Chapter 28 Maverick
Maverick
I push the button on the blender and watch it whirl into motion, my concoction of protein powder, almond milk, spinach, and frozen banana transforming into something healthy and entirely undrinkable.
Gross. I hate how this shit tastes, but . . . oh well. Whatever. This is the kind of smoothie a man drinks when he needs to sober up because he’s about to ruin his wife’s morning by uttering the two most dreaded words in existence:
Press. Release.
The second I kill the blender, my phone buzzes.
Speak of the devil herself.
Kira, Publicist:
Need to talk. Re: official statement. Clock’s ticking.
Yeah. No shit, it’s ticking.
The world thinks it knows we got married.
The world doesn’t know there is a baby on the way . . .
I take a sip of the green regret in my shaker bottle and head into the living room. Annabelle’s curled up on the couch, under the throw blanket she brought from home, eating saltines straight from the sleeve and reading a book with a pink cover and illustrated couple on it.
I stop in the doorway and look at her for a second to enjoy the peace and quiet before I wreck it.
She’s barefoot, as usual. Her hair’s in a high pony. She’s wearing leggings and a cropped T-shirt, and she has no idea that in about ninety seconds, I’m going to drop a bombshell.
“Hey,” I say, casually dropping next to her on the couch. I grab one of her feet and get to work, massaging the heel.
She doesn’t look up. “If you’re about to tell me you finished all the pickles, don’t. I’m not emotionally stable enough.”
“Worse,” I say. “We need to talk about a press release.”
That gets her attention. The book lowers. “A what?”
“A press release.”
She blinks. “You mean, like an announcement?”
I nod. “Exactly.”
“To the public?”
“To the public. My team’s asking. They want to get ahead of the tabloids and rumors that you’re a gold digger.”
She gapes at me. “Can’t we just, I don’t know—not?”
“Babe, I’m a professional athlete who reappeared in the media married, from a wedding no one saw happen. You think silence is going to clear things up?”
The internet is going crazy, and the fewer details that are provided, the worse the lies get.
She crosses her arms and glares at me like I just suggested we live stream the birth. “You want to PR spin our relationship like it’s a scandal. We just told your parents. We haven’t even had the chance to both sit down with mine yet.”
That’s today’s agenda—her parents. She’s been on the phone with her mom several times, but they have yet to officially have a chat with me.
Her dad began blowing up her phone the second the news broke after Evy’s social media post, but we haven’t told them about the baby either. Only that we’re hitched . . .
“I’m not trying to spin anything,” I tell her, palms out. “I just want the truth out there before someone with a YouTube channel decides you’re a gold-digging fame chaser with a secret Maverick McBride fan account.”
She gasps. “Do people think that?”
Uh. Yes. “Babe. They think all kinds of things.”
She lets out a groan and flops backward onto the couch, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. “This is my nightmare. I didn’t sign up for any of this.”
I sit beside her, trying to ignore the fact that she’s still wearing my hoodie and I still want to kiss the panic right off her face.
“You did. You signed up when you fell asleep in my hammock.”
“That wasn’t a contract.”
“That feels legally binding in some states.”
She cracks a smile, barely, but I can see the overwhelm swimming behind her eyes. In a perfect world we’d forget about the statement to the media, the team’s publicist, the chaos storm brewing online, and I’d just pull her into my lap and let her breathe.
But that’s not what we need right now.
Right now, we need control. Or at least the illusion of it.
I soften my voice. “Hey. I’ll wait, okay? Until after we talk to your parents. We’ll write it together. You’ve got to trust me—if we don’t say anything, the vultures will say it for us.”
“I don’t want to write it. At all. Why can’t we wait until I’m further along?”
Better now than never. “We won’t mention the baby. Just the relationship part.”
She huffs. “It’s so freaking dumb that this is anyone’s business. My life is no one’s business but mine.”
“I agree,” I say, because I do. “Unfortunately, it is mine. And mine happens to come with a jersey and a media clause and a publicist who’s already drafted three statements without us.”
She stands up from the couch, pacing now, hands flying as she talks. “God, do you even hear yourself? You’re acting like we’re launching a new shoe line—not trying to figure out how to be in an actual relationship!”
“I am trying to figure it out,” I snap, standing too. “But I don’t have the luxury of doing it in secret.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault you’re famous?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to!” Her cheeks flush with color. “I get it, okay? Your image matters. You’re thinking long term. Protecting your brand.”
I wish she wasn’t getting herself so worked up.
“Annabelle, you are part of the long term,” I tell her. “Don’t you see that? This isn’t about damage control—it’s about setting the tone. About telling the world that you matter to me. That I’m not hiding you.”
Her eyes flash. “Then maybe don’t act like I’m a PR problem.”
That lands like a punch to the gut. I flinch, because she’s not totally wrong. The point of a statement is to get ahead of any stories . . .
She folds her arms tightly. “Do you want to know what I need? I need time to breathe. To feel normal. To feel like this is still ours before it belongs to everyone else.”
I stare at her, chest heaving. “I’m scared too.”
She blinks. “You don’t act like it.”
“I’ve had a few more years of practice at pretending.”
And with that, the room goes still again. Her arms loosen, her shoulders drop an inch. And mine do too.
It’s not resolved. Not even close.
She sighs, brushing past me to the kitchen. “I want to go home.”
I don’t follow her, but I do call out after her. “One second you’re fine and the next you want to leave?”
She doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway.
The clatter of a cabinet slamming is answer enough.
I walk to the edge of the kitchen but stop short of going in. She’s standing at the counter, hands braced on either side of the sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“I’m not your enemy,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t move.
I keep going. “This thing between us? It’s not a PR problem. It’s the best damn surprise of my life. I’m just trying to protect it.”
“Too late. I’m pissed, and I want my privacy.”
But she has had privacy; we’ve been living in a bubble since we arrived, holed up in this luxury condo at the top of the world. Food delivered, getting to know each other. Having sex, getting intimate.
And now she’s talking to me like I’m the reason it’s fucked.
“I’m not the paparazzi,” I snap, instantly regretting the bite in my tone. “I’m the guy who rubs your back in the middle of the night without even being asked because I know it’s bothering you.”
Annabelle whirls around, eyes flashing. “And I didn’t ask you to go public with us either!”
“I haven’t!” I haven’t said shit!
“But you want to.”
“Because it’s going to come out anyway,” I argue. “At least let me help shape the narrative before someone else twists it into something it’s not.”
She throws up her hands. “You’re talking like this is some sports scandal to manage instead of a relationship that’s barely had time to breathe!”
My chest tightens. “It is a relationship. And I’m trying to keep it safe.”
“By turning it into content?”
Ouch. Low blow.
“This is my life, Mav,” she says, voice quieter now but trembling. “And you might be used to people picking apart every decision you make—but I’m not. I didn’t sign up for this circus.”
“You did, actually,” I say, softer now. “The second I slipped that ring on your finger.”
I hate myself the second it leaves my mouth.
She stares at me like I’ve slapped her. She blinks once, then turns her back again. “I’m going out.”
“Annabelle—”
But the door is already swinging shut behind her.
And I’m left standing in the kitchen, staring at the counter, where she was just gripping the sink, wondering how the hell I let something so right spiral so far off track in ten minutes flat.