From behind the bar, Darcy addresses one of the naysayers sitting on the other side of Harper. “No, it’s not a quarterback ‘choking’ when a receiver fumbles in the red zone, or when a tight end can’t catch a ball thrown straight into his goddamned hands to save his life.”
Thank you,Darcy,I think.At least someone else understands it’s not all Roman’s fault.
“The buck stops with the quarterback,” the guy talking to Darcy at the bar insists. “If Roman was an actual winner, he’d find a way to win when it counts most.Period.No fucking excuses.”
Harper leans in and whispers, “How does Roman shrug it off when people tear him to shreds like this? No wonder he felt so connected to you. He understood your viral pain on a whole other level.”
I freeze.
Holy shit.
I’ve never put that together before.Roman understood mypain.Is that why he went to such great lengths to show me a great time and help me forget my troubles?
Someone behind us says, “I’ve always figured Roman Maguire is all about the Benjamins over winning. Now we know it for a fact.”
Harper leans into me. “They must not know about Roman’s son in LA. If they did, wouldn’t they talk about Roman possibly changing teams for him?”
“Roman never talks about his son in the press,” I whisper back. “I’m sure they have no idea he exists.”
My mind is suddenly racing. My heart, exploding with regret. When Roman told me about his son in the restaurant, I thought him not mentioning him before that moment meant his feelings for me had never evolved beyond simple lust. But now, I’m thinking my knee-jerk reaction back then might have been too harsh. Who knows what it’s like to be a huge superstar like Roman? I’m sure it’s incredibly difficult for him to figure out when he can safely let his guard down with anyone—especially someone new to his life.
Yes, I bared my soul to Roman, and he never returned the favor—but I was forcedto 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 justifiedhisactions 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 Hawaiiwhile 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 Romansomeof 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 andMAGUIREon 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’tbelieve 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.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Darce,” I say breezily. “It wasn’t even a date. I happened to meet Roman that morning at the breakfast buffet at our hotel, and he recognized me from the viral video. He sweetly pulled me aside to tell me to keep my chin up and ignore the trolls, but when he had to run off for a golf game in the middle of our conversation, he offered to take me to a nice dinner that night to finish it.”
Darcy looks suspicious. “He asked you out to dinner at a fancy, hoity-toity restaurant for the sole purpose of finishing aconversationwith you?”
