“Luca, feeling ‘huge regret and shame’ about something for seven long years is the very definition of being tortured.”
He twists his beautiful lips and doesn’t deny it this time.
“Look, you didn’t do anything wrong that night, okay? On the contrary, everything you did and said … and offered to do … was extremely good, and I was totally on board with all of it. Too on board, if you must know, which is why I left when I did, even more so than needing sleep for the next day’s finals.”
Luca tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling again with a loud sigh. When he returns to me, he says, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you football rivalries are supposed to be fun? They’re not supposed to ruin the best night of your life, Chelsea.”
The best night of your life?My heart lurches.Was that a figure of speech?
“I did what I thought was best at the time. My entire family went to Ohio State, so I’ve been raised to think the Horseshoe is my church, Roman Maguire is the devil, and hating Michigan is my religion. If you can’t understand where I was coming from, then maybe check your DNA, because you’re definitely not a biological Maguire.”
Luca grins. “I thought you said this is a Satan-free zone.”
“Yes, for you. I’m allowed to bring him up to bash him and/or explain myself.”
He cracks up. “I get it. Being the loser in a rivalry is tough.”
I glower at him and Luca laughs in reply.
“Why didn’t you go to Ohio State like your whole family, if the stupid rivalry is so damned important to you?”
“The math program at Northwestern is better, and eighteen-year-old Chelsea thought it vitally important to make a name for herself on her own merits.”
“You don’t think that way anymore?” He motions to our general surroundings, impliedly referring to the fact that I’m now working for my father.
“No, I still want to forge my own path. Eventually. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a single interview with any NFL team when I applied out of grad school. So, when my father got this gig and offered me the opportunity to put an actual NFL job on my résumé—even a nebulous, pretend one—I leaped at the chance.”
“You went to grad school?”
I nod. “MIT. I studied statistics.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Damn.”
“A lot of good it’s done me. Without any official football experience on my résumé, nobody’s willing to take a chance on me. That’s the only reason I was willing to rely on my father to get my foot in the door here, even though I’m totally embarrassed about it.”
He flashes me a sympathetic look. One that makes me realize we might have something in common in this area.
“Same question to you,” I ask, shifting in my chair. “Why didn’t you go to Michigan, like everyone in your family? Did you want to prove yourself apart from your family’s famous name, too?”
Luca leans back, biting the inside of his cheek. “That’s the answer I usually give whenever somebody asks me that. But the truth is I didn’t get into Michigan because my grades were shit. My twin brother did, but not me.” He runs a hand through his dark mop of hair. “It was so embarrassing.”
I flash him a sympathetic look, the same one he flashed mea moment ago, feeling grateful Luca chose to meet my uncharacteristic vulnerability with some of his own.
As our gazes mingle, a new kind of energy suddenly courses between us, like we’ve just now forged some kind of bond, however slim. Or at least, I think it’s now fair to conclude Luca’s forgiven me for my sins in Bloomington.
“Luca, I know I could help you so, so much,” I blurt. “Please, let me coach you.”
“Sorry, I really can’t do that, Chelsea.”
“Don’t you see? Our interests are totally aligned here. If I do really well with you, then everyone at the Mastodons will see what I can do, and then maybe—”
“You swear to God I didn’t fuck up by offering to make you … you know?”
“What?”
“In Bloomington.” He looks around to make sure nobody’s within earshot. “Okay, I admit it. I’ve been tortured about that ever since.”
“I thought we’d moved past that topic and onto more important things.”
