clear the Thunderbolts have the game in the bag, thanks to their three-touchdown lead, my mind fixates, without respite, on Chelsea, and the look on her face when I said that thing about her probably already fucking Moriarty. My reasons for saying that last week were good ones. Noble and kind ones. And I still stand behind them to this day. But man, even though I know I did the right thing for Chelsea in the big picture, that doesn’t mean I’m not wallowing in selfish heartache now.
As my thoughts fill with nothing but Chelsea, Mom appears out of nowhere, jerking me out of my own head.
“Sit on Iris’s lap for me, Mavvy,” Mom instructs her grandson with a tap on his dark mop of hair. And when he complies, she takes his newly vacated seat next to me and grabs my hand. “How are you doing, honey?” she asks tenderly. She squeezes my hand. “You wish you were down there, huh?”
Uh-oh. She’s clearly gearing up to give me an unsolicited and highly unwanted pep talk.
“Please, don’t say it,” I blurt.
“Say what?”
“Whatever words of encouragement you’re cooking up in your motherly head.”