Chapter 21 Maverick
maverick
. . .
“What the fuck,” I mutter, throwing up a hand to shield my eyes from the bursts.
They’re fucking everywhere, blocking the porch, crowding in, pressing elbows into each other’s ribs just to get a little closer.
Parasites with lenses. Hyenas with dollar signs in their eyes.
“MAVERICK!” one yells, voice cracking with desperation, his camera pushed over someone else’s shoulder.
Another lunges forward, with their mic extended. “Is your marriage a PR move?”
“Is she pregnant!” someone else shouts, climbing up onto the wooden beam to get higher ground.
A woman’s voice cuts in, sharp, jeering. “Is she a tattoo artist or a stripper?”
Heat surges through me, white-hot, snapping my patience in two. I throw open the truck door so hard it rattles on its hinges and jump down, gravel spitting beneath my boots.
“Get the fuck off my property!” I shout, my voice booming across the driveway. My chest rises and falls, fists clenched so tightly that my nails dig into my palms. “You hear me? OFF!” I wave my arm toward the road, spitting with fury. “You don’t belong here!”
The mob flinches, but the cameras keep firing, flashes strobing against my scowl. Questions still spill over one another, and I can feel Carter’s eyes on me through the windshield—steady, calm, all while I’m seconds from breaking.
Reed’s already in motion, shoving a guy back by the shoulder so hard his camera nearly slips. “I said move,” he growls.
Another pap tries to sidestep him, camera clicking, but Carter’s had enough. He slams his door shut and stalks forward. “Back the fuck up,” he snarls. His eyes are wild under the flashes, the vein in his neck straining as he jabs a finger toward the road. “Off his property. Now.”
The swarm hesitates, grumbling and shuffling as some attempt to stand their ground. One person trips on the loose gravel, cursing as his lens hits his chest.
Slowly, they peel away, cameras falling as they slip toward their cars. Doors slam shut, engines roar, and red taillights glow against the gravel driveway. The final few lingerers shoot me dirty looks, grumbling about my behavior making headlines again, but I don’t give a flying fuck.
I’m left standing in the wreckage of my driveway, my chest heaving and sweat stinging my brow as adrenaline stays in my veins.
This industry is destroying me from the inside—bleeding me dry with every flash, headline, and lie loud enough to drown out the truth. And God help me, I’m almost fucking ready to walk away from it all.
Reed hands me my Bronco keys. “Here, so you don’t have to worry about picking it up.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, clutching them tight.
We all pause silently.
Carter first pulls me in with a one-armed hug and gives a firm smack on the back.
“Call if you need anything,” he says, eyes still scanning the tree line.
Reed hugs me next, quickly.
They both slap me on the back and head over to Carter’s truck. The engine roars, then drives away from my driveway, fading into the distant sound of tires crunching on pebbles.
I take the porch steps two at a time, feeling my heart race with every step I take.
With a quick shove, I close the door softly, the lock clicking shut behind me. The lights inside are dimmed, giving the entryway a warm, golden glow. It’s quiet, except for the gentle thump of small paws.
“Cupcake,” I mutter, dropping my keys on the table.
She trots toward me, tail wagging, panting, and whining for attention.
“Hey, baby girl,” I whisper, scooping her up and pressing a kiss to her tiny head. “Thanks for watching the house.”
I set her back down, walking silently in the hallway, looking for Amelia, until I see her.
She’s curled up on the couch in her notorious, torn, oversized band tee with her knees pulled to her chest, eyes swollen, cheeks wet from uncontrollable tears, as her shoulders shake.
I’ve never seen her cry, not even once.
But now, she looks so vulnerable; it fucking guts me. I have this deep need to hold her in my arms, protect her, provide for her, and care for her.
I drop to my knees beside her. “Amelia,” I whisper, reaching for her face.
She flinches and pushes me away with a weak shove. “Don’t, just don’t.”
“No,” I say, firmer this time, cupping her jaw gently. “Don’t shut me out, baby. Let me in, please.”
“Don’t call me baby.”
“Not a chance, you’re my baby.”
She rolls her eyes as she finally stills, but she doesn’t fight me anymore. Her green eyes flutter open, glassy and even more stunning than before.
How can someone be even more beautiful when they cry? Her eyes aren’t just green anymore; flecks of honey border her iris, and I swear, I draw in a breath from her beauty.
I wipe a tear off her cheek with my thumb, then another as it rolls down her cheek.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods, barely. “Yeah. I just got scared. They wouldn’t stop shouting things, and I didn’t know if they’d try to come in.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, pressing my forehead to hers. “I’m so sorry.”
She sniffles, trying to laugh, but it’s brittle. “How did you get here? They said you were drunk off your ass.”
“Carter dropped me off, and I sobered up the second I heard your voice.”
Her eyes flick to mine, confused, but I press on.
“What do you like to do when you feel this way?” I ask, “When you’re sad.”
She blinks at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m serious. What do you do when it all feels too big?”
She hesitates at first, then answers so softly.
“I love the beach.”
I nod slowly. “Okay. Get up.”
“What?”
“Come on,” I say, standing and holding my hand out. “Let’s go.”
“You are not sober.”
“I’m clearly not sober, but you can drive; I’ll give directions. You trust me?”
She eyes my hand, but a flicker of curiosity dances in her eyes, and she finally scoffs, slipping her fingers into mine.
“Where the hell are we going?”
“Dollface,” I grin. “Tell me your favorite beach.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Moss Cove.”
The wind off the coast is cooler than I expected for a California night, but Amelia hasn’t said anything about it.
She’s sitting next to me in the sand, her arms wrapped around her knees as her chin rests on top.
Her long black hair dances in the ocean breeze, tangled from the salty air, but she hasn’t bothered to fix it.
Waves crash just a few feet away, with the gentle roar of water tumbling while the scent of salt and the twang of seaweed linger thick in the air.
Our sneakers are thrown aside. My jeans are soaked at the ankles. Her bare toes dig into the sand with each wave that washes over us.
I’ve been silent too long, trying to give her space, but the silence is starting to feel like it’s fucking swallowing me whole.
She breaks it first.
“Don’t you have your first game of the season tomorrow?” Her voice is hoarse, like it’s been stuck in her throat since we got on the jet.
I glance over, watching the way her profile glows beneath the moonlight. “Yeah,” I admit, running a hand through my wind-blown hair. “But if this makes you feel better.” I bump her shoulder gently, trying to coax out something light, “then fuck the game.”
Her head turns slowly.
She looks at me, really looks at me, and there’s something fractured behind her eyes. Something old and bruised.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
The waves roll in, higher this time. The tide’s crawling closer by the minute.
We sit in silence, as the salty beach air wraps around us.
“You know…” I try, stretching my legs out and leaning back on my palms, “If this doesn’t cheer you up, I could always do a backflip.”
I glance sideways. She doesn’t laugh.
I swallow hard. “Front flip?”
Still nothing.
The breeze picks up, whistling through the cove, and I rub my hands together to stay warm. My heart beats more slowly now, steadier, heavier.
“Amelia.” I shift forward again, my arms resting on my bent knees. “Why won’t you let me in? I’m not gonna hurt you, I would never hurt you.”
She turns to me, and this time, she doesn’t look away. Her lashes are damp. Her eyes? They look like they’ve held back a thousand storms, and she’s tired of pretending it’s not raining.
“I’ve been married before, Maverick.” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts like a blade. “Clearly gotten divorced. It’s... something I don’t like to talk about.”
I blink, swallowing the knot in my throat.
She’s been holding that close, tighter than I held that football in our championship game last year. Like if she lets go, everything inside her will spill out.
I nod slowly. “Okay,” I say, “we don’t have to talk about it.”
Her eyes flicker with something unreadable before she exhales shakily and looks back toward the ocean. Her fingers twitch in the sand, restless.
“What’s the story behind your tattoo sleeve?” she asks after a pause, and I can tell she’s trying to deflect, trying to turn the spotlight away from herself.
I flex my arm, the black ink twisting beneath the pale moonlight. Her gaze lingers on the clock on my outer bicep, peeking through the short sleeve of my shirt, its hands forever frozen at eleven-eleven.
“That clock,” she says softly, “it’s stuck.”
“Yeah.” I huff out a breath, “I’m sure Catalina told you, but… my mama died when I was twenty-three.”
Her head snaps toward me again, concern creasing her brow.
“I was with her when they loaded her into the ambulance. Carter was away transferring cattle, Reed was in LA for the fire academy, and I was the only one at home.”
My voice falters, so I clear my throat, pushing past the lump that always forms when I say this shit out loud.
“Eleven-eleven was the time she died,” I murmur. My fingers trace the faded lines of the clock, the tips brushing over the numbers as if they might rewind time if I press hard enough. My throat tightens, heat pricks behind my eyes, but I keep going.
“I held her hand until her last breath,” I continue, my voice hoarse and barely above the steady roar of the ocean behind us.
My other hand clenches the damp sand beside me, grains sticking to my skin as I try to ground myself.
“The last full conversation I remember having with her was about football.”
I exhale sharply, the memory flashing every time I blink. My lips twitch into something that tries to be a smile but doesn’t quite make it.
“I’d just been scouted in college,” I say, glancing up at the night sky for a second.
The stars blur at the edges of my vision.
“And she told me—” I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. My jaw tightens, and my voice drops slightly. “‘Don’t lose yourself in the game, Maverick. Stay true to who you are. I love you, honey.”
As the words leave my mouth, I close my eyes and press the heel of my hand against them, forcing back everything that threatens to spill over.
My career has been slowly making me unhappy. But why should I complain? I’m a professional athlete who makes fucking bank, and most people would tell me to shut the fuck up.
The tide’s sound fills the silence between us.
I open my eyes to find Amelia still watching me, like she sees straight through the humor I use to hide my sadness and deep grief that we all continue to bear.
“And that day in the ambulance,” I continue, barely above a whisper, “she could hardly speak. She looked at me and said, ‘I love all my boys, please,’ like she was begging the universe not to forget about us.”
My voice wavers just a bit. I close my eyes and take a quick, sharp breath.
“She stopped breathing right after that.”
I fall silent, dropping my head down, looking at the sand moving with the wind.
Amelia inches closer, her hand sliding over mine in the sand, her fingers curling gently around my knuckles.
Her touch is soft.
I intertwine my fingers with hers and squeeze. I look at her to find her already staring at me, her eyes telling me that she’s here without even saying a single word.
The silence between us isn’t empty anymore. It’s filled with everything we’ve both lost and are still trying to hold onto.
“I miss her every day,” I say quietly, not looking away from the tide.
“I think she’d be proud of you,” she whispers, her thumb brushing back and forth along my knuckles.
I look at her again.
This time, there’s no wall, no bite. Just her hair, wild from the wind, eyes rimmed with salt, and her skin glowing in the moonlight.
She breaks the silence. “Do you actually love it?” Her voice is soft, thoughtful, almost cautious. “Football, I mean.”
The question catches me off guard. I look at her, but she’s not smirking or teasing. She’s serious. Curious.
She truly wants to know.
Most people only ask about the game, stats, plays, and the following season.
Nobody’s ever asked me how I feel.
I drag a hand down my face, staring out at the black stretch of ocean. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
A hollow laugh escapes me. “I love the game itself. When I’m out there, when the ball leaves my hand perfectly, when the crowd’s just a blur in the background, it feels like flying.
” My voice falters, the waves filling the pause.
“But everything else? The press, with its constant pressure to be perfect, wears you down. It makes you forget why you loved it in the first place.”
Her knee nudges mine in the sand. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard, digging holes in the sand with my fingers. “Some days it feels like it’s slowly killing me.”
She stays still, leaning in closer until her shoulder touches mine. Her voice softens, cautious but steady. “Then why keep doing it?”
The lump in my throat grows.
“Because I don’t know who I am without it,” I admit, my voice rough. “Football’s been my whole life. Take it away, and I don’t know what’s left.”
She tilts her head, her eyes catching the moonlight as she watches me. “But maybe… maybe you’re more than you think you are,” she says quietly. “You’re Maverick Hayes, more than the jersey.”
Her words hit me deeper than any tackle I’ve ever taken on the field. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a quarterback, a headline, or a paycheck. I feel like a man, and she’s looking at me like that’s enough.
And it scares the hell out of me, how desperately I want her to keep looking at me.