Chapter 3 Maverick
maverick
. . .
She said no.
So basically, I’m fucked.
Fuck It Up by Disco Lines blares through the stadium speakers.
Sweat trickles down the back of my neck as my cleats dig in the turf, shifting on the line, eyeing JP across the field. He’s bouncing on his toes like he’s waiting for me to fuck up.
We’re in pre-season, we gotta stay focused.
Overhead, the sun is high and punishing, baking the aluminum bleachers, making the whole stadium shimmer with heat waves. The sharp scent of that strange, lingering smell of turf rubber that clings to your skin no matter how hard you scrub.
Welcome to the NFL, baby.
“Let’s rerun it,” I bark, gesturing my hands at JP. “You’d better move this time, rookie.”
JP flips me off and grins. “Don’t trip on your ego, Hayes.”
I bark a laugh, tugging at my helmet, huffing as I jog back into formation.
I’ve been spiraling since Amelia hung up on me, and she didn’t text me back.
Goddamn it.
I hike the ball and get into motion, adrenaline rushing. My body reacts to this play as if it were muscle memory.
Five-step drop. Scan. Plant. Fire.
The ball cuts through the air, smacking into JP’s hands just as he dives across the field.
Cheers explode from the guys.
“WOOOO!” Pierce yells from behind me. “Mav’s finally focused!”
I grin, trying to keep my breathing steady.
“Tell your mom I’ll be focused tonight, too,” I shoot back, slapping JP on the ass as I jog past.
The sideline erupts.
“You wish you could handle my mom!” Pierce shouts.
“Bro,” JP groans, “Mav is so fucking full of himself.”
I turn around, still jogging backward. “And yet, I’m the one your sister follows on Instagram.”
Laughter erupts between my teammates.
This is it, this is the only place my brain shuts the fuck up.
No pressure. No headlines.
Just brotherhood, shit talking, and the adrenaline in my veins.
Whistle blows, play’s dead, and everyone’s jogging back to reset. I’m supposed to be reviewing coverages, thinking about throwing mechanics, doing all the boring quarterback shit.
But my brain?
Mmmmmm, my brain is telling me to fuck around.
You may be the quarterback, Hayes, but let’s show these fuckers you can still tackle.
JP’s jogging backwards a few yards ahead, cocky grin plastered across his face, helmet bobbing.
Let’s take this fucker out.
I take off in a dead sprint.
“Don’t you da—” JP starts, but it’s too late.
I lower my shoulder and boom, we’re both on the turf, cleats flying. He hits the ground with a grunt, grass shooting up around us. I land square on top of him, straddling his waist, smacking his helmet as he lies there.
“QB1, baby!” I roar, throwing my arms up. My helmet tilts back, sweat dripping down my face, but I don’t care, I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
JP groans, struggling under me. “Get the fuck off me, Hayes!”
I lean down, still cackling, my hands braced on his chest plate. “You like that, baby? Me straddling you like this?”
The entire field loses it.
Pierce drops his helmet, doubled over, smacking the turf as he wheezes. A couple of linemen are on their knees, howling. Even the trainers on the sideline are howling with laughter.
JP’s face is red as hell inside his facemask. He shoves at me, but he’s laughing too. “This is harassment! Help!”
“You’ve dreamt of this moment,” I taunt, shaking his pads while straddling him like a jackass. “Dreamt of Daddy Hayes riding you into the dirt.”
“Dreamt of you throwing me the ball, and not missing like a fucking old man!” He finally gets leverage and shoves me hard. I roll off, landing on my back in the grass, my arms spread wide.
“Worth it,” I wheeze, grass stuck to my sweaty face.
Pierce jogs over, shaking his head with a grin that says he’s loving every second. “Bro, what is wrong with you? Quarterbacks don’t tackle. You’re supposed to be protected.”
I sit up, grinning feral, pointing at JP. “This quarterback does. QB1, baby. Versatile as fuck.”
JP’s still brushing dirt off his pads, chuckling under his breath. “Swear to God, Hayes, one of these days I’m putting you on your ass in front of everyone.”
I waggle my brows, still laughing. “And when you do, I’ll scream your name from the fifty-yard line.”
The team erupts again, guys hooting and hollering, talking their shit.
I fucking live for this, the sportsmanship, the brotherhood of it all.
It was going fine and dandy until my eyes landed on her.
Maggie.
She stalks across the field, her fiery orange curls bouncing with every step. She’s dressed in a steel grey pantsuit, with her phone clenched in her manicured hand, and her eyes fixed on me as she stomps to the sideline.
Fuck.
Coach Mike notices her, too, and rolls his eyes as she approaches him.
They exchange a few tight words.
Coach snaps his neck towards me, brows furrowed, and the vein on his forehead’s about to explode.
“MAVERICK!”
I freeze mid-laugh.
Every guy on the field goes dead silent.
I sigh, toss my helmet to the ground, and jog toward the sideline, ignoring Pierce’s whispered “RIP” as I pass.
“Hey, guys,” I say, patting Coach Mike on the back. “What’s cooking?
They both give me heated glares as they gesture to follow them back into the Coach’s office.
Coach Mike’s office smells like burnt coffee and stale vanilla scones. The fluorescent lights faintly hum overhead, casting a harsh glare over the framed jerseys on the wall.
Jerry Rice, Jim Brown, Lawrence Taylor, Joe Montana, Tom Brady, and Walter Payton; legends of the game.
Coach is already pacing, and Maggie’s standing beside his mahogany desk, with her tablet in hand.
“Mav,” Coach starts, “want to explain this?”
He gestures at the screen Maggie’s holding up as she scrolls past images of my past couple of weekends.
Me shirtless in a hot tub, surrounded by a carousel of women.
Me leaving a club at three in the morning.
Me flipping off paparazzi while holding a bottle of Mezcal, stumbling out of Honky Tonk Central in Nashville.
I squint. “...That last one’s not real.”
Maggie doesn’t blink. “That one was taken two nights ago.”
Oh.
“Shit.”
Coach glares.
Maggie sighs through her nose. “We’ve got brands pulling back. Gatorade is pausing its campaign, and there’s speculation about who you’re dating, and some fans are convinced you’re sleeping with your tight end, JP.”
I blink. “...Honestly? Not the worst rumor I’ve heard.”
“Maverick.”
I look at her, flashing her a toothy grin.
She glares at me.
Shit, this is serious.
This isn’t just an annoyance in her schedule; it’s damage control. The fact that Maggie’s even here, in person, instead of yelling at me over the phone, tells me the severity of my fuck ups.
“Okay, fine,” I mutter, “I’ll lay low. No tequila, no pool parties, and I’ll delete Instagram for like… a week.”
Maggie shakes her head, slamming her tablet on the desk beside her. “You don’t need a social media cleanse! You need to look family-oriented and have stability in your mess of a life!”
I flinch at the tone of her voice.
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “We need your sponsors and good press, Maverick.”
Maggie drums her fingers on the desk, letting out a long sigh. “You need to find someone who’ll be okay with being your fake wife for the public.”
I stare at her.
“She needs to look committed to you, so the sponsors can believe you are a family man and not pull out of our multi-million dollar deal.”
I scoff. “Where the fuck am I going to find someone at this hour?”
The one person I keep trying to contact won’t talk to me.
She lifts a brow. “You’d better find someone, and fast, or your career is over.”
I blow out a slow breath, my chest tightening with each inhale.
Coach lifts his ball cap, running his palm through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Think you’ve got someone who’ll play along?”
I nod slowly.
“Oh, I have someone in mind.”
Maverick
Ameliaaaaa
Maverick
Doll faceeeeee
Maverick
Please, help me
Maverick
Do you want me on my knees
Amelia
I mean, if you want to get on your knees, then be my guest
Maverick
I’m on my knees, please help me
Amelia
Maybe
I grin to myself. Shit, she’s one tough cookie.
Cupcake lets out a small huff, unimpressed.
I shoot her a glare. “Don’t look at me like that. This is what love looks like, okay?”
She yawns, turning away, as she continues to chew on a plush football.
I stare at my phone, thumbs hovering.
My brain’s going a thousand miles an hour, but nothing sounds good enough.
I type something, delete it, and type again.
Amelia
You have three messages to convince me why I shouldn’t block you right now. Go.
I huff out a breath, and it takes everything in me not to scream into a pillow.
Okay, Hayes.
Lock in.
Maverick
1. It’s me, duh.
2. I make a kickin’ chili
3. You secretly like me.
Dot dot dot.
No response.
Ughhhhhh.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the kitchen island, with my phone clutched in both hands. I close my eyes and type what’s been sitting in my throat since the second she hung up on me.
Maverick
4. I can’t do this without you.
I stare at the screen, waiting for her to text me back in hyperspeed.
Still nothing.
I blow out a slow breath, setting my phone down on the quartz counter, and drag my hands down my face.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Cupcake scurries over and begins to chew on my ankle with her razor-sharp shark teeth.
“Ow, Cupcake!” I yelp, picking her up and setting her on my lap.
“You think she’ll say yes?” I ask.
Cupcake whines and gnaws on my knuckles.
“You’re no help.”
I set her down and drop my head to the counter, tapping my foot aimlessly on the wooden floors.
Ping.
Amelia
Fine, I’ll be there in a week.
Don’t be late.
Holy shit.
“Cupcake, your new mommy is comingggg.”
She barks, her little body wiggling with excitement. I grin, snag my keys off the counter, and bend down to scoop her up. She licks my jaw as her tail smacks my arm.
“Alright, baby girl,” I murmur, cradling her against my chest. “Let’s go see my fuckass brother.”