“It’s gonna be okay,” I murmur.
“They won’t score. It’ll be fine.”
God, I hope we’re both right.
There’s a commercial break. One of a billion, it feels like, and through the whole two minutes, I watch Roman pacing on the sidelines, sans his helmet, like a hungry, caged lion with rabies.
Mercifully, Luca’s prediction turns out to be right. During the Knights’ march to the end zone following the commercial break, the Thunderbolts’ relatively mediocre defense somehow forces a godsend of a fumble, which means Roman and his offense will now get the ball again, still trailing by only three points.
Commercial break.
Again.
I look at the game clock again while clutching Harper’s arm for dear life.
1:04.
That’s all the time left for Roman to make his dreams come true, after his long, exhausting, hard-fought first season with the Thunderbolts. For Roman to prove all the haters and doubters wrong. For Roman to work a miracle andfinallyget that elusive “W” after hisfourthattempt at winning a fucking Super Bowl. To get that win, however, he’s going to need to put that interception firmly behind him and focus on what’s in front of him. That’seasier said than done, I know. I’ve certainly never been in his shoes. In fact, very few people in the history of the world know exactly what it feels like to be Roman Maguire in this moment.
Roman huddles up with Coach Hardy, presumably going over whatever play they’re cooking up next. And when the time comes for Roman to jog onto the field with his offense, he does something he’s been doing for several weeks now, ever since our day of horseback riding that turned into an equine therapy session: He looks up at me in his box, raises both palms to either side of his head, and mimes putting on his magic blinders.
Nodding and smiling through tears, I clutch my heart with one hand and blow kisses with the other.You’ve got this, baby. Focus on what’s in front of you and nothing else.
I’ve never admitted this to Roman—because why would I?—but, despite my stated confidence in those magic blinders, I honestly wasn’t sure the trick would work for him. Yes, little tricks like that always worked with preschoolers, back when I was lucky enough to have a job teaching them, but I had no idea if something like that would work on a grown man. A professional athlete. A tough nut to crack, as Roman often calls himself. I figured Roman had nothing to lose, though. Plus, I figured, at the very least, he might think ofmeand our day in the meadow together while putting on those magic blinders, which then might relax him and make him smile—which then might relieve his tension and clear his mind. So why not give it a whirl? Little did I know, the trick would become Roman’s secret weapon over the next several games.
Thankfully, Roman doesn’t need to put on his magic blinders very often because he makes very few mistakes. But whenever he does—nine times out of ten, anyway—he slides those suckers on and becomes a new man. A focused one. A calm one. All I can hope now is this time won’t prove to be part of that one-in-ten failure rate.
The teams are lined up again.
The ball is snapped to Roman.
He bounds backward, looking for Tyrell, who’s once again saddled with double coverage. Despite the two defenders, however, Roman throws a spiraling dart toward Tyrell, anyway. As it sails through the air on a frozen rope—Edward always uses that phrase for a rocket of a pass, and I absolutely love it—every head in the stadium, including mine, swivels to watch its trajectory ...
As the ball lands straight into Tyrell’s hands, every Thunderbolts fan in the stadium, including me, holds their breath. And as Tyrell goes down with the ball firmly tucked in his arm, we scream and jump around in ecstasy. It’s a much-needed first down—one that keeps us in the hunt for that coveted, go-ahead touchdown, baby ...
I look at the game clock again.
There’s, oh God, less than a minute left in the entire game.
“Time out, San Francisco!” a referee booms into his mic, at which point everyone in my immediate vicinity looks at each other like they’re on the cusp of a collective barf-o-rama.
My eyes lock with Ava’s a few seats down. She’s huddled up with Roman’s dad and Luca’s supposedly evil twin, Levi, who’s actually a sweetheart once you get to know him, and all of them look like I feel: like they could pass out at any moment from stress.
When I catch Ava’s eye, I shoot her a look that says, “He’s got this,” which she returns. From there, I turn to look at Maverick at the back of the box. He’s not looking my way, though, so I can’t catch his eye. He’s far too engaged in conversation with his beloved mommy, Vanessa, to look around the box.
Dare I say it, Vanessa’s become my friend over the course of this football season. I see her often, since she enjoys bringing Maverick to home games, and Roman’s all for it. Plus, we alljoined forces to celebrate Maverick’s fifth birthday, too. And sometimes, Roman and I stay and chat for a bit when we return Maverick to Vanessa’s house after our allotted time with him.
Is Vanessa one of my best friends? No. Not even close. But I have to hand it to the woman, she’s made a real effort, and I’ve reciprocated. The result is, we’ve formed a friendly, genuine bond that makes co-parenting Maverick a true joy.
Luca bats my shoulder, jolting me from gazing at Maverick and Vanessa behind me. “Focus,” Luca commands. “Roman needs your good juju the most, Riri.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. I find Roman on the sideline and consciously send him good thoughts—good juju—as he confers with his coaches during the time-out. Roman’s got his helmet on at the moment, so I can’t see his face. But, even so, I can perfectly picture the game face he’s wearing. Furrowed brow. Laser-sharp eyes. Tight mouth. If I know Roman, he’d rather die than leave this game as the loser, again, for the fourth fucking time.
The time-out ends.
All players on both sides line up again.
“Here we go,” Luca says, taking my left hand as Harper simultaneously grabs my right.
