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 lovesme, 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.
Roman and his teammates are on the sideline now, preparing for the start of the game. Roman’s helmet is off, and he’s talking to Coach Hardy. But when that conversation is over, he does something shocking and unexpected: He gazes up toward his box, his hand shading his squinting eyes from the stadiumlights, and when his gaze finds mine, he breaks into a wide, beaming smile that sends warmth rocketing into my chest and cheeks.
“Daddy’s looking at us!” Maverick shrieks, waving furiously. “Hi, Daddy!”
I blow Roman a kiss, even though I’m assuming he won’t see it—but to my shock, Roman immediately blows me a kiss in reply. He can see all of us up here, clearly? And he choseme,specifically,out of everyone in his box, including his parents and Maverick,to communicate with? I’m swooning. Melting. Giddy. It’s a stupid thing to lose my mind over, but I’m doing it, just the same.Take that, Voice of Doom.
As Roman turns away, every member of his family blasts me with frenzied comments, all of them amounting to the same expression of shock about Roman blowing me a happy, relaxed kiss at any time on a game day, butespeciallymoments before kickoff.
“What have you done to our cranky Roman?” Marco shouts over the din.
“Whatever you did, keep doing it,” Roman’s mother adds.
Roman’s father, Edward adds his two cents. “Roman never smiles on game days, let alone blows kisses.”
Marco agrees and adds, “Romie swore he’d be a changed man this season, but I didn’t believe him. I stand corrected.”
“Looks like you’ve cast a magic spell on him this season,” Luca says with a wink.
Shit. I know everyone is intending to make me feel good with all this praise, but I’m feeling a bit sick to my stomach. What if Roman has a horrible game, and he second-guesses all the smiling, cartwheels, and kiss-blowing he did beforehand?
What if he loses and blamesmefor it—for drawing him out of his usual game-day routines?
“I think he was blowing that kiss at Maverick—his luckycharm,” I reply quickly, even though I don’t honestly think that’s true. I smile at the cutie pie sitting next to me. “Remember when Daddy said you’re his lucky charm?”
Maverick smiles broadly. “He said both of us! Daddy blew dat kiss at both of us, Irish.”
Ava interjects with a wink, “He sure did.”
Maverick smiles angelically at his grandmother. Apparently, he’s elated to share his father’s adoration with me. Add that to the list reasons to adore this sweet, bighearted boy.
A country star I’ve never heard of sings our national anthem, and after that, there’s a coin toss, followed by a kickoff—all of which Luca helpfully explains to me in real time. And a moment after all that, it’s finally time for Roman to take the field with his army behind him.
When Roman heads into position with his teammates, he struts like he owns the place. Like he was born for this. In short order, he gets situated behind one of his teammates and bends over, giving me and the world a lovely view of his ass in his tight little pants. And a second later, everyone on the field from both teams begins running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Roman bounds backward, scanning the field, and when he finds his target, he unleashes a pass that makes me hold my breath as it flies through the air with impressive velocity.
Eventually, the ball lands smack into the outstretched hands of Roman’s teammate, Tyrell Jenkins—a charismatic guy I got to chatting with at a team barbeque a few weeks ago. And, just like that—according to what Luca is screaming at me, anyway—Roman’s first attempted pass as a Thunderbolt is a success. One for the record books. Clearly, based on the explosion of cheers and excitement happening all around me, that’s a big deal.
“It’s asign,” Ava screams, high-fiving everyone in her vicinity.
Roman’s next pass connects with his target, too. And the one after that, as well. Rinse and repeat, other than one failedattempt that wasn’t Roman’s fault. On occasion, Roman hands the ball directly to one of his players instead of throwing it. Which, according to Luca, is par for the course. “Even with a prolific passer like Roman, the running game is an essential part of an effective offense,” Luca says. “Because it helps set up the passing game.” I’m not sure what any of that means, honestly, but I nod and smile and thank Luca for explaining it to me.
In the blink of an eye, we’re already six minutes into the game, at which point a Thunderbolt who’s not Tyrell—also not someone I met at the barbeque—is the player who catches Roman’s pass in the end zone. For a touchdown. For six points. Which evenIknow is the most that can be scored at any given time in a game of football. Not to mention, it’s literally the whole point of all the passes and running that came before it.
Reflexively, as the Thunderbolt in the end zone leaps and dances around in celebration, I bolt to my feet, screaming and cheering, along with everyone around me. And guess what? I do all of it—bolting up, screaming, and cheering—without Luca or anyone else needing to poke me.
For several seconds, the massive screen in the stadium displays the player who scored the touchdown. But when a different camera takes over, we’re treated to Roman jogging happily toward the touchdown celebration. When he realizes he’s being shown on the big screen, he leans into the camera, sticks up his pinky with one hand and three upside-down fingers with the other, and shakes both hands into the camera with his tongue hanging out and a goofy, blissful look on his gorgeous face.
“Mavvy!” I shriek, clutching my chest. “Daddy did that for you and me! That was an ‘M’ for Maverick and an ‘I’ for Iris! You and me, buddy!”
