My hands instinctively flew to my nose, which felt a little tender yet intact, and as far as I could tell, there was no blood. My glasses, however, were a different story and came apart in my hands. I clung to them the pieces as people hurried over, asking if I was okay. I heard a man shouting that he was a medic and he bent beside me, his hands skirting over my face.

“I think the impact of the ball just snapped my glasses,” I stated, taking the offered help from the squat and balding medic to help me stand. As I got to my feet, the crowd began clapping and I held my cracked glasses to my face, an arm in each hand, and surveyed the stadium, noticing to my mortification that my little fumble had been televised on the Jumbotron.

“Prince! PRINCE! Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?!” an angry male voice screamed and the small crowd around me began to part.

I peeked my head in the direction of the opening path, only to see Rome running my way. The expression on his face was one of utter horror as I stood holding my snapped glasses to my eyes.

“Shit, Shakespeare! I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” he asked, panic in his voice. He dropped his helmet to the floor and both his hands cupped my face, tilting up my head, searching for injuries with his large brown eyes.

“Rome, I’m okay. I was saved by my glasses. They laid their life on the line to save my nose. You don’t need to apologise. It’s the two drunken idiots that landed on my face who are the dicks!” I held up my now two-piece set of black frames—losing my vision for a second before holding them back in place.

When I could see again, I noticed Rome pull a small smile and shake his head. “It had to be you. Out of everyone in this entire f**kin’ stadium, it had to be you who was involved. I’m no longer surprised; you’re always there. I think someone’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’.”

I shrugged. “I was going for a Coke.”

He laughed gently. “During my play?”

“Err, well, quite honestly, I didn’t know what the hell was going on, and I was thirsty.”

Women bent over the rails, screaming at Rome.

“We love you, bullet!”

“Take me home with you, honey!”

“Fuck me, seven!”

His smile dropped at my distracted attention. He gripped my chin so I focused solely on him. “You came.”

“I came,” I answered with a smile.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“You got through to me,” I teased, relaying his words from our heated corridor argument.

Rome huffed out a laugh.

“Miss? We need to take you to the medical room to check you over—policy, I’m afraid. If you’d like to come with me.” The medic held my arm and tried to usher me away.

Rome put up his finger to pause him for a second before bending slightly to meet my gaze. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good. Now, don’t you’ve a game to win? I’m sure all these people didn’t come here today to see us chatting.”

“Yeah, I was kinda in the middle of somethin’ before you decided to walk into that drunken fight.”

I went to follow the medic, when Rome suddenly dipped down, laying a lingering kiss on my lips. It was tender and soft, different from our usual frantic, spur of the moment fumbles.

We locked eyes for a second longer before Rome ran back to the field, determination on his face. The crowd openly gawked, wondering why the star quarterback had been so interested in the injured girl.

In the safety of the medical room, I began to regain my composure when an abrupt, rapturous roar seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium, causing me to jump up from my seat.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in a panic.

The medic looked to the small TV screen in the corner. “Hot damn!”

“What?”

“Bullet just hit a wide receiver for a forty-yard touchdown.”

“That’s a good thing, right, a touchdown?”

He swung his attention back ‘round to me, no doubt wondering if I did have a head injury after all. “Yes, that’s a very good thing, especially with only one quarter to go. We’re tied. We have fifteen minutes to take the W.”

“The W?”

“The win,” he replied on an exasperated sigh.

“Right. Gotcha,” I mumbled, deciding it was best to shut up.

The medic turned off the TV to remove the distraction, finished his examination, and helped me use white sports tape to put my glasses back together, the crude repair job fully visible on the bridge of my nose. Not the best of fashion statements, but it would have to do. Like my Grandma would say, “Ca sera sera.”

I returned to my seat, only to hear the final whistle blow and the crowd erupt into screams of ecstasy. Cass and Ally were jumping up and down and on seeing me, both rushed in my direction, practically tackling me to the floor. I held on tight. I would not hit the deck twice.

“Molly! Are you okay? We watched it on the big screen,” Ally asked, her dark eyes widening as she stared at my face. “Darlin’, your glasses!” She leaned back and frantically searched me for any visible marks.

“Yeah, Molls, I can’t believe you took an elbow to the face—Molly Shakespeare, the newest member of fight club. It was friggin’ hilarious.” Cass laughed, holding her stomach as if it were hurting. She suddenly lost her smile. “Where’s my chips and root beer?”

“I didn’t quite get around to it, Cass!” She pouted and crossed her arms in disappointment.

“Did we win?”

Ally wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Win? We completely smashed ‘em, darlin’. After Rome kissed you, he went back on the field a different person and hit every pass, every play. He was friggin’ MVP.”

My eyes bugged. “Well, that’s good, right? Most valuable player?”

“Good? Honey, people were saying it was your kiss that gave him some much needed good luck.”

I stepped back and viewed her sceptically. “Why would that be lucky?”

“It turned his game right ‘round, a full one-eighty.” She smiled and clapped excitedly.

Cass put her hands on my waist and turned me to face the Jumbotron. “You see?”

Bloody hell.

The guys that control the screen had worked hard in my absence. The collage playing on repeat began with Rome missing a series of plays. It then cut to me being piled upon by two drunken idiots, being smacked in the face with an elbow, and falling to the floor—it looked worse than it’d felt. Next, Rome was running off the field, ignoring the coach, leaving his teammates gaping after his retreating form, then capturing my face in his hands and leaning in for a kiss. The final segment showed his three winning touchdown shots that I’d missed while in the medical room.