“What have I missed?” a deep voice rumbles behind me.
Shit.I know that voice.But even if I didn’t, Daisy’s wide eyes and hanging jaw would confirm it: The voice belongs to Roman Maguire. In fact, he’s now scootching in between Iris and me and offering his hand to me with a dazzling smile on his perfectly chiseled face.
“Welcome, Chelsea. It’s great to finally meet the woman who loathes me in person.”
I blush. “Hi, Roman.” I shake his hand politely, as my body is wired to do in situations such as this.
“What, no ‘fuck you’ this time?” he teases.
“I-I’m an invited guest in your home. Also, I promised my best friend I’d be on my best behavior.”
Roman clicks his tongue. “That’s too bad. I rather enjoyed your searing hatred.”
I blush deeper. “This is my best friend, by the way. Daisy.”
“Hi,” Daisy squeaks out as she reaches for Roman’s extended hand. It’s all she can manage, apparently; she’s visibly tongue-tied.
While everyone chuckles at Daisy’s obvious glee, Romanthanks her for coming. When he releases her hand, I’m thinking Roman will quickly find a reason to leave our group so he can continue mingling with his other guests now—the people he’s close with and excited to see. But nope, his dark, warm eyes unexpectedly return to me.
“How’s your dad enjoying his first NFL gig?”
There’s no snark in Roman’s tone. No hint of arrogance about the way he asked the question. No sense he’s lying in wait to mention his humiliation of my father and his players, including my brother Lincoln.
“Um, he’s loving the new gig so far. He’s working hard, though. Crazy hours.”
“It’s the nature of the beast. He’s taking on quite a challenge over there. But if anyone’s up to the task, it’s Jack Parker.”
What in the world?The hits just keep on coming. Where’s the man’s competitive, gloating spirit? Once again, I’m reminded of what Luca said to me once:Winners don’t hold grudges the way losers do.Coming here, I mentally prepared to remind Roman about Archie Griffin, if necessary, the long-ago Buckeye who’s the only player in history to win the Heisman twice. I figured I’d have that factoid at the ready if Roman razzed me too hard about my Buckeye DNA. But just this fast, I know I’d have to be a total dickhead to bring that up.
Some people scatter and wander away, and our group becomes a foursome comprised of Luca, Roman, Iris, and me.
“So, what’s your prediction on the three rookie QBs you’ve got battling it out?” Roman asks, referring to the three guys still vying to become our starter. I answer his question, and we chat for a bit, and when that line of discussion runs its course, Roman surprises me by not walking away but instead asking another question, this one about my brothers. Much to my annoyance, Roman listens carefully to my answer, the same way he’s been doing all along, and he even asks thoughtfulfollow-up questions, the bastard. Unfortunately, with each passing minute, I fear I’m in increasingly serious danger of being charmed by this devil of a man against my will.
“What do you do for the Mastodons, exactly?” Iris pipes in to ask.
“Hell if I know,” I deadpan, and Iris and Roman both crack up. “I’m only half kidding. I’m sincerely confused about my official job description. I started out as my father’s personal assistant, which was a nebulous job that didn’t really exist, but lately it feels like I’ve become a legit assistant to the assistant linebacker coach.”
“Nice,” Roman says.
“She’s being modest,” Luca interjects proudly. “Everyone’s blown away by Chelsea. They even assigned her to Moriarty after his holdout. Oh, and the defensive coordinator’s started asking her for analytics stuff, too.” He looks at me adoringly. “One day, Cheslea’s going to be the NFL’s first female head of analytics.” When Roman and Iris express excitement about that goal, Luca adds, “Unfortunately, she can’t get there with the Mastodons, though. Our GM is an old-school guy who doesn’t believe in ‘that hocus-pocus stuff.’” He scoffs. “You know the type, Romie.”
“I sure do. He thinks it’s 1965 and he’s Vince Lombardi?”
“Exactly.”
Roman tsks. “My prior head coach was like that.”
I shake my head in commiseration. “No wonder you left the Crusaders, then.”
“Yup.” Roman flashes me the famous smile that sells a whole lot of sports drinks, shoes, and athletic gear. “Thankfully, the Thunderbolts have a far more enlightened approach, one that relies heavily on data.” A light bulb goes off on his face. “Hey, why don’t I connect you with my head of analytics? Who knows, he might have an opening for you.”
My heart stops and my brain breaks. But before I’ve figuredout how to say ‘hell to the fucking no’ without sounding horribly rude, Luca booms, “That’d be awesome, Romie! Thanks!”
Luca looks at me gleefully, not realizing Roman’s offer isn’t one I could possibly accept. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this party and conversation, against all odds, far more than I’d ever care to admit. But if I wouldn’t take a private plane ride from the man who’s inflicted untold harm and humiliation upon my people, then I certainly won’t take a job with his team, either. As ambitious as I am, I’d rather stay at the Mastodons forever than use my talents to find new and ingenious ways to help Roman Maguire win his first Super Bowl ring—and that’s especially true when him winning the Big Game would necessarily mean defeat for some people I care deeply about: Luca, my father, and my brothers.
Luca.
I’m flabbergasted to realize my brain just supplied his name above all others.
