Sweet Rome (Sweet Home 1.5)

“Don’t feel it tonight.”

She dropped her hand to her chest and gasped, “Mr. All-star Quarterback doesn’t want to mix with his adoring fans?”

Every ounce of me froze. She’d found out I played football—perfect.

I ripped off the label of my beer; it was that or launch the brown glass at the wall. “Well, that didn’t take long. Who told you?”

“Lexi and Cass.”

“Who?” I asked in a far-from-friendly tone.

Her eyes dropped and she fiddled with her hands again. “My roommates, they told me after we… erm, after we… you know…”

“Kissed?”

“Erm… yeah.”

“So what did they say about me?” I pushed.

“That you were the Romeo Prince, quarterback extraordinaire for the Crimson Wave and that you were the Prince William of college football, yada, yada, yada…”

“What?” she asked, taking in my blank face.

“The Tide,” I corrected, the anger lifting and complete f**king hilarity taking its place.

“Huh?” she asked again, completely confused, her expression making that more than clear. It was probably the first time in years that her genius ass had felt at a loss.

“It’s the Crimson Tide. Not wave.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed, stomach tightening, uncontrollably bursting out laughing. Wasn’t “the crimson wave” code for a chick being on the rag or something? Christ, she’d be lynched around here talking like that about the beloved national champs.

“Whatever. Tomayto tomarto,” she dismissed with a casual wave of her hand.

“Well, we’d better keep that between us. It’s not tomayto tomarto around here. It’s… everything. It’s life and death.” And wasn’t that just the friggin’ truth? Sometimes the pressure to be perfect was insane.

I could feel her stare, her inquisitive mind working overtime. “So, Romeo, eh?” She finally asked after minutes of silence, and I froze.

“It’s Rome,” I corrected immediately. I was “Rome” to everyone but my f**king parents, and I hated any reminder that I was actually named after a pu**y-whipped, poison-drinking ass**le.

Her face lit with amusement, and she half danced, half shuffled on the spot. “Ah-ah! It’s Romeo. I’ve been reliably informed.”

“No one calls me that, Mol.” I tried to be as polite as possible because f**k, she didn’t know, but that name had me wanting to snap someone’s neck.

“Just like no one calls me Mol,” she immediately snapped back, not taking any of my moody shit.

At that burst of confidence, I wanted nothing more than to close in and kiss that impressive scowl off her face. “Touché, Molly…?” I waited for her finish, relaxing some at the new turn in conversation. Fuck me, I was having fun. Actually having fun. Alert the friggin’ media: Rome Prince had cracked a little!

“Molly Shakespeare.”

Okay, call off the press. I was back to being f**ked off.

“What?” I asked, edging in closer.

“Shakespeare. Molly Shakespeare,” she answered with a shaky voice and a slight tremble to her hands.

Someone had to be setting me up. Maybe Michaels? That f**ker would give anything to screw me over. “Are you trying to be funny?” I asked bitterly.

“Nope. Romeo, I’m a Shakespeare—born and bred.” Hell, she was telling the truth. Shakespeare. Her f**king name was Shakespeare! This couldn’t be happening.

I couldn’t help it, but I laughed, and she said, “That’s not the only weird thing about our names.”

“Really? Because things have been all kinds of weird since meeting you today. I’m not sure I understand what it all means yet.” They really had. It was a sobering thought. They say your life can change in a matter of minutes, but up until now, I’d never really given that much thought.

“Well, get a one-way ticket to freaky-ville, my friend, because my middle name, Romeo, is Juliet.”

Man, that was a mindfuck right there. It was a setup, had to be. We couldn’t really be that tragic, that pathetic… could we? Romeo Prince and Molly Juliet Shakespeare… Pass me the f**king bucket. Or was it an omen, a big f**k-off neon sign shouting, Stay the f**k away! Tragedy awaits! Damnit.

“Are you serious?” I finally asked.

“Yep, my dad thought it would be a fitting tribute to our family surname.”

“Very fitting.” But all that came to my drunk-ass mind when I thought of Romeo and Juliet was death, f**ked-up parents, and that dude from Gangs of New York looking at that chick from Homeland through a fish tank.

“Yeah, but at the same time, kind of embarrassing.” I shook my head, re-concentrating on Mol. Molly f**king Juliet.

“Well, Shakespeare, you going treat me differently now too? Now that you know I’m Romeo ‘Bullet’ Prince?” I asked, trying to see if her attitude toward me had changed from earlier today.

“Bullet?”

She didn’t have clue.

“Yeah. Football nickname. Because of my arm.”

Blankness. Complete blankness on her pretty face.

“My throwing arm…”

Still nothing.

I tried a new tactic, pointing to myself, talking slowly. Maybe she wasn’t getting the accent. Mine is pretty strong. “Quarterback… Quarterbacks throw the ball… in football… to the other players… They control the game.”