Chapter 27 Maverick
maverick
. . .
Ican’t believe I have to release a public apology to this shitbag.
Camera shutters click rapidly, each one a sharp jolt that makes it harder to focus. The air smells of burnt coffee and cigarettes. My suit jacket feels too warm, and the tie around my neck feels like it’s choking me more than just the air.
A reporter calls out from the front row, “Mr. Hayes, do you have anything you’d like to say regarding your altercation with Jax Montgomery?”
My fingers loosen from the pen before I break it in half. “Yes,” I answer. “I’d like to make a public apology to Mr. Montgomery. My behavior at the gala was unprofessional and inappropriate for someone in my position. It doesn’t reflect who I strive to be, on or off the field.”
Camera flashes fire again.
The words taste wrong, but they’re the ones Maggie told me to use.
More questions come, and I stay within the lines I’ve been given. The only thing holding me back from walking out is the image of Amelia standing at Moss Cove, her hair tangled by the wind, and the sun tracing her tattoos.
It remains at the core of my mind, helping me stay grounded.
A voice cuts through the noise. “How is this affecting your season… and your marriage?”
The pause between the words is intentional.
“The season’s great,” I say. “My focus is on winning games for the Mustangs. As for my marriage…” My mouth pulls into a grin that feels almost genuine. “Married life is good. I love being a husband.”
They keep going, but Maggie ends the conference, and I walk out with the sound of shutters still ringing in my ears.
I’m already moving, taking long strides toward the parking lot, headed for my Bronco.
“Hayes!” Maggie’s heels click sharply against the pavement.
I don’t slow down until her voice sharpens with that practiced bite. “Try not to scowl in every photo, would you? You look constipated instead of professional.”
My jaw ticks, the muscle twitching before I can stop it. I drag a hand down my face, then turn halfway toward her, sunglasses hanging low on my nose. “Yeah? Maybe I’d smile more if I wasn’t paraded out here like a show pony every damn week.”
Maggie crosses her arms, glaring at me. “Maybe we wouldn’t have to do so many press releases if you didn’t fuck up all the time.”
Her eyes narrow, and her mouth parts like she’s about to give a lecture, but I shake my head, already fucking over it. “Funny. I thought football was about playing the damn game, not babysitting reporters.”
She taps her fingers on her arm, looking a little bit nervous. “Football’s about image too, Hayes. You don’t just play, you sell.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Then tell ‘em to buy someone else, because I’m fresh out of fake smiles.”
Her mouth opens, ready to fire back, but I’ve already turned away, my grip on the keys digging into my palm.
Sitting in my SUV, the silence feels heavy. Amelia’s at work, so there’s nothing to distract me from the growing frustration in my chest. I call Carter first, but there’s no answer; just a quick message saying he’s busy.
Reed answers on the first ring.
Forty-five minutes later, I walk through the front door of Boots I’m here to work and to burn off the frustration that’s tearing me apart.
Sweat drips down my spine beneath the pads. My grip on the ball becomes slick, forcing me to wipe my hands on my pants before every snap. The sky is a harsh blue overhead, with no clouds to block the sun’s glare, and I can feel the skin on the back of my neck heating up under it.
I call the next play, and the guys hustle into position. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the cadence.
Set. Snap. Move. Throw. Repeat.
No room for Maggie, reporters, or anything else—just the game and the thought that Amelia is the only person I want to talk to right now.
Coach Mike blows the final whistle, and my jersey clings to my back as I walk toward the locker room. The guys jog off, following suit, helmets tucked under their arms, cleats clattering on the concrete tunnel floor.
I’m halfway through unstrapping my pads when JP falls into step beside me.
He’s easy to spot—tall with broad shoulders filling his practice jersey. His brown hair sticks up from his helmet, and his blue eyes sparkle brightly even under the dim lights. Freckles dot his nose and cheekbones. He has that farm-boy charm, the kind that easily captivates reporters.
“You gonna tell me what’s crawled up your ass,” he says, “or do I gotta guess?”
I grunt and push my way through the door into the locker room.
JP drops onto the bench across from my locker, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been a damn brick wall all day, Hayes. You missed my perfect cut in the third set. That’s how I know you’re off.”
I yank my jersey over my head and throw it into my duffel. “Not in the mood for a therapy session.”
“Too bad,” he says, leaning back and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Because I’m your teammate, and you’re the quarterback. Your head’s gotta be right, or the whole team feels it.”
The edge in his tone makes me pause. JP’s easygoing ninety percent of the time, but when he gets serious, you listen.
I rake my hand through my hair, the strands damp and curling from sweat. “It’s just… the bullshit, and Maggie breathing down my neck… It’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but you’ve handled worse.”
“Not like this.” I slam my locker shut, the clang echoing off the tile. “It’s not just about me anymore.”
JP’s eyes narrow. “Amelia.”
I don’t answer, but that’s enough of an answer.
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Then figure your shit out. Protect her, but don’t burn yourself out in the process. You’re no good to her if you’re a mess.”
His words linger with me long after I hit the showers, the steam clinging to my skin, the scent of soap barely cutting through the day’s grit.
By the time I get dressed and head to the parking lot, I’ve already decided—I’m going home and I’ll make sure Amelia knows where she stands with me, fake marriage or not.