Chapter 22 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Game day.
Time to put on a show of being an NFL star’s fake wife.
My thoughts drift back to last night, when Maverick asked me one question.
“What do you like to do when you feel this way?”
And when I answered him and told him I love the beach, the one place that calms my feelings and my drowning thoughts about my past, he gave me directions, took me to his jet, and flew me to Moss Cove without asking any questions.
It’s strange living with a man who doesn’t put you down or gaslight you into thinking you’ve done something wrong, making it seem like you are the crazy one.
Walking on eggshells with a man you thought you loved, tiptoeing, pretending to be perfect so you wouldn’t get yelled at, begging for the bare minimum to feel appreciated by him, but it was always a fucking problem.
I scoff and push that feeling deep into the back of my mind.
I’m sitting on the sidelines, per Mavericks’ request; he specifically said he wanted to be able to see me when he’s switched in and out of the game.
Odd man he is.
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Everyone is screaming, stomping their boots, and shouting ‘Go Mustangs!’ as they show their excitement for the first game of the season.
Screams echo across the stadium in pulsating waves, vibrating through the bleachers, crawling under my skin, and sinking deep into my chest. The sun is starting to dip behind the towering lights, casting everything in dark amber.
It’s hot, but the breeze carries a sharpness, a crackle of energy that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Every seat in the stadium is full. Fans are on their feet, faces painted, dark green and white jerseys all around, holding signs, and shouting after the players.
Sitting on the sidelines is pure madness.
Reporters cluster around with massive cameras, coaches shout out plays, trainers hustle across the grass, refs blow their whistles to catch bad plays, cheerleaders wave white pom-poms with tight smiles, and the marching band thunders somewhere behind me with a bassline that rattles my ribs.
I scan the field until my eyes lock on Maverick, who’s pretty easy to spot since he’s the biggest guy there.
He’s pacing the field in full uniform, a dark green and white jersey with the number seven stretched across his broad back, shoulder pads emphasizing his already massive frame.
His helmet is under one arm, and sweat darkens the collar of his jersey.
Even with his eyes shielded by the sun, I can sense the moment he spots me.
He grins. A big, wild, boyish grin spreads across his lips. That signature Maverick look that screams cocky and heart-melting at the same time.
Right there, in front of the whole damn stadium, Maverick lifts his hands and forms a heart shape with his fingers at me, again.
I blink, feeling the blush creeping up my cheeks. I quickly take a sip of water, trying to calm my nerves.
A girl two rows ahead squeals. Somewhere behind me, someone shouts, “Look, his wife’s here!”
The crowd erupts again, this time with a different kind of energy, making my ears ring.
My mouth traitorously curls upward against my will because, damn it, he’s ridiculous and sweet.
The referee blows their whistle, signaling the start of the game. Both teams huddle in the middle of the field to begin their formations.
The center snaps the ball cleanly, and Maverick moves swiftly. His body is a blur of motion, backpedaling in perfect rhythm, his eyes scanning the field. The defense rushes toward him, but he spins out of their reach.
He throws the ball across the field with remarkable grace. It arcs high, a perfect spiral, and lands right into the hands of the wide receiver.
First down.
The crowd goes insane, the bleachers shaking from the stomping of thousands of fans.
Maverick jogs back to the huddle, but just before he turns, he looks back, just once, straight at me.
My heart skips.
He keeps going, drive after drive, pass after pass. His footwork is sharp, and his vision is lethal. He runs, dodging hits with almost arrogant precision. The first touchdown he throws has the entire stadium stomping. People chant his name, and the announcers shout over each other in the box.
But all I can think about is how, every time he looks to the sideline, he’s looking for me.
Halftime arrives.
He rips off his helmet as he jogs toward the bench, his blonde hair soaked and messy. He’s breathing hard, jersey clinging to his muscular body, while a camera crew follows behind him, trying to catch a soundbite.
He doesn’t say anything to them as he walks to the sideline, looking for me.
Without hesitation, he lifts his hands and makes that heart again—bigger this time, slower, more cocky, as if he wants everyone to see it.
My jaw drops.
Girls next to me scream as one elbow her friend and shout, “That’s literally so romantic I could die.”
I bury my face in my hands, laughing behind my fingers. I don’t even care that people are watching. I don’t care that this whole stadium thinks I’m his, even though secretly I’m not.
For a second, just a second, I allow myself to want something, even though it isn’t real.
And God, it feels good.
A referee blows the final whistle, ending the game.
The Mustangs just won their first game of the season.
Maverick stands in the middle of the field with his teammates, beaming like he owns the damn world.
You can see his passion and love for the game in his crystal blue eyes; he lives for this, but within those eyes is something he struggles with.
I notice it when reporters talk to him; he tries to be something he's not, as if he were molded to be this perfect NFL star, even though the world sees him as a fuck up, party-goer, athlete.
He briefly opened up to me at the beach, and seeing how he talked about his love for the game, but being torn about his identity and unhappiness, devastated me.
I barely get to my feet before I hear his cleats pounding across the turf toward me. Then I see him—standing taller than life, flushed with adrenaline, with his blue eyes fixed on mine.
“Amelia!” he shouts, voice hoarse from yelling plays and screaming with the boys.
Before I can react, I’m off the ground and lifted into the air. My arms fly around his neck, and he spins me once, then sets me down gently, cupping my face in those big, calloused hands.
“You were here,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against mine, grinning like a lunatic. “You actually came. I looked up and thought I was hallucinating.”
“You asked me to come,” I whisper, overwhelmed.
“I just won the first game of the season in front of my wife.” He laughs, giddy and breathless. “That’s gotta be good luck. You’re my good luck charm, dollface.”
My chest aches. How is he like this?
“Hey, Maverick! Amelia!” a voice calls.
We both turn.
A group of reporters is closing in, cameras flashing, microphones pushed forward.
“Maverick, hell of a game! You were electric tonight. How did you two meet?” one asks, tilting the mic toward us.
Maverick doesn’t hesitate. He grins and puts his arm around my waist, pulling me close. “She walked into Boots & Bourbon one night with her friends, and I swear to God, the second I saw her, I was gone.”
He looks at me like I’m the damn sunrise.
“I tried to act normal and play it cool, but I wasn’t cool at all. She was so mean to me, like feral cat energy, constantly shutting me down with every sentence.”
The reporters chuckle.
“But I didn’t care. I’ve never wanted someone more in my life. And I told myself right then—I was gonna marry that woman.”
I stare at him, heart racing. The way he speaks about our first encounter with admiration in his eyes, I know he isn’t lying.
My throat tightens.
Why would any man say that about me? Why would he still choose me after I’ve been so cold and moody with him?
I’m still reeling when another voice cuts through the crowd.
“Amelia! Amelia!” another reporter calls. “What do you have to say about all this? And how do you think your ex-husband, Jax Montgomery, feels about your sudden marriage?”
How the fuck do they know about my ex-husband?
I freeze, my spine locking up as all the blood drains from my face.
What the fuck?
I’m at a loss for words. My lips move, but silence stays. Jax was once part of a life I’ve long buried. I never mentioned his name to Maverick, nor did I want it to carry any significance.
Maverick steps between me and the camera like a damn wall. His face tightens, mouth firm, jaw clenched.
“Okay, buddy,” he snaps, eyes burning. “We’re done here.”
He shoves the mic back with the flat of his hand. “This isn’t a questionnaire. That’s my wife. You wanna talk football? Let’s talk football. But bring her ex into it again, and I’ll bury that mic in the fucking turf.”
Security personnel move in quickly, guiding the reporters away.
I don’t breathe until the flashbulbs are gone.
Maverick turns back to me, fury fading, his hand finding mine. “You okay, dollface?”
I nod slowly, still trembling. “Yeah. I just… I didn’t expect that.”
“You never have to answer for your past,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb along my jaw. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”
I swallow hard, blinking away the burn in my eyes. “You just… You always protect me.”
“Damn right I do.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, his voice lower. “I’ve got you, baby. Always.”
As the stadium lights start to dim and the crowd thins out around us, he pulls me into his arms again, like the whole world can wait.
And right now, that’s all that matters.
Maverick is stretched out on the couch, his legs splayed lazily, wearing a black tank top and gray sweatpants.
Cupcake is sprawled between his thighs, snoring softly, her little chest rising and falling like a warm, fuzzy metronome.
Rex is perched on the armrest beside him, glaring with narrowed eyes and hissing occasionally.
Maverick barely reacts anymore. “You’ve gotta stop hating me, buddy,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the cat. “This is my house, get over it.”
I smile softly from across the couch. I’m curled under a cozy throw blanket, my legs tucked in and my cheek resting on the pillow. I feel sleep pulling at my limbs, my eyes blinking slower, lashes too heavy to keep open.
Eventually, everything slips away.
“You’re always so dramatic, Amelia.”
“I didn’t cheat on you. God, why do you always assume the worst?”
“You’re lucky I even put up with this shit.”
“You think any other man would deal with you?”
His voice rises like a wave, crashing louder, crueler.
“If you weren’t so cold, maybe I’d actually want to come home.”
The walls are closing in. I can’t breathe. I try to move, but I’m stuck to the floor. His hand grips my wrist, pulling me toward him. I scream, but no sound comes out. His mouth is right next to my ear, whispering.
“You’re nothing without me.”
I wake up screaming.
I suddenly sit up, lungs struggling for air as if I were underwater. My skin is clammy with sweat, and the blanket slides off my shoulders.
Maverick appears beside me instantly, both hands gently cupping my face.
“Hey. Hey, look at me, baby. It’s okay. You’re safe,” he says softly, his voice steady but thick with concern. “You’re here with me, alright? I’ve got you.”
He called me baby again.
I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding out of sync. My hands grip the fabric of his tank as I try to ground myself.
He presses his forehead gently against mine. “It’s over. It’s just a dream, dollface. I promise. You’re not there anymore.”
My voice is barely a whisper. “Nightmare.”
He nods, brushing a tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I know.”
His eyes search mine like he’s trying to carry the weight for me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
I shake my head, panic still burning in my throat. “No. Please, not right now.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t push.
Without saying a word, he slips his arm under my knees as the other curls around my back. My head rests against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat comforting in a way nothing else is. He carries me up the stairs, the soft glow of the sconces casting a warm light across the hallway walls.
Maverick nudges the door open with his hip and gently sets me down on the bed's edge. He brushes my hair away from my forehead.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks.
My voice cracks. “Please.”
He nods once, pulling off his tank top, then climbs into bed beside me and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close to his chest.
I melt into him instinctively, even though my brain resists. His chest feels warm against my back, and his scent—familiar and inviting—fills my senses, a blend of clean soap and something fruity that I can’t quite identify.
We lie in silence, just breathing in sync. His fingers trace gentle shapes on my hipbone through my sleep shorts, making me shudder as goosebumps race across my skin.
Eventually, he whispers, “Wanna know what I was dreaming about?”
I turn my head slightly. “What?”
He smiles, his voice low and tender. “You.”
I let out a soft, broken laugh, and he grins against the nape of my neck.
“Finally, fuck, I have been dying to hear you laugh again.”
I let out a soft chuckle, gazing at the nightstand beside the bed. The words sit on my tongue, and at this moment, I decide to trust Maverick with the broken parts of me I keep to myself.
“Jax used to make me feel like I was crazy,” I say quietly.
Maverick tenses behind me, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He’d gaslight the shit out of me, cheated, lied, and still made me feel guilty. I started thinking I was the problem.”
“You weren’t,” Maverick says firmly, dragging his fingers across the slope of my hips. “You were never the problem.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I don’t understand how you can even want me, fake or not,” I admit, staring at my fingers. “Not when I’ve been so… cold to you.”
He shifts, turning me around, so he can look at me directly, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of my face.
“Because I see you, Amelia. The real you, not the version you think you have to be to protect yourself.”
Tears sting my eyes again, but I don’t look away.
“You scare the hell out of me,” I whisper.
He leans in, brushing a kiss to my forehead. “You scare me, too.”
We lie there in the dark, tangled in sheets and truths, silent for once. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel scary to open myself up again.
This time, it feels like peace.