Sweet Rome (Sweet Home, #1.5)(3)

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!”

I stared at the floor, never once daring to lift my eyes.

“Rome, get in the car,” my daddy ordered coldly, and my heart sank as I broke loose from Coach’s hold and ran into the back seat, shivering at the too-cold temperature of the black leather under my legs.

I strapped myself in, watching my daddy’s back bunch as he spoke to the coach. Coach Dean swallowed hard, looking shocked at whatever my daddy was saying. He’d be telling him I couldn’t come back, that I couldn’t waste my time on football anymore, that I had a duty as a Prince and football wasn’t it.

Leaving the coach standing frozen in shock, my daddy spun on his heel and stormed back to the car.

Slamming the driver’s side door, he started the engine. I made sure to keep my head low. I knew he’d be looking at me in the mirror, his brown eyes lit with fury, so I kept my chin tucked down to my chest, avoiding looking him directly in the eyes.

“You f*cked up today, Romeo,” he said calmly.

I flinched.

Romeo. I hated that name. It always caused my stomach to tighten and my breath to come out too fast. My fingernails dug into my palms as my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I’d been getting real angry of late, so mad that sometimes it was a struggle to contain it. I didn’t know how to make it stop.

“You think it was smart to sneak out and come here when you’d already been told not to?”

I didn’t reply, was too scared, too angry to reply.

“Answer me!” he shouted, hitting the steering wheel with his large hand.

“N-no, s-sir, it wasn’t smart,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice from breaking. He would just laugh if I cried; it always just made things worse. He said it made me weak.

My daddy hated weakness.

“You want folk around here spreading the word on how good you are at football?”

I did, but that wasn’t the answer I was expected to give.