Chapter 33 Annabelle
Annabelle
This press conference room smells like sweat, men, and coffee.
I nibble on my bottom lip, watching from the back of the room as Callum takes his seat behind the long banquet table, his agent on his left, Arizona’s coach on his right.
Every surface gleams under fluorescent lights; every camera angle trained on the man at the front—the one who dragged me into the center of a universe I never thought I’d orbit.
This is the first time I’ve ever been in a football headquarters, and it does not disappoint. Glistening polished floors. Glass walls. Crystal team logos. A waterfall in the main lobby.
I squint under the bright light as Callum adjusts himself on the tiny folding chair, rows of them lined up for reporters, microphones ready, hungry for a story. They’re here for blood. Or headlines. Or both.
Same damn thing.
This is about me. About us. I agreed to this after his agent’s sales pitch: Why not capitalize and monetize on the wedding and the baby? Let the story pay for both, ha ha.
Yes, originally the idea made me uncomfortable. Before this, my life had never been about clicks and coverage—even the times I was doing the most to promote my small business to brides. The thought of strangers dissecting my choices makes my stomach churn.
But that was then, and this is now.
My new life.
I am embracing it.
The hum of voices dies down as Callum’s coach pulls a thin microphone toward his face, prepared words on a sheet of paper in his hand.
He’s an older man with a low voice that carries years of shouting on the sidelines and probably lots of whiskey; it’s the kind of tone that can silence a locker room.
“Afternoon, thanks for coming,” the coach begins, eyes sweeping across the restless room of reporters.
“Before we open the floor, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the man sitting beside me. Mav McBride has been with the Arizona program for five seasons. In that time, he’s been a captain, a leader in our locker room, and one of the most consistent players on the field. ”
Click, click, click—the cameras capture his speech.
“McBride has logged over six hundred career tackles, one hundred and twenty for loss, and twenty-two sacks since joining Arizona. He’s forced more fumbles than any other player on our roster and holds the franchise record for most consecutive starts on defense.”
Reporters lean forward, pens hovering.
“That kind of consistency doesn’t just show up on the field,” Coach continues. “It shows up in leadership, in toughness, and in the kind of man he is off it. Today he’s here to share something even bigger than football.”
Maverick’s jaw ticks with nervousness. Sure, he looks calm on the surface, but I know that muscle twitches when his nerves fire. He looks out at the sea of cameras like he’s staring down an offensive line—shoulders square, unflinching.
He leans toward the microphone, one big hand braced on the table, and clears his throat.
“First, like Coach said, thank you all for being here.” His throat clears again as he prepares to deliver the news.
“I know there has been speculation.” The pressroom tightens, reporters practically salivating.
“I’m here today to confirm them. Yes, I’m married.
” His gaze flicks over to where I’m standing, a lightning strike I feel everywhere.
“And we have more news. My beautiful wife and I are expecting our first child.”
The reporters begin firing off questions. Flashes blind. The cold air buzzes with urgency as reporters shout over each other, trying to be heard:
“When did you get married?”
“How long have you known each other?”
“How will this affect your career?”
“Annabelle, are you prepared for this spotlight?”
Maverick doesn’t waver. Barely blinks. He plants his elbows on the table and raises the mic closer.
“We’ve kept a low profile as long as we could.
And while our relationship is new—and this may come as a huge surprise to some, we’re having a great time—I’m looking forward to getting back to work.
” Maverick squeezes the mic once, steady, then adds, “Football is what I love—it’s what I’m good at.
But this”—he tips his chin toward me, and the shift of cameras my way is jarring—“this is my family, and I’ll protect it the same way I protect my team: with everything I’ve got. ”
The room quiets just for a heartbeat, like even the reporters recognize when they’ve been leveled.
They turn on me.
Reporters shout over each other again, their questions tumbling on top of one another until it’s just noise. My name threads through the room like a hook: “Annabelle, Annabelle, did anyone get the timeline?” “When is the due date?”
Maverick ignores them, leaning forward. “Babe, wanna come up here and say something?”
No!
I’m not built for this! I mean, yeah, I’m great with people, but I’ve never in my life had to deal with something like this. Not stadium lights. Not a hundred pairs of eyes waiting for me to either slip or shine. Jeez, what if I say something stupid and it lives with me forever?
But Maverick isn’t offering me up to the wolves. He’s inviting me to stand beside him. To claim my place.
So then I think, Sure—why the hell not?
I smooth the front of my dress, even though the fabric doesn’t need it, and cross the short distance to the raised podium, where he’s sitting, and his agent stands to offer me his seat.
Maverick kisses my cheek and takes my hand.
The microphone looms too close to my mouth.
I take a breath. “Hi.”
Several people chuckle.
“I’m Annabelle.”
“Annabelle,” Maverick repeats into his mic like he’s introducing royalty. “My wife.”
The room vibrates at that word—wife—like a pack of bloodhounds hearing the crinkle of a treat bag, followed by excited murmurs.
“See, you’re already better at this than me.” He gives my hand an encouraging squeeze, speaking to the room. “Did you hear the applause after she said her name? Nobody clapped when I said mine.”
The pressroom laughs, and so do I, because it’s impossible not to when Maverick decides to charm.
I lean forward and speak again. “Don’t encourage him,” I warn. “If you laugh at his jokes, he’ll never stop.”
“I’m hilarious,” he says, deadpan.
“You’re something, that is true,” I mutter, which gets another ripple of laughter.
This is bonkers. I thought I’d be eaten alive by this crowd, but it seems Maverick and I have an uncanny ability to tilt the atmosphere, to make it feel less like a firing squad and more like a dinner table where he’s holding court. I’m part of the act now . . .
One brave reporter calls out over the din, “Annabelle, how did our guy propose?”
Our guy . . .
I blink. “Oh. Um—he didn’t until our official wedding.”
Whispers.
Maverick throws his head back, laughing.
I swat his arm. “Why are you laughing? You’re the one who proposed at the altar!”
He leans toward the crowd, conspiratorial. “She basically proposed to me.”
“I did not!” But I also don’t want to blurt out: We Got Drunk and Woke up Married! I can’t say that. Can I?
Instead of giving them the dirty lack of details, I smile sweetly. “No, sorry to disappoint, there was no surprise hot-air balloon ride or fireworks or an arbor of flowers. It was simple. We were surrounded by friends and skipped straight to the good part.”
Maverick clasps his hands together. “Shocking, innit, given my flair for the dramatic?”
I roll my eyes. “He’s way more dramatic than I am.”
“Yeah?” someone asks. “In what way?”
Oh shit. Did I just walk onto a land mine?
I clear my throat. “Um. Let’s me just say . . . nobody cries harder at movies than this guy.” I point at him with my thumbs, giant grin on my face, and hope he doesn’t mind my teasing in a room full of media.
Maverick snaps his head toward me, wide eyed, and blurts, “That was one time!” into the microphone.
“Three times.” I hold up my fingers. “Especially the Pixar movie with the dog.” Whatever it’s called.
“Do not bring up the dog movie.” He winks. “That dog deserved better, am I right?”
More laughter. “When are you due?”
He leans forward. “Not for a while.”
Ah good—he’s not giving specific details. “We’re excited.”
“Do we know if it’s a girl or a boy?”
I shake my head. “Nope—not yet.”
“You planning on finding out?” one of the female reporters asks.
Beside me, Callum nods. “Damn right we are . . .” Then he stands, tugging me up with him. “All right, folks. That’s all for today. We’ve got lives to live and cribs to build.”
The reporters shout more questions, but the agent cuts it off, ushering us toward the side door. My heels click against the floor, Maverick’s hand warm at the small of my back as flashes pop behind us.
The second the door closes and the noise muffles, I sag against the wall, exhaling. “Holy crap.”
“You killed it.” He grins, that boyish, heart-stopping grin.
“I rambled.”
“Nope, they’re in love with you too.”