Chapter 20 Maverick
maverick
. . .
“Hayes!” Coach Mike’s voice pulls me out of my trance. “You better have your ass ready next week, or I’ll bench you so fast your pretty-boy sponsorships won’t know what hit ‘em.”
“Ready, Coach,” I mock, jaw clenched. “Born ready.”
I jog back to the huddle, sweat dripping down my spine, my legs pumping like muscle memory, but my mind?
It’s still stuck on her.
Because how the fuck am I supposed to focus when I spent yesterday losing my damn mind underneath Amelia Hamilton?
Correction.
Underneath Amelia Hamilton, all while she tattooed my chest like it was nothing, as she sat on me like a fucking goddess and acted like she didn’t notice how wrecked I was the entire damn time. I’d made a mess of myself in those compression shorts, and she barely batted an eye, playing coy.
I’m down bad. Like, clinically.
“Yo, Hayes.” JP slaps my helmet as we get into formation. “You glitched out, or are you just thinking about your wife again?”
Pierce snickers. “Yeah, what’s it like having a woman fine enough to ruin your credit score?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I grunt, adjusting my stance.
“You love ussssss,” JP fires back, popping his gum.
“Focus on the snap, you fucks. We’ve got a game tomorrow.” I growl, crouching low.
We run a clean play, tight route, fast pivot, end zone spiral, and I make the throw without missing a beat.
The ball slices through the air, toward Pierce’s hands, and he snatches it with ease, spiking it dramatically as the crowd erupts behind the fence.
My arms are on autopilot, driven by pure muscle memory and repetition, doing the work.
Everything else?
A goddamn disaster.
My head’s back in that tattoo chair.
I jog back to the huddle, but my pulse is still racing for the wrong reasons. My chest feels tight. My shorts feel even tighter. I’m dangerously close to calling a timeout just to shove my head in the nearest ice bucket.
“Clean pass,” Coach calls out, taking me out of my haze. “Now keep your brain in the damn game, Hayes.”
I jog back toward the sideline, chest heaving, and glance toward the fence where a few fans are gathering.
Amelia didn’t show up today, not that I expected her to, after I basically self-destructed in front of her while she kept a straight face.
I slip my glove off and check my phone under the excuse of needing water, or I’ll perish.
Maverick
You thinking about yesterday?
Maverick
Because I am.
Maverick
Constantly.
Maverick
Still can’t tell if you were torturing me on purpose.
Maverick
(If so, 10/10. Would suffer again.)
Maverick
Also, hi. Miss your face.
Before I can shove it back in my pocket, Maggie steps onto the field with a clipboard in hand and sunglasses that frame her whole face, as her wild red-orange burnt curls twirl in the breeze.
“Don’t get used to this, Hayes. This PR glow-up doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Love you too, Maggie,” I mutter as I break into a run for the next drill.
Practice continues as the sun blazes down, making my pads feel heavy, sweat stinging my eyes, and the air thick with turf dust. When the final whistle blows, my lungs burn and my legs are sore.
Fans crowd the fence, waving jerseys and posters, sharpies in hand. I tug off my helmet, sweep damp hair back, and flash the smile I’ve perfected for them, the one that says I’m unshakable, the golden boy quarterback they came to see.
I jog over, scribbling my name on a cap, then a football, then the back of a kid’s jersey.
“You throw like me out there, champ, and we’ll have you signed by next season,” I tease, grinning wide enough for the cameras. The kids laugh, and phones keep snapping.
Somewhere in the back, some idiot yells.
“HEY HAYES, WHAT’S IT LIKE MARRYING THE TATTOOED FREAK SHOW? YOU GONNA COVER HER UP SO SHE LOOKS LIKE A REAL WIFE?”
Laughter ripples, a few whistles follow, but I don’t let it touch me. My smile doesn’t slip, not even for a second. I crouch next to two little girls wearing oversized Mustangs hats, scribble quick autographs, and lean into a photo as if nothing in the world could shake me.
“Appreciate you all coming out,” I say, loud enough to carry. “Means the world to us.”
Beneath the mask, I’m boiling inside. I can handle every insult thrown at me, but dragging her into it? Dragging Amelia into it? That’s where I draw the line.
The longer I stand here pretending it didn’t tear me apart, the more the fire in my chest tightens, waiting for the moment I can finally release it.
But they’ll never see that, not from me, not yet anyway.
“Hey, Hayes,” Pierce calls, towel slung around his neck. “You bringing your wife to the first game?”
“She gonna sit in the front and watch your dumbass fumble?” JP adds.
Walking away from the crowd, I glare at them both. “She’ll be there. And fuck you, JP, I’m a goddamn legend.”
They laugh, and I shake my head, peeling off my gear as I walk back to the locker room.
My phone buzzes again.
Amelia
I have no idea what you’re talking about, quarterback.
I smile to myself, little devil. She’s either playing stupid, or she knows.
Whatever.
Needing to get my mind off her, I text my brothers to see if they want to have a guys’ night.
Stepping into the locker room that smells like unwashed jock straps, I sit down on the wooden bleacher, typing out to the group chat.
Maverick
Yo, boys’ night?
pls tell me someone else is dying inside, too
Carter
My place. I’ll grill. Bring beer and your dumbass.
Reed
Only if you don’t show up wearing that damn crop top again.
Maverick
First of all, I looked hot. Second, ur jealous. Third, I’m bringing tequila.
Carter
God help us.
I smirk, already feeling better as I twist the black, titanium wedding band around my finger.
A night with my brothers sounds like exactly what my overworked brain and overstimulated body need.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out, but Maggie steps in front of me, holding her clipboard with her glasses low on her nose, her lips pursed, my PR death angel.
“Hayes,” she says sharply. “Don’t think I didn’t see those flirty heart hands you threw for the first practice of the season.”
I blink, confused. Why does that matter? “They were for morale.”
“For the crowd?”
“For my wife.”
She sighs, gripping her clipboard. “Look, I’m not here to kill your fun, but the first game of the season is tomorrow, and we’ve got the Henderson gala soon, which, surprise, will be crawling with reporters.”
I nod, half-listening as I swipe my towel across my neck. “Let me guess. You want me to behave.”
“I want you to keep doing whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing with your little wife,” she says flatly, flipping a page. “Because the media may be chewing on her background, but our sponsors? They’re eating up the ‘reformed playboy in love’ storyline.”
My jaw twitches. “She’s not a storyline.”
Maggie raises her brow. “Uh-huh, no drama, no disappearing into the night with half a bottle of Patrón and a bar girl on your arm. If you’re serious about your image, now’s the time to act like it.”
“I haven’t touched anyone in two years,” I mutter, shoving my towel into my bag.
She stares, eyeing me up and down, scoffing. Walking off with her heels clacking, I watch her go, letting out the breath I was holding in, and glance at my phone again, typing out a message.
Maverick
on my way
Carter, baby, you better be making your famous ribs.
If I can’t party in public, I might as well get fucked at my brother’s house.
I turn down the volume on the stereo, my hand resting lazily on the wheel as I cruise through the winding backroads of Ruby Ridge.
The late afternoon light bleeds into orange across the horizon, bathing everything in a haze of amber.
Dust kicks up behind my Bronco’s thick tires, the lifted frame humming with power beneath me.
I’m halfway to Carter’s when it hits me.
I haven’t gotten Amelia a ring.
I mean, Maggie chose the one I gave her at our ‘wedding,’ but I want her to have something that’s hers, and I want to. I want something on her hand that tells every guy breathing to look elsewhere. Something she sees when she’s alone and maybe thinks of me.
Without thinking, I tap her name on my screen and hold the phone to my ear as the Bronco hums beneath me.
She answers on the third ring, voice dry as ever. “What?”
“Hey, dollfaceeee,” I grin, settling back in my seat. “Quick question. What’s your dream ring?”
There’s a pause. “Why would I tell you that?”
“Becauseeee,” I drag the word out with a half-laugh, “we’re fake married and it’s all I can think about while I’m driving past cows and cornfields. So come on, dollface. Throw me a bone.”
She sighs. “Fine. Four-carat emerald cut with a silver band. Clean design, no halo, pave, and no diamond. Just keep it simple and don’t make it weird.”
I let out a low whistle, smirking. “Four carats? Damn. You trying to break my wrist every time I hold your hand?”
“What’s so funny?”
“I just—” I shake my head, my smile softening as I watch the landscape roll by. “I didn’t think I could picture anyone with something like that. But then I pictured you with it, and it made sense. It’d look good on you, baby.”
She’s quiet, like she’s pretending her phone dropped or she’s underground in a cave with no reception. I open my mouth to say more, maybe even something sappy, but then—
HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
I nearly swerve. “Jesus Christ, was that Rex?!”
She snorts. “Yeah. He’s fine.”
“He hissed like he was summoning demons.”
“He heard your voice.”
“Well, tell Satan’s hairless minion to chill the fuck out. My ears are bleeding.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m traumatized.”
She let out a small laugh, and I hold onto that sound as if it were oxygen.
“Drive safe, quarterback.”
“Always do.” I grin. “And hey, don’t go falling for me while I’m gone.”
I end the call with a grin still tugging at my mouth. The silence settles in, broken only by the steady rumble of the engine and the hum of tires rolling over the road.