Chapter 33 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Turf and popcorn mingle with the faint bite of autumn air, the low rumble of thousands of voices building into a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest. I stand just behind the sideline, close enough to see the strain in Maverick’s shoulders as he paces.
He’s in full uniform, jersey clinging to him, pads broadening his already massive frame. His golden hair sticks out in damp strands from under the helmet, and he keeps flexing his hands like he’s trying to shake something off.
Coach Mike’s voice is sharp and clipped through the headset wired into Maverick’s helmet. I can hear it faintly from where I’m standing: play calls, reminders, and the constant pressure that’s put on Maverick to perform, and it makes me angry.
My eyes lock on Maverick. He’s nodding at whatever his coach says, but I know him well enough to see it—he’s wound tight, electricity coiled under his skin.
I walk over to Coach Mike and quietly tap his shoulder. He turns around with a pinched brow.
“Can I?” My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t.
He blinks at me, then hands it over without a word.
I throw the earpiece over my ears as I settle it on, and I lift the mic to my lips, my heart pounding, “Hey, quarterback.”
Maverick stops mid-step, his head snapping toward me. The second my voice cuts through the static, something in his posture eases.
“You got this,” I tell him, my voice just loud enough for the mic.
There’s a beat of silence, then his voice threads through the headset. “Hi, baby.”
God, that smile, boyish and crooked, lights up his whole damn face, and it’s like the stadium noise fades for a second.
I can’t help the small laugh that slips out. “Give ’em hell, baby.”
The corner of his mouth lifts higher as he gestures for me to keep watching him.
He tugs at the chain around his neck, pulling it free so the silver glints under the lights, his wedding ring swinging from it. He presses a kiss to it, never breaking our gaze, then flashes me the dumbest, sweetest heart with his giant hands before jogging back to the huddle.
I can’t stop the grin spreading across my face. Thousands are out there adoring that ridiculous, perfect man, and he still manages to remind me that I’m the only one he’s playing for.
A ref blows the whistle, and the Mustangs take their positions. Maverick’s in the pocket, hands poised under center, eyes scanning the defense like he’s already thinking two plays ahead. The crowd is shouting, stomping, and waving signs with his name written across them.
The ball snaps, and he’s in motion—three steps back, with the kind of smooth footwork that’s so ingrained it’s muscle memory. His arm whips forward, and the pass sails through the air, landing perfectly in Pierce’s hands for a twenty-yard gain.
The crowd loses it.
Next play, Maverick fakes the handoff, keeps it, and runs downfield himself.
His cleats dig into the turf, shoulders low, blazing past one linebacker, then stiff-arming another.
He doesn’t stop until he’s tackled at the forty-five.
He pops right back up, helmet tilting toward me, and I know—that run was for me.
The Blackhawks struggle to keep pace, as Maverick constantly stays ahead.
Each time they close the gap, he finds a new lead.
His passes are accurate, and his reads are sharp.
When the pocket breaks down, he runs the ball himself, taking hits that make the crowd gasp, yet he always gets back up with that same wild grin.
By halftime, the scoreboard shows a big lead—Mustangs: twenty-eight, Blackhawks: seven.
The second half is worse for them.
Maverick’s locked in now, and the whole team functions like a well-oiled machine. JP catches a deep pass in the end zone, then Pierce makes another reception, and the Mustangs’ defense shuts down every counterattack.
When the final whistle blows, it’s a slaughter—Mustangs: forty-nine. Blackhawks: fourteen.
I barely notice the announcer declaring victory before I see Maverick with his helmet ripped off, sweat dripping down his temples, hair a wild mess as he sprints toward me across the field.
“Amelia!”
I’m already moving toward him, and when we collide, his arms wrap around me so tightly that my feet lift off the ground. He spins me once, twice, the world swirling around us, before his mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s hot, messy, and shameless in front of thousands.
“I told you,” he breathes against my lips, forehead pressed to mine, “you were my good luck charm.”
“Dress comfy,” he says, squeezing my waist.
I turn my head slightly, catching his smirk in the mirror. “What do you have planned?”
“You’ll see, baby.”
The way baby rolls off his tongue sends a flutter through my stomach. “Just dress comfy for me.”
I want to ask more, but his hands are already sliding under the hem of my shirt, tugging me toward the bathroom. “Shower first,” he says.
We strip together, steam filling the space before the water even hits our skin.
He stands behind me under the spray, rinsing the shampoo from my hair while his palms roam slowly and lazily over my sides.
His lips press kisses to my damp shoulder, and for a second, I wonder if we’re going to make it out of the hotel room at all.
When we finally step outside, we’re both dressed in soft hoodies and sweats, hair damp, sneakers tied. He grabs the keys to the rental car from the dresser and interlocks his fingers with mine as we head down to the parking garage.
In the car, his hand drifts to my thigh as his thumb makes idle circles. At a red light, he squeezes, glancing over with that cocky glint in his eye.
“You’re going to wear that look all night, aren’t you?” I tease, watching the faint smirk tug at his mouth.
“What look?” he says, pretending innocence while his thumb presses just a little higher.
I watch him as he drives—his profile sharp in the glow of passing streetlights, his hair still damp and slightly curling at the ends. The soft curve of his mouth and the way his lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones—it’s unfair how effortlessly beautiful he is.
We pull up to the aquarium, and my brows furrow. The place is dark, with only a single security light illuminating the front entrance.
“Maverick… It’s closed,” I say, turning to him.
“Not for you, Mrs. Hayes.” His voice is low, almost smug, but there’s warmth behind it. He slips out of the car and comes around to open my door, offering his hand.
I gasp when they let us in, tears welling in my eyes as I hold back a strangled sob.
My sneakers squeak softly on the polished floor before my eyes catch an animal I’ve always dreamt of seeing.
A massive wall of rippling blue looms before me, with glass extending from floor to ceiling, as the slow, graceful shadow of a whale shark glides by like something out of a dream. My throat tightens instantly, and before I can stop it, tears stream down my cheeks.
I glance at Maverick, my voice barely above a whisper. “For me?”
His smile is gentle, boyish in a way that always disarms me. “For you, baby.”
His words wrap around me like the warmest blanket.
I turn back to the tank, watching the faint light from the surface refract through the water, scattering across the gentle giant’s speckled skin.
My hand drifts into Maverick’s without thinking, and he squeezes, his thumb brushing the back of my knuckles.
We walk hand in hand along the winding paths of the aquarium.
Soft string lights hang along the railings, their gentle golden glow creating halos around his face.
We pause in front of each tank as if it were a small world; jellyfish pulsating like floating lanterns, stingrays gliding smoothly over white sand, and a pair of sea turtles swimming together harmoniously.
Every now and then, I catch him watching me instead of the exhibits, and it makes my chest flutter.
Soon, we find ourselves back where we started, before the whale shark habitat. It’s even more stunning now, with the soft glow of string lights reflecting off the deep blue water of the tank. My nose stings as I sniffle again, trying to blink away the tears in my eyes.
A man in a navy polo and an aquarium badge comes out of a side door, smiling warmly. “Ready, Mr. and Mrs. Hayes?”
I frown, turning to Maverick. “Ready for what?”
He steps forward, offering me his hand. “Trust me.”
My heart pounds hard against my ribs. His palm is warm when I slip my hand into it, and he guides me toward the door that the man is holding open.
“Maverick…” My voice is a mix of suspicion and disbelief.
He glances over his shoulder, that slow, knowing smirk curling his mouth. “You’ll see, doll face.”
The man guides us through a quiet, dim hallway until we reach a small changing area. There’s a neat row of wetsuits hanging on a rack, each one smelling faintly of salt and neoprene.
Before I can ask, Maverick’s already unzipping one and holding it out to me. “Here. Your size.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You just happen to know my wetsuit size?”
His mouth tilts into that smug, devastating grin. “I know all your sizes, baby.”
I slip into the changing stall, pulling on the slick, cool fabric.
It clings to my skin, and when I step out, Maverick is already half-zipped into his own.
He’s barefoot, with his hair slightly messy from tugging the suit up, and the sleeves stretched over his shoulders.
My chest tightens at the sight of him like this—big, grinning, excited, and genuinely happy.
He moves behind me as his fingers brush my spine, pulling my zipper all the way up. His warm mouth is near my ear. “Perfect fit.”
The instructor arrives, adjusting our buoyancy vest straps and handing each of us a mask. “We’ll be going up to the top of the tank. She’s in a calm mood tonight, so relax and enjoy her.”
We follow him up a narrow staircase that leads to a platform above the massive tank.
The water below us is inky blue, softly lit from within by spotlights that emphasize the gentle movement of marine life.
The whale shark swims just beneath the surface, its huge body gliding effortlessly, with the shadow of its tail stretching into the darkness.
Maverick moves closer, taking my hand, and intertwines our fingers.
He glances at me, eyes shining with boyish wonder. “Ready to swim with a whale shark, baby?”
My chest swells, and my pulse skips as I savor the moment—his hand holding mine, the faint hum of water, and the gentle giant moving beneath.
I nod, my voice catching. “Fuck yeah, I’m ready!”
His grin widens, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath just for us.
I can’t stop smiling, my cheeks already ache from it. I nod so hard that my ponytail shifts against the back of my neck. Maverick’s grin mirrors mine, and without saying a word, we move to the edge together.
“Three,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Two… one.”
We jump, and the water swallows us whole.
For a moment, the world is a blur of bubbles and muted light. Then I surface, pulling my mask down over my face as Maverick pops up beside me, shaking water from his hair.
The instructor hovers nearby, signaling us to follow. We slip underwater, and everything shifts.
Down here, sound is replaced by the slow thrum of my heartbeat and the faint hiss of my breath. Shafts of light pour down from above, shifting and dancing over the sandy bottom of the tank. Schools of small, silver fish move in unison like liquid mercury, scattering as we drift through.
The whale shark approaches us from the far side of the tank, massive and graceful, its speckled body dotted with constellations of white. My chest tightens at its enormous size—gentle yet commanding, like a dream drifting through the water.
I glance at Maverick beneath the goggles, and he’s watching me instead of the shark. His eyes crinkle behind his mask, the corners lifting like he’s memorizing every second.
The shark swims close enough that I could reach out and run my fingers along its ridges. Its eye briefly swivels toward us, unbothered, as if giving us permission to share its space.
Bubbles rise from Maverick’s regulator as he drifts nearer to me, softly looping one arm around my waist. We turn together, weightless in the blue, following the creature as it moves toward the light.
Time stops.
All I hear is the steady rhythm of my breath, the muted swish of the whale shark’s tail, and the faint warmth of Maverick’s palm against my side, grounding me in this surreal, endless blue.