Chapter 11 Amelia #2
He keeps trying to close the space between us. His arm brushes mine, or his hand swings just a little too close.
I sidestep, walking faster ahead of him.
“You always walk this fast?” he says, catching up to me in two strides. “It feels a little personal.”
“I just have long legs,” I lie, scurrying ahead again.
A throaty laugh escapes him. “You definitely do not, pipsqueak.”
“All this talk about you being the best quarterback in the NFL…” I say, looking over my shoulder. “Better make sure you keep up.”
“Keep up?” Maverick says as he grins, shamelessly. “Baby, I’m just trying not to get distracted watching your ass sway in your leggings.”
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder, again. “First of all, can you not. Second of all, you literally invited yourself on this trip.”
He smirks. “Yeah, I wanna spend time with my hot wife.”
“I’m not your wife.”
“In my eyes, you are,” he whispers under his breath.
I pretend I didn’t hear that, and just as I’m about to rip him a new one, camera shutters start clicking rapidly at us.
Shit.
Flashbulbs pop, as cameras begin swarming us. My stomach twists, but I keep my chin high, even when the crowd swallows us whole.
“There he is!” someone shouts, and the mob closes tighter.
“Maverick Hayes, tell us about the wedding!” another voice bellows, the mic jabbing toward his mouth.
My spine stiffens, and I can feel Maverick’s hand slide to the small of my back, a silent command to keep moving.
Another voice yells through the crowd.
“Kind of a quick one, huh? Is she pregnant?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as my nails dig into my palms, the cameras flashing faster.
I try to twist away, but Maverick tugs me in closer, practically tucking me under his arm.
And then, like gasoline to the fire, another pap yells.
“What’s with all the tattoos? Not great for your image, man.”
Each jab gets louder than the last, each one aimed at tearing me apart without even knowing my name.
I should cut my losses now and walk away before I forget that none of this is real, and before I start wishing it was.
Because Maverick Hayes might be able to charm an entire stadium, but he can’t save me from myself.
Maverick stops walking. Just stops, with the mob stumbling around him.
His jaw tightens, blue eyes fixed on the guy who said it. For a moment, the street goes silent except for the click of camera shutters.
“She’s my image,” he growls, voice low and rough enough to rattle my ribs.
My throat tightens as I look up at him, and for one terrifying heartbeat, I believe the words he’s saying.
Someone at the back of the pack laughs. “She looks more like a groupie than a wife.”
His arm wraps around my waist as his hand presses against my lower stomach, pulling me directly into him as he pushes through the growing crowd of paparazzi.
“Watch your mouth, she’s my wife,” Maverick says, as his hand shoots out, shoving the paparazzi’s camera aside, towering over the small man who now looks like he regrets what he said.
The cameras keep clicking, flashes of white burning my eyes.
Maverick’s hand digs into my side as he shifts his body in front of me, cutting off the flash of another camera. His other hand flies up, palm forward, stopping one guy from stepping in any closer.
“I said back the fuck up!” he snaps, “you got your photos, now get the hell out of my way!”
They keep pushing forward relentlessly, trying to get around him for a better shot of me. Maverick moves ahead, physically shoving one of the cameras out of his face. The guy stumbles, but Maverick doesn’t stop.
He drives us onward, pulling me with him like I’m something he refuses to let anyone touch.
His arm stays wrapped around my waist, his body acting as a shield from it all—the stares, the flashes, and the noise.
Maverick doesn’t look back or say another word.
We managed to turn into a narrow alley between two shops, and the noise fades behind us, turning into a dull murmur of voices.
There’s a gentle hum from a vending machine nearby, and a light aroma of fresh green tea.
But there’s no more cameras.
It’s just him and me.
He finally stops walking, his chest rising and falling as he releases me, his fingers dragging slightly against my waist before they fall away.
“You okay?” he asks, brushing a stray hair from my face.
I swallow, trying to steady myself. “I’m okay, that was kind of intense.”
He nods, jaw clenched. “Yeah, they can be real shitheads.”
I glance at him. “Clearly.”
“Do you still want ice cream?”
“Yeah, but I’m not going back out there with those zoo animals.”
His eyes meet mine. “That’s okay, dollface, I’ll order you whatever flavor you want back at your apartment.”
My chest squeezes with the familiarity of being spoiled by someone, but I quickly push those feelings down.
He says it like it’s nothing, like wanting to do small gestures for me is the most natural thing in the world.
And that’s the problem.
Because all men love-bomb you, shower you in pretty words until you believe them. And once you fall for their shit, they show you their true colors. They break every piece of your self-confidence and shred your heart until there’s nothing left.
I stare at him for a moment. His blue eyes searching mine, waiting for an answer. I didn’t even realize how close he was standing in front of me.
I step back, clearing my throat.
“Okay, quarterback, let’s get some ice cream.” I finally answer.
He lets out a throaty laugh, and the sound is pure and unfiltered, something I can strangely listen to all day.
Amelia, we don’t do this, remember? Knock it off.
“Let’s go then, vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles is calling my name.”
I snort to myself, a man of his stature eating sprinkles is comical.
Maverick pulls out his phone and orders us an Uber back to my apartment, his thumb swiping across the screen like it’s something to focus on instead of everything that just happened.
“Our Uber is pulling up, ready, dollface?”
I glance at him, hesitating, my hand twitching at my side.
I’m so fucking nervous to step back into the crowd. My chest feels tight, like I can’t get a full breath, and every flash of a camera makes my skin crawl.
The voices around us blur into deafening static, and for a second, I feel like I might break down right here on the sidewalk.
It’s impulsive, reaching for his hand, but I push aside my feelings about my past and do it.
Slowly, I reach over and slide my fingers into his.
He doesn’t say anything, but just as quickly, his strong calloused hand wraps around mine and squeezes.
I keep my eyes forward, refusing to look at him, even as my heart flutters and my throat goes dry.
We start walking back toward the main street, toward the glow, noise, and foot traffic.
The Uber pulls up quickly, its headlights casting a low glow over the curb as the car slows to a stop.
Maverick doesn’t hesitate, stepping forward and opening the door for me. His hand finds the small of my back as he guides me in, his fingers pressing just enough to remind me he’s still there.
I don’t say anything as I slide into the seat, my skin buzzing where he touched me, trying not to wonder why part of me doesn’t want him to move it.
Our hands are no longer intertwined, but I can still feel the ghost of his fingers between mine.
And I don’t know why I already miss it.