Page 5 of Kiss Me Tonight

Planting a hand on the bar to steady myself, I lift my gaze to the old Patriots game Shawn has playing. It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed around here—for as long as I can remember, Golden Fleece management has always gone out of their way to record every Pats game. By 9 p.m., Monday through Friday, Londoners have claimed their booths and their booze in preparation of watching their favorite players storm the small screen.

And the game Shawn’s playing now? I remember this one oh-so-vividly, if only because Rick raged about it for weeks afterward.

Tampa Bay Buccaneers against the New England Patriots, circa 2015.

Rick had obsessed over recruiting Tampa’s hotshot player, Dominic DaSilva. MVP winner. Super Bowl champion—twice. Best tight end in NFL history, even topping out Tony Gonzalez who had 111 touchdowns to his name before retiring from Atlanta.

Pretty sure each time Rick watched DaSilva play, he popped an instant boner.

Until DaSilva refused to enter negotiations with the Steelers. Didn’t matter that he was a free agent at the time. Didn’t matter that he could have made more money playing for Pittsburgh than he did for Tampa Bay.

It pissed off Rick to no end.

Hadn’t mattered to me in the slightest. DaSilva played a big game but he talked big too. To the press, to other players. Guys like him might have the stats to back it all up, but a little humility never hurt anyone.

That’s what I try to get across to my players. You can be the biggest badass to ever step on the field, but if you’re an asshole off of it? No one’s gonna respect you for long. No one’s going to want to go to bat for you. No one’s going to want to take a chanceon a player once the stats stop rolling in and the excitement bubbling around you dries up and all you have left is a big bank account and an even bigger attitude problem.

And I use Dominic DaSilva as an example of What Not To Do, each and every time.

I mean, the man went on adating show,of all things, and proceeded to be the biggest douchebag of the season.

Not that I’ve been watchingPut A Ring On Itevery Wednesday night when it airs—much.

Gaze locked on the TV, I sip what’s left of my Guinness. I’ll head home as soon as the game is over. Third quarter, three minutes left on the clock. Tampa Bay has the ball. They look a little too cocky, considering they’re trailing behind by a touchdown and a field goal, or maybe that’s just number twelve—DaSilva himself—radiating enough arrogance to power an entire electrical plant as he slicks his gloved hands over his thighs and drops into position.

Someone in the bar hollers, “Thirty seconds, guys!” to the cacophony of raucous laughter and requests for more booze.

I hope Stuart chokes on his beer.

Twenty seconds.

The whistle blows. Grown-ass men charge toward each other like raging bulls on speed. Helmets clang, bouncing ping-pong style. Shoulders work like cranes heaving boulders out of the way. DaSilva rounds the cluster, arms pumping fast, and the camera pans out for a better angle of him sprinting down the field.

Eyes glued to the TV, I tighten my grip around my empty pint glass.

Wait for it . . .

Waitfor it . . .

Tampa’s quarterback finally makes the pass, and the football spirals through the air like a cannonball hurtling into enemy territory.

DaSilva cuts around a Pats player, dodging one way, then quick-stepping in the opposite direction. He twists his big body, and I swear there’s an arrogant quirk to his mouth as he leaps in the air, bulky arms raised high.

His hands connect with the football.

And then he comes down.

It’s all so, so wrong.

Players rush him from all sides, and even though I’ve watched this clip more times than I can count—it became Rick’s favorite after all the times DaSilva told my ex-husband to fuck off—I still grimace.

Because if you don’t feel an ounce of sympathy when a person’s bone tears through their flesh to wave Queen-of-England-style at the crowd, then there’s something intrinsically wrong with you.

Feeling my own limbs clenchin phantom pain, I hiss between my teeth. “Not even assholes deserve that.”

A big body slides onto the neighboring stool, seconds before that same big body rumbles out, “Deserve what?”

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