Sweet Rome

Lying back on the unmade bed and staring at the ceiling, I let the anger buried inside me rip loose, growling a loud “fuck!”

My hands tightened, cracking the photo frame’s glass, but I ignored the slicing pain in my palm, too concerned with cleaning Molly’s beautiful five-year-old face, now smeared with my blood.

“Christ, Shakespeare,” I rasped, fixated by those caramel eyes. “Where the hell have you gone?”

“Rome?” Ally said quietly.

“What?”

“You’re getting all angry again.” She paused for a long moment. “I don’t want you going back there. You’ve been so much better lately.”

Sucking in a pained, stuttered breath, I said, “Because of her. I’ve been better because of her.”

“Then tell me about it. Tell me how y’all fell in love. I know a little bit, but not the whole story. Talk to me.”

Slowly sitting back up, I looked my worried cousin in the eyes. “I’m not sure I can, Al. It’s all so raw.”

Ally rubbed a soothing hand down my back. “It’ll be good for you. You need to remember why you changed, what brought you guys together. It’s good to talk. I can’t see you go back to Rome, pre-Molls. It was like you’d been numb your entire life, never letting anyone in, and meeting Molly woke you the heck up.”

Feeling a burning in my chest, I glanced over to the balcony—our balcony—and my eyes blurred at the onslaught of memories racing through my mind.

“I… I guess it all began months ago. I recall it so clearly. It was just like any other normal, typical day…”

1

The University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa

Several months ago…

I felt it the minute it left my hands. It was perfect: the spiral just right, the speed and angle faultless. I watched, holding my breath, as the ball sailed through the air, gliding smoothly down the field, then landed right into the outstretched hands of Gavin Sale, the wide receiver. It was the sixth pass I’d hit with such accuracy in the last hour alone, and this time, the team all stopped and stared at me standing frozen, still in my position.

Coach Dean ran over, looking at me funny, and went to slap his hand on my shoulder until I flinched and backed away. He hadn’t noticed my reaction—that I’d expected him to cause me pain. I was thankful. Daddy wouldn’t want rumors to start.

“Rome! What the hell, son? I’ve never seen an arm like yours in my entire twenty years of coaching! The way you pop that ball is like… like… a bullet being fired from a gun!”

A burst of pride spread across my chest at his praise, and I straightened a little taller on seeing all my teammates nodding their heads in agreement.

I was good at football. I was actually good at something.

I may not be the perfect son, the best-behaved kid in the world, but this meant I wasn’t a complete failure like Momma always said. I’d found something I could do well and, it seemed from Coach’s reaction, better than most.

My face muscles twitched, and I could feel myself begin to smile; it was only small, but it was there. It was something I never, ever did—express joy—and when Austin Carrillo, my best friend and teammate, ran over, giving me a high five, I let myself be happy. Just for once, I let myself feel content with who I was: a quarterback, the best the coach had seen in twenty years.

I shouldn’t have bothered being happy, though, because, of course, the minute I let down my guard, he arrived to take it all away.

The large silver Bentley pulled to a stop right at the side of the field, and out stepped my daddy: big, dark, and intimidating. All the parents stopped their chatter and watched as Joseph Prince glared toward my place on the field. He was dressed in his silver-gray suit, exerting raw power. The other parents kept their distance; folks around Tuscaloosa knew not to go near him unless invited.

Coach Dean didn’t get that memo, though, and on seeing my daddy arrive, he ran over, excitedly pulling me with him. Of course, Coach didn’t know my daddy’s view on my playing football. No one did. Coach didn’t know the level of punishment I would face at being caught here at the field or that I’d sneaked out of my room in order to make today’s practice, acting directly against my daddy’s orders.

My head lowered as we approached—I couldn’t face seeing the anger in his eyes.

“Mr. Prince, I’m so happy you came. I have to say, sir, I’ve never seen a talent like your son’s in my whole coaching career, and he’s only ten! I honestly believe he could go all the way.” Coach put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Your boy will play for the Tide, you mark my words. In eight years’ time, we’ll be seeing him lead Bama to the championship!”