Chapter 8 Maverick
Maverick
The power is out.
Has been for the last ten minutes.
“Well, this is great,” I mutter, hefting myself up off the couch so I can dig through the kitchen drawers for a flashlight. Or candles.
There was a weird calm after a storm. Like the air forgets how to move, and everything goes still, waiting for what comes next.
Annabelle and I had managed to shower, change, and scrounge up a half-decent dinner, even though she teased me the entire time about being a chicken.
So what if I’m scared of storms? Big deal.
Just ’cause I’m a big dude, I can’t be afraid of a little lightning?
I stood at the window, taking inventory of the yard. Storm clouds still clung low in the sky, gray and heavy, though the worst of the wind had died. Branches swayed against the darkening horizon, a few stray leaves sticking to the glass like wet confetti.
Then it happened.
The power went out.
No warning as the entire house plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. No fridge hum. No gentle whirl of the ceiling fan. Nothing now but the rain beating against the roof, windows, and chimney—and the sound of Annabelle’s groan.
“Fuck.” I spin around.
Lightning flickers again outside, casting a pale, eerie light across the living room. Then total blackness.
“Oh my God,” My cabinmate groans again. “This is the perfect time for you to finally murder me once and for all.”
I force out a laugh, trying to hide the way my stomach tightens at the crackle of thunder. “Yeah, that’s my plan. Wait two days, then kill you in a blackout. Genius.”
The house feels too quiet, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the next boom to tear it apart.
I hate storms, always have. Another rumble rolls over the roof, making the walls vibrate.
I glance at the window, counting in my head like a damn kid—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—to measure how close the lightning strike is.
“Maverick?”
I snap my eyes back to her. She’s moved closer, like she can sense the edge in my voice.
“Hey.” She nudges my arm with her elbow. “You all right?”
I clear my throat, willing my shoulders to relax. Roll them to get the tension out. “Not a fan of storms.”
Her face softens, surprise flickering there for just a moment before she covers it up with a grin. “Want me to hold your hand?”
I scowl. “Cute. Real cute.” But yes, kind of.
Thunder cracks so loud it rattles the cabinet doors, and for half a second, I jump. Like a grown-ass man, jumping.
She sees it too—I know she does, because that grin softens again. “C’mon,” she says gently. “We’ll make a fire, yeah? Sit together on the couch and light some candles? You can distract me by teaching me more Gaelic phrases.”
I want to roll my eyes. Instead, I find myself nodding. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Good, good.”
She slips past me, flashlight on her phone leading the way toward the living room fireplace. The smell of wet earth seeps through the gaps in the windows, the storm raging. It’s a living, breathing thing, and I fight the instinct to flinch every time the thunder rolls.
Fight the instinct to hide.
I’m Maverick fucking McBride. I’ve faced fullbacks coming at me full speed, have broken bones, torn ligaments—but one stupid crack of thunder and I’m a jittery mess?
Fuck that.
I watch as this cute, petite woman stacks logs in the fireplace, humming as if the house isn’t shaking while I do my best to light the goddamn match. For the most part, my hands are steady.
When the fire catches, throwing dancing orange light around the walls, I ease back on the rug, forcing a slow, steady breath out of my chest.
In.
Out.
Annabelle glances over, reading me in that freakishly perceptive way of hers. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” I nod, pride tasting a bit like ash on my tongue. “Better.”
She settles in next to me, tucking her legs under herself, shoulder brushing mine. “What a relief. ’Cause if the serial killer breaks in, I’m going to need you at full strength. I can’t save us both.”
As if I would let her defend us from a killer. But cute that she thinks I’m such a mess she would need to.
We take seats on the couch, Annabelle curling up, and the soft glow from the candles she found glows in the room along with the fireplace. They flicker, casting shadows onto the wood walls.
Cozy as fuck.
She tucks her hand under her chin, leaning against the back of the couch to study my face. “Tell me something—a confession. Since we’re trapped inside, we might as well spill secrets before the murderer gets us.”
I huff out a laugh, relaxing into the worn cushions. “You want a confession? Hmm.”
She nods, eyes bright, playful but somehow gentle at the same time.
“Well, you already know I hate storms—always have, for no particular reason,” I admit. “But I’m also not a fan of the dark.” Don’t love it. “Your turn.” I nudge her knee with my foot.
She grins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Funny you should mention the dark. I used to sleep with a night-light until I was twelve, which is probably why I couldn’t sleep last night.”
Ha. “So we’re in agreement—we should leave all the lights on.”
“Except the power kind of screwed us on that.”
True, at least for the time being.
“So,” she says, twisting to face me a little more, “since we’re trading secrets—what about relationships? You ever been close to getting married?”
The question surprises me, but she says it so casually I get the feeling she’s not fishing for personal reasons. At least, I don’t think so.
“Nah,” I answer honestly. “Football has always been in the way.” No time, not enough inclination. Never dated anyone I wanted to lock in and commit to for the rest of my life.
She nods, like she gets it. “Makes sense. Hard to build on something serious when you’re always on the move or busy doing”—she waves a hand airily—“athletic stuff.”
I laugh at her description of my job, shifting on the couch, stretching my arm along the back, letting my hand dangle dangerously close to her shoulder. “What about you?”
She bites her lip, looking sheepish. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t laugh.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “I mean—I’ll try.” No promises.
She draws in a breath. “The guy I was seeing is the mayor’s son.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “The mayor’s son?”
“Yes.” She groans, hiding her face in her hands. “Tim is the mayor’s son.”
I have a shit-eating grin on my face. “Like, the mayor?”
She peeks through her fingers, glaring at me. “Yes, stop repeating it!”
“You’re the one repeating it!”
“I can’t help it!” She laughs. “He and I were never going to last, though I doubt he would have dumped me. Dating in a small town is rough. It’s slim pickings when you know everyone’s entire life story or went to elementary school with them.”
“Fair,” I say, grinning. “So you went for the mayor’s kid to shake things up.”
She snorts. “Trust me, there was no shaking. He’s the world’s safest bet, and I wish him all the best—just not with me.”
I laugh again, the sound echoing along with the crackle of the fire. The storm rages on, but it has begun to feel oddly peaceful here with her, swapping stories in the flickering candlelight. Dare I say romantic?
Nah. Not that.
Not us, we’re enemies, battling over the same cabin . . .
I clear my throat, glancing at her as another gust of wind rattles the windowpanes. “So what do you actually want? Long term, I mean.”
“Long term? Hmm.”
I shrug, and when I do, the tips of my fingers brush against her shoulder. “Outside of work—or Tim, the mayor’s boring son—what do you want? Five years from now or whatever.”
“The only one who ever asks me that is Lucy.” She hums again. “I don’t know. I’d love to travel more; sometimes it feels like I’m stuck here. Have you ever seen that movie Groundhog Day, where the guy wakes up every single morning and it repeats day after day?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, that’s how I feel sometimes. Day after day is the same.
Tourists. Brides. Same coffee, same café.
Town is the size of a postage stamp, and I never leave—which is why I came here, though I only drove from one side of the lake to the other.
” Annabelle lets out a breath. “I don’t know what I want.
Freedom? Not to feel suffocated.” She looks at me, eyes warm. “What about you? What do you want?”
I shift, the question heavier than I was expecting it to feel now that it’s my turn to respond. “I want to feel useful again,” I admit, voice low. “Whole. Football was everything, and then I hurt myself, and suddenly I don’t fucking know who I am anymore.”
Football was my identity, and now that I can’t play until I’m healed—I feel like I’m floating.
Aimless.
Useless.
Annabelle doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she watches me, steady and patient, hearing every word I’ve said. “That has to be hard,” she says softly.
“It is.” I drag a hand over my jaw. “It’s like—if I’m not the guy on the field, taking my team to the Super Bowl, I don’t know what else I’m good at. What if that’s all I ever was?”
She shifts closer, untucking her legs from beneath her. “Then you find something else,” she tells me. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy that quits.”
I’m not. Wasn’t.
But maybe I am.
Lightning flashes, momentarily turning the room white, but neither of us flinches this time.
Annabelle pokes me with the tip of her finger. “If you could do anything other than football, what would it be?”
I swallow, letting the question marinate. “Shit, I have no fucking idea,” I admit honestly. “I’ve never let myself think that far ahead. Haven’t had to think about it since I was in high school.”
I was the guy colleges and universities across the country were scouting by the time I was a junior. So I majored in business but never gave any thought to, well—what would happen if I tore my ACL.
“This is not a career-ending injury. But it’s made me question a lot of shit, which is how I ended up here.” I gesture around the room. “My teammates were here last week and couldn’t shut up about how ‘serene’ it was.” I use air quotes. “Figured it couldn’t hurt. At least I can hear myself think.”
Phoenix, Arizona, isn’t exactly the epitome of chill vibes. Not for me, anyway.
She shifts closer, patting me on the forearm with one of her delicate hands. “I think it’s brave,” she says. “Most people would push through, stay busy, pretend everything’s fine.”
“That’s exactly what I’d do.” I snort. “’Cept my knee wouldn’t let me even if I tried.”
She laughs, light and sweet. “Do you have pets? I feel like I know the answer, but enlighten me. Dog person or cat person?”
“No. Travel too much. But I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“What kind?”
Any kind. “I’ve always thought pugs were cool. Or one of those French bulldogs. Basically anything with a smushed face. They look like they’ve been through some shit, you know?”
She laughs again, a warm, musical sound that somehow makes the storm outside feel even further away. “I can see it. You and a little drooling bulldog snoring on the couch together.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I tease. “That’s retirement goals.”
She hugs her knees to her chest, still grinning. “You’d be a good dog dad.”
That takes me off guard. “Ya think?”
“For sure,” she replies. “You’ve got golden retriever–protector vibe. Like you’d spoil a dog rotten but pretend you’re tough about it.”
“What about you? Dog or cat person?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Dog, for sure. Cats freak me out.”
Fair enough.
She sighs, this sweet, faraway look in her eyes. “Someday I want one of those big goofy golden retrievers that runs for a toy every time I open the door and sheds hair on everything I own. Or a French bulldog.”
“Sounds messy,” I say, teasing.
She smiles. “That’s kind of the point.”
And damn if my brain doesn’t go full cheeseball right then—picturing us tripping over two mismatched dogs with wagging tails that knock shit over and have sad little underbites, instead of a big, beefy dog that could pull a wagon.
I see her shouting at them both in that bossy way she does, pretending like I’m in charge, while laughing our asses off in a place that feels like home.
Where the hell did that thought come from? How could I be daydreaming about a life with her?
Barf, dude. Get a grip.
But the picture won’t leave my head: Annabelle rolling her eyes while tossing a slobbery tennis ball across the living room, me pretending I’m the boss but secretly giving those dumb dogs belly rubs, the two of us living in a place that feels warm and safe and stupidly perfect.
It’s insane. I barely know her.