Chapter 4 Maverick
maverick
. . .
One week.
She’ll be here in a week, and I’m starting to impulsively clean my house like a freak.
I mutter to myself as I scrub harder, “It’s the only thing I can control.”
That one word takes me back to that day: the cold sting of antiseptic in the ambulance’s back, the metallic smell of blood in the air, and the blaring sirens that rattled my teeth.
Mama’s face was pale, her lips tinged blue, her hand slack and lifeless in mine, no matter how tightly I held on.
Her skin had already grown cool, and I remember pressing my thumb into the soft spot of her palm, thinking that if I pushed hard enough, she’d wake up and we’d continue our conversation.
She didn’t.
I was right there, front row, for the worst moment of my life, and I couldn’t stop a damn thing. I couldn’t slow the clock, couldn’t control her breathing, couldn’t trade my lungs for hers.
Powerless, useless is what I felt that day.
When her house grew silent with her perfume still faintly lingering in the hallways, I grabbed a rag. I cleaned the kitchen until my shoulders ached, the lemon cleaner pricking my nose until it was all I could smell.
I scrubbed until my hands cracked and bled, until my skin was raw from bleach, because at least then something gave way under my grip.
At least then the mess vanished if I worked hard enough. At least then I got to decide how it ended.
Shaking off those thoughts, I refocus on the bathroom counter. My arm moves in steady circles, cloth in hand, even though the surface has been gleaming for the past half hour.
The lemon-scented cleaner clings to the air, stinging my nose and mixing with the quiet churn in my gut. Lemon cleaner, it’s weird, really, but ever since my mama died, it’s the only cleaner I can use.
My chest pulses with a constant, restless rhythm. My heart continues racing, and my mind isn’t far behind. I’m spiraling again, not about my mama, but about my career.
No one really explains how the spotlight affects you—those interviews, the game-day crowds, the stadium noise, or the cameras. How the limelight seizes you, rewires your instincts, and forces you to evaluate every word, move, and moment of your life based on how it will be perceived.
At first, it’s simple.
You smile, play your role, and become whatever version of yourself they want to see on a billboard. You say the right things, make the crowd laugh, and let them believe you’re perfect.
But it doesn’t take long before faking it and reality begin to distort themselves. Before you can’t tell where the persona ends and you begin.
The pressure you feel in your jaw when you clench too hard during another press conference, the flickering in your chest when the crowd cheers, and when the moment no longer feels like yours.
You get used to being watched at every waking moment in your public life. Then you start needing it, craving the attention that comes with it. And somewhere along the way, I lost track of who I was off the field, when no one was watching. When the helmet came off, the lights went out.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and stare a moment too long. I try to fix my hair, slick it back, then mess it up again—nothing feels right. My jaw is tight, and my eyes look tired. I don’t resemble the guy on the magazine covers; I don’t even look like the guy on the field.
Turning my attention back to the sink, I start scrubbing again, hoping it’ll help me breathe. The counter’s already spotless, but the repetition feels safer than silence.
From my bed, Cupcake lifts her head, blinking slowly as she slobbers all over my slippers.
Damn it.
Just as I drop the towel and lean against the edge of the sink, my heart pounds in a rhythm I can’t slow down with my breathing, and the sharp vibration of my phone cuts through the quiet.
The screen lights up.
Amelia
Don’t make me regret coming out there.
Fuck.
I walk downstairs and pace through the kitchen, then the living room, back again in a loop. Maybe movement will shake the nerves loose. I should sit down, eat, and probably drink some water before I pass out from being dramatic.
“Ughhhhh, why do I never have my shit together!”
I groan, yanking open the fridge, and stare blankly at a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, half-eaten Chinese food, and Cupcake’s specialty dog food.
My head’s fucking spinning.
No matter how many laps I run around this damn house, it doesn’t slow down.
And this isn’t just about impressing a woman.
It’s not about charm, swagger, or pretending I’ve got my shit together; it’s about proving something.
To her, sure, but mostly to myself.
I still care. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can be more than a walking disaster with a killer arm and a nice smile.
My phone rings, interrupting my spiral.
I glance at the screen, and my stomach drops.
Maggie.
I answer with zero confidence. “Please don’t scream at me.”
Her voice is sharp. “Put a shirt on and get to the stadium. Now.”
“I’m... sorry?”
“The sponsors want a meeting,” she snaps, “they’re nervous. The photos from VYCE hit every major outlet, and apparently, the NFL isn’t thrilled with your hobby of getting dry-humped by strangers on camera.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I thought we agreed that was just a very intense hug—”
“Coach Mike is pissed, again. They want a call with all of us. Today. You miss this, we’re fucked. Understand?”
“Can I reschedule?”
“No, Maverick. You cannot reschedule your sponsors.”
“Shit.”
“Yes,” she snaps, “shit, indeed.”
She hangs up.
I drop my phone on the counter and drag both hands down my face. I’ve got approximately forty-five minutes to get my ass rebranded as a human being.
This is fine.
Everything’s fine.
I grab my keys, trip over a sandal that absolutely shouldn’t be there, and yell—“CUPCAKE, IF I DON’T COME BACK, DELETE MY SEARCH HISTORY.”
She barks once, then goes back to chewing on the molding.
Fuckkk.
I lunge for the door, nearly rip off the handle, and burst outside. Gravel slides beneath my boots as I dash across the driveway, jam the key into the lock, and fling the door open so forcefully it rattles on its hinges.
Cupcake’s tiny face peers out the window from inside the house, ears perked.
My sweet angel girl, I hate leaving her.
I slam the door, start the engine— it roars to life, loud enough to wake the entire block. My knee hits the steering column, my elbow bumps the door, but I shift into reverse anyway, tires kicking up rocks as I speed off.
My heart pounds, and my pulse buzzes in my ears. My sponsors are waiting to talk to me, probably going to chew my ass out, but at least I have a great ass. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror, my blonde hair’s a mess, fuck.
“You got this, Mav,” I mutter to myself, gripping the wheel. “The worst that can happen is Maggie screams at me, and my sponsors back out.”
I’m fine, we’re fine.
I slam the Bronco into gear, roar down the open road, and floor it toward the stadium—late, sweating, but determined to walk in as if I had planned it this way.
Sunlight bleeds through the clouds, casting rays of yellow on the slow crawl of traffic. My fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel as my heart races in my chest, making me nauseous.
I should be used to the pressure, performance, and walking into rooms where everyone expects me to be louder than life and twice as charming.
But lately, I don’t feel like myself.
The public expects me, Maverick, to be the funny guy, the crowd favorite, the touchdown-throwing, quote-dropping wildcard, but it’s starting to feel more like a costume I can’t take off.
And I’m exhausted.
I pull into the structure and throw my Bronco into park; my stomach coiling with nerves. I wipe my hands on my jeans as I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ve been here before. I’ve pushed through injuries, national scrutiny, and an ex-girlfriend who tried to sell my boxers on eBay.
I can handle this.
Pausing, I take a deep breath as I push through the large glass doors, and everyone’s eyes meet mine.
Coach Mike stands against the large bay window, arms crossed, jaw tight with a permanent scowl etched between his brows.
Maggie’s seated at the head of the long table, her tablet in front of her and murder in her eyes.
The screen on the wall glows with four boxes—sponsors, already logged in and frowning.
I slip into the seat, intertwining my fingers, and set them on my lap.
No one smiles.
“Maverick,” one of the reps says, adjusting his earpiece. “Let’s be clear. We’re concerned.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
“You’ve been a valuable asset, but your recent behavior has shifted public perception.”
Another rep chimes in, “You’re not just an athlete, you’re a brand. And right now, that brand seems unstable.”
I force a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Look, I know I’ve made some noise lately, I’m working on it. Fast.”
Maggie’s jaw tics, but she doesn’t correct me.
Small miracles.
“Define ‘working on it,’” the man says, with a serious tone.
I glance at Maggie, then at Coach Mike. “I’m cutting out distractions. I’ve got a plan. I’ve-”
“He’s seeing someone,” Maggie cuts in.
Technically, it’s a lie.
But I run with it.
“She’s not involved in the industry, not seeking fame, and she’ll hold me accountable.” I finally say.
A woman narrows her eyes. “We’ll need to see a shift. Immediately.”
Coach Mike finally speaks, his voice commanding. “You screw up again, I’ll bench you. I don’t care how many fucking jerseys you sell.”
I let out a slow breath, running my fingers through my hair.
Maggie crouches down, whispering in my ear. “Start going out with this girl, let the paparazzi get a whiff.”
I’m slouched in the corner stool, sulking, with my ankle kicked up on the seat across from me, and my fingers wrapped around a half-empty glass of bourbon.
I came straight here to drink away my sorrows like a little bitch.
“Refill?” Reed asks, his voice low and gravelly as he slides in behind the bar, his tattooed knuckles resting against the wooden counter.
“Unless you’ve got liquid self-respect on tap, I’ll take another,” I mutter, tossing back what’s left in my glass and slamming it down for dramatic effect.
Reed snorts and pours. “You know, most people deal with career crises in therapy. You come here, however, expecting me, your youngest brother, to fix everything.”
Before I can snap back at him, Carter and Catalina walk in. I roll my eyes as her loud voice echoes through the bar.
She’s wearing a lavender crop top and high-waisted jeans, her signature bow laced through her brown hair. Carter’s got his black cowboy hat tilted low, his arm around her waist with this twinkle he’s had in his eye since he met her.
I want a twinkle with someone.
They slide into the stools next to mine as if there aren’t any other empty spots they could sit in.
I’m already on edge, and as soon as Carter sits down, I hear him speaking to Catalina.
“You know you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, darlin’? My pretty wife.” Carter says as he caresses Catalina’s face.
“Oh my god,” I groan loudly, dragging a hand down my face. “Do you two ever shut up?”
Carter glares at me as he kisses Catalina on the forehead, flipping me off.
“You’re just mad no one’s calling you beautiful,” Catalina says sweetly, her lashes fluttering with mock innocence.
I turn to Reed, desperate. “Tell them this is a bar, not their honeymoon suite.”
Reed’s already shaking his head, drying a glass with his usual blank stare. “Y’all figure this out on your own. I’m working.”
“I’m being emotionally waterboarded,” I grumble, reaching for my phone.
Maverick
You busy?
Maverick
Also, do I look like someone with a dirty image to you? Be honest.
“I heard about your meeting.” Carter finally says.
“How the fuck did you hear about my meeting?” I shoot back.
“Reed,” Carter says, brushing a strand of Catalina’s hair off her cheek.
Catalina giggles into his shoulder.
I flip him off, glaring at Reed.
Reed shrugs and slides another bourbon my way without a word.
I text Amelia again.
Maverick
Wanna get matching tattoos and pretend we’re stable?
Her typing bubbles appear.
Then disappear.
She finally replies.
Amelia
Bite me.
God help me, I smile.
First real one all damn day.