Chapter 16 Maverick
maverick
. . .
Ihaven’t been able to shake the feeling since last night.
How her breath stuttered against my chest, or how her voice broke when she asked me to hold her. Since I wrapped myself around her and felt her relax into me, as if I were home.
I’m fucking spiraling, and not even the blinding sun or the roar of the crowd lined up against the fences can shake it off me.
It’s the first open practice of the season, and I’m supposed to be focused on getting into drills, impressing the sponsors, and staying in the game.
But all I can fucking think about is the way her fingers clutched the bedsheets in her sleep, the soft little sound she made when I whispered, “Night, dollface.”
I’m so fucked.
Coach Mike yells out instructions with his clipboard in hand, like he’s ready to start throwing it at people. I jog onto the field, cleats biting into the turf, pads heavy on my shoulders, and sweat is already building at the base of my neck.
A blur of dark green and white passes my periphery as I hit the line of scrimmage, and I’m scanning the crowd like an absolute fool.
My eyes look through the crowd of hungry fans who have been eagerly waiting for football season, but none of that fucking matters because the one person I’m looking for isn’t here.
Until I spot her in the crowd.
She’s far back behind the press, her tattooed arms crossed over her chest. She looks stunning as ever, of course. She could walk around in a trash bag, and she’d be the most beautiful woman on the planet.
Holy shit.
She’s wearing my jersey, tied at her waist with torn black jeans, and her effortlessly messy hair cascading in long waves past her shoulders.
My chest seizes at the sight of her in the bleachers, watching me at my first practice of the season.
I can’t fucking help it, call it stupid, but I don’t care. I raise my hands and form a heart over my chest.
The crowd loses it.
A wave of phones shoots up, their cameras clicking shutters throughout the stadium.
She shuffles down the bleachers and walks onto the field next to Coach Mike, away from the crazed woman losing their mind over the fact that I’m off the market.
“Jesus Christ,” Marcus mutters, jogging up beside me with a smirk. “You’ve gone soft. What’s next, matching tattoos?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter, eyes still glued to her.
He whistles. “Fuck, she’s hot, but damn, man. All those tattoos? Looks tacky, don’t you think?”
My body tenses.
I turn slowly toward him, heat blazing in my stare.
“Watch it, shitbag.” I snap.
He holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. No disrespect. When the fuck did you even get married, bro?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Marcus snorts and runs back to the field, getting ready for formation.
I follow him, jogging back onto the field, getting ready to put on a show for my girl.
“Alright, Mustangs!” Coach hollers from the sideline. “You’re mic’d, and you’re being filmed. Don’t fuck it up.”
I toss my mouthguard in and smirk at Marcus. “Ready to embarrass yourself on national TV?”
He rolls his eyes. “Just don’t overthrow the damn ball trying to impress your goth wife.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter as I jog to the huddle.
The whistle blows, and the line spreads wide. I clap once, loud enough for the whole damn field to hear, and yell out, “Let’s go, Mustangs! Daddy’s home!”
Groans and laughter ripple through the huddle.
“Jesus Christ,” Davis mutters under his breath, shaking his head as he crouches into formation.
“Can we revoke his mic privileges?” Marcus adds, stretching his neck.
“Y’all are just mad because the camera loves me,” I fire back with a grin, adjusting my helmet and scanning the bleachers. “And my face card never declines.”
JP jogs up next to me. “Yo, you ever think about how rocks are, like, alive?”
I blink at him. “Rocks?”
“Yeah, man. Like, they’ve been around forever. They’ve seen everything. They’re basically time travelers.”
Pierce groans from the other side of the huddle. “Bro, it’s literally day one and you’re already talking about your damn rocks again?”
JP shrugs. “I’m just saying, last week I bought this geode—”
“Oh my God,” I cut in, laughing. “You need a girlfriend, JP.”
He points at me, dead serious. “Um, no. I need a bigger shelf. That geode is the size of a football.”
I stare at him, shaking my head. “You’re telling me you spent NFL money on a football-sized rock?”
“It’s not just a rock, Hayes. It’s art. It sparkles.”
“You sparkle when you sweat, wanna pay me two grand to sit on your shelf?” Pierce adds.
The whole huddle cracks up as JP flips him off and looks back at me. “You don’t get it, man. Rocks are forever. They’ll outlive all of us.”
I can’t stop laughing, helmet bobbing in my hand. “Jesus Christ. First day of practice and our wideout’s already lost his damn mind. Mic’s picking this up, by the way.”
JP grins, unfazed. “Good, maybe I’ll start a geology podcast.”
Coach yells the next play, “Trips Right, 90 Laser Z Out!”
We break the huddle.
“Let’s give the people a show,” I smirk, slapping JP on the helmet as we line up.
He snorts. “Try not to pull a hammy showing off, Grandpa.”
I fake stretch my hamstring and call out, “RAZOR LASER! ON ONE!”
The crowd cheers.
I take three quick steps back, feel the pressure on my right side, and roll left, dodging a defensive lineman with just enough juice to make it pretty. I spin with full dramatic flair, set my feet, and send the ball spiraling thirty yards with a perfect flick of my wrist.
Marcus grabs it midair, jukes the safety, and sprints straight into the end zone.
“Touchdown, baby!” I shout, arms in the air, jogging down the field. “Who’s your quarterback?!”
The bleachers erupt.
Reporters scribble and snap pictures of our first successful practice of the season.
Marcus jogs back, shaking his head. “You got butter on your damn shoes, Hayes. Slippery as hell.”
“That’s not butter, that’s talent,” I grin, popping off my helmet. “And a touch of divine intervention.”
Davis rolls his eyes. “God really said, let me humble this man, then forgot.”
“You love showing off for your little wife, don’t you?” JP teases as we jog back.
“What’s next, you gonna propose again on the jumbotron?”
I wipe the sweat off my brow with the bottom of my shirt, flashing a full view of my abs. “What can I say? Gotta remind the world that I’m married to a stunner.”
Practice ends with a final sharp whistle, and the boys break formation, some already tugging off their helmets, others high-fiving and shouting like we didn’t just run drills for two hours under a heatwave.
None of it registers.
Because all I see is her.
Amelia stands near the sideline, just past Coach Mike, her arms still crossed. She shifts her weight to one hip, my jersey knotted at the waist. Her expression is unreadable, but I feel her eyes on me, and fuck, it does something to me.
I start walking toward her, chest still heaving, adrenaline humming under my skin like a second pulse. People are shouting my name, I hear JP yelling something crude behind me, and Pierce laughing so hard he wheezes, but I block it all out.
My steps slow when I get close. The turf crunches beneath my cleats, and Amelia tilts her head slightly, like she already knows I’m about to do something stupid.
I stop in front of her, close enough to smell the sweetness of her perfume. Her brows lift, like she’s silently daring me to behave.
So, of course, I don’t.
Because it’s me, did you expect anything else?
I slide my arm around her waist as the other grips her thighs, and in one swift motion, I scoop her into my arms. Her body lifts easily against mine, and a little gasp leaves her mouth as her hands instinctively clutch my shoulders.
“Maverick!” she hisses.
“You looked like you needed a better view,” I murmur, a slow grin tugging at my mouth. She’s rigid for half a second, caught off guard, before her body softens in my hold.
Her scent fills my lungs, a blend of coconut shampoo with hints of vanilla and citrus. My hands flex slightly, just enough to feel the curve of her waist through the fabric.
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“For show, dollface,” I whisper, “Gotta keep the illusion alive, right?”
She exhales shakily, her fingers tightening against my shoulders for a split second, and then the flash of a camera goes off. Dozens more follow, the crowd absolutely losing their minds, and I know we’ve just made every headline in the country.
I set her down gently, letting her body slide against mine a second longer than I should. Her cheeks are flushed—whether from the heat or me, I don’t know.
But she doesn’t push me away.
She looks up, unreadable again. “You’re ridiculous.”
I’m sunk into the couch with my arm stretched along the back cushions, a hockey game flickers across the TV.
My attention’s locked on the whirlwind of players skating on the ice when her voice cuts through, taking me out of focus.
“What are you watching?” she asks, curling her legs beneath her.
I turn to face her, staring at her as I grin. “Hockey game, dollface.” I jab a finger toward the TV, where a guy in a black jersey with red and white stripes barrels across the rink. “That’s Gunnar Hayze, he plays for the Seattle Stags. Got an ass on him.”
Her nose wrinkles, lips twitching. “What the fuck,” she mumbles.
I chuckle and turn my eyes back to the screen, watching him glide through the rink. “They call him the Bulldozer.”
“And why’s that?” she asks, her head tilted, staring at me in skepticism.
Right on cue, the crowd on TV erupts, cheers deafening as Gunnar slams an opponent into the glass with bone-rattling force. I smirk and glance at her.
“That’s why, baby. That man is a unit.”
She squints, pursing her lips. “What’s your obsession with hockey? You’re a football player.”
“Well, dollface, if you must ask, I’m shit at iceskating but he’s amazing at it, and I wanna be him.”
She rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to her phone.
I’m about to say something stupid again, and try to move closer to her when—
BANG.
The front door bursts open, and the moment I’m met with those familiar chestnut eyes, I regret ever giving them a key to my place.
“What the f—”
Catalina storms in like a psychopath in her bedazzled boots, her brown waves bouncing with each step, eyes blazing with heat as she points a manicured finger straight at me.
“??Estás loco!? ?Tú y ella están casados? (Are you crazy?! You and her are married?!) What the fuck, Maverick?! And you didn’t even care to invite me to the wedding?!”
No clue what the hell she just said, help.
Before I can even stand up to defend myself, she’s on me like a wild ape. Her fists grip the collar of my cotton T-shirt, yanking me forward until I’m nose-to-nose with pure Latina fury. Her glare burns hotter than the Tennessee sun, and for someone so tiny, she’s strong as shit.
“Okay—ow-okay!” I sputter, arms half-raised in surrender. “Catalina, honey, you’re gonna rip my shirt, and this is one of my good ones.”
Behind her, Carter leans casually in the doorway, arms crossed, a smug-ass smirk on his face.
“We saw it all over the news, you really think my wife wouldn’t find out?” he drawls, clearly enjoying the show.
“Yeah, Maverick, I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Catalina screams in my face, making my ears ring.
“I knew it,” Carter says with a smirk. “You’re too obvious, following Amelia around like a lost puppy.”
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “Unbelievable. A little backup would’ve been nice.”
Carter snorts. “Backup? No way. You dug that hole, little brother. I’m just here to watch you fall in.”
I turn back to Catalina, who’s now rounded on Amelia. “And you!” she points. “You didn’t tell me anything?!”
Amelia’s trying, really trying, not to laugh. Her hands are covering her mouth, shoulders trembling, but when Catalina shoots her a death glare, she squeaks, “I-I was gonna—”
“No. Bathroom. Now,” Catalina commands, dragging her off by the wrist.
And then I’m alone, with my dickhead of an older brother.
Carter steps past me, smacking me upside the head as he goes. “Thanks for the invite, fucker.”
I rub my head, glaring at him. “Do you guys ever knock?”
Carter ignores me, wanders over to the fridge, and grabs one of my beers without asking.
“Is she always this dramatic?” I ask, nodding toward the bathroom where muffled Spanish threats echo through the walls.
He takes a sip. “You should see her when she’s pregnant.”
My jaw drops. “Wait—what?!”
He grins. “Kidding. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “Are you surprised? It’s me.”
I want to tell him it’s fake, but I also want to live in our little bubble just a bit longer.
He watches me for a beat, expression softening ever so slightly. “You’re fucked, aren’t you?”
“Completely.”
The bathroom door swings open, and Catalina emerges looking slightly less murderous. Amelia trails behind her, pink-cheeked and avoiding eye contact.
Carter claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck, lover boy.”
And with that, the chaos duo vanishes back out the door as abruptly as they came.
Amelia sits back down on the couch, a full cushion away from me.
I glance over.
She glances back.
Her lips twitch. “You okay, husband?”
I groan. “Call me that again.”
“Not a chance.”
And even with the chaos, the yelling, and Carter drinking all my beer, I can’t stop the grin from tugging at my mouth.
Because, for one brief second, she called me ‘husband’ again.
And God help me, I liked it.