Chapter 36 Maverick
maverick
. . .
Four days.
It’s been four fucking days since she vanished. No calls, no texts, nothing but silence that’s eating me alive. I’ve sent everything—stupid jokes, soft words, even begged like a damn fool—but she’s gone.
I’m sitting in the corner of Reed’s bar, knuckles white around a glass of whiskey. The place is dim and nearly empty, with the smell of wood polish and old beer hanging heavy in the air. Reed’s behind the counter, towel over his shoulder, giving me that steady, quiet look he always does.
I tip back the glass, the burn clawing down my throat, but it doesn’t touch the fire in my chest. “You know what fuckin’ kills me, Reed?
” My voice is rough, frayed. “When I’m Maverick Hayes, the quarterback, everybody stays.
Coaches, sponsors, women who don’t give a damn about me but love the jersey. They’re all there, lined up.”
I slam the glass down, shaking my head. My throat’s tight, eyes burning. “But when I’m just me? Just Mav? Nobody ever fucking stays. Not one fucking person.”
Reed stays still, unmoving. He leans on the bar, eyes calm and steady, green like a forest at night.
I let out a harsh laugh, raking a hand through my hair.
“I finally opened up, man. I told her shit I don’t tell anyone.
About Mama. About how scared I am without football, about how she makes me feel like, like maybe I’m worth more than what I do on the field.
” My chest sinks, voice breaking. “And she still left. Four days, and she’s just… gone.”
The silence lingers. Reed finally pours another drink, slides it across the bar, but he doesn’t let go of it until I meet his eyes.
His voice is low and steady. “Maybe she’s scared, Mav. Maybe it ain’t about you not being enough. Maybe it’s about her not knowing how to believe she deserves it.”
I blink at him, my throat tight, as that one goddamn tear slips free before I can stop it. I swipe at it with the heel of my hand, scowling. “Then why does it always feel like the second I’m me, just me, it’s never fucking enough?”
Reed doesn’t have an answer. He squeezes my shoulder once, firm, like he’s anchoring me to the stool so I don’t drown completely.
I swirl the amber in my glass, watching how it clings to the sides before sliding back down. My chest feels the same—sticky, heavy, overwhelming.
“I swear to God,” I rasp, shaking my head, “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. I gave her everything. The ring. My heart. Shit I don’t even say out loud. And she still walked away like it was nothing.”
The words scrape out of me, ragged. My throat’s raw, like every time I breathe her name, it cuts me open.
Reed remains quiet as he continues wiping down the bar.
I slam my palm against the wood, the sound cracking through the room.
“What the fuck is so wrong with me, huh? I can throw forty-yard passes, I can smile for cameras, I can play the all-star quarterback every damn day, but the second I take all that off, the second I’m just me—nobody stays. Not Mama. Not her. Nobody.”
My chest caves, the words spilling before I can stop them. “I’m so tired of not being enough.”
The whiskey blurs at the edges, and the room spins just a little. I run a hand down my face, jaw clenched, fighting back the tear that escapes anyway.
It burns more than the alcohol.
Reed doesn’t say anything. He simply lets me bleed it out, his silence steady while mine is jagged.
And perhaps that’s worse—because without his words filling the air, all I can hear is the truth pounding in my chest.
She’s gone.
Practice feels like fucking hell.
The sun beats down hard enough to scorch the turf, my cleats grinding against it as I drop back for another throw. My shoulder aches, sweat stings my eyes, and the ball slips from my grip like it’s got a vendetta.
“Hayes!” Coach Mike’s voice cuts sharply from the sideline. “What the fuck was that? Reset!”
I grit my teeth, my jaw aching. “I am resetting,” I snap, throwing another pass so hard my receiver stumbles backward, catching it.
The atmosphere tightens as guys trade looks. They’re used to me grinning, trash-talking, and boosting energy when practice drags.
Not this time.
Maggie stands at the edge of the field, tablet in hand, sunglasses reflecting every bit of her irritation. “Your mood’s leaking, Hayes,” she calls, voice like nails. “Try not to tank the brand while you’re sulking.”
I tear off my helmet, hair sticking to my forehead, sweat dripping down my face. “Fuck the brand!” I bark, my voice echoing across the field.
A hush falls. Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up, lips curling into a smug little smirk as if she’s been waiting for this. “Careful,” she says sweetly. “You keep that up and the only thing left of your career will be a cautionary tale.”
My chest heaves, fury pounding hot and heavy through my veins. I want to tell her where to shove her sponsors, want to snap my playbook in half to feel something break that isn’t me.
Coach Mike storms onto the field, clipboard hitting his thigh. “What the hell is your problem, Hayes? You think you’re the only one out here tired? You think the whole damn team revolves around your bad mood?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The words coil in my throat like barbed wire.
Because the truth is, I’m hanging by a thread. One thin, fraying thread that feels like it’s about to snap at any moment.
The sunshine quarterback is gone. The one who smiled and carried the weight of a whole team like it was nothing—that guy doesn’t fucking exist right now.
What’s left is angry. Bitter. Hollow.
The whistle shrieks, and we reset into another drill. My cleats dig into the turf, and I struggle to breathe. The ball snaps into my hands, and I throw it like I’m trying to kill someone, the spiral too strong and too fast.
“Jesus, Hayes!” JP yelps, fumbling as it slams into his chest. “You tryna break my ribs before game day?”
Usually, I’d laugh, chirp him back, and call him soft. Instead, I bark, “Catch the fucking ball then! If you can’t fucking play, go back to Opal Springs!”
JP scoffs, walking away mumbling, “Whatever.”
Pierce jogs up beside me, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat dripping down his temple. “Yo, what crawled up your ass today?” he asks, smirking like he can tease me out of it. “You’re usually the one telling us to relax. Golden boy energy and all that shit.”
“Not in the fucking mood,” I snap, shoving past him to get back in formation.
“Damn,” Pierce mutters under his breath, low but not low enough. “Quarterback’s gone sour.”
Another snap, another ball hurled downfield too hard. My shoulder aches with every throw, but I push through it, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
Coach Mike’s whistle blows again. “Hayes! Get your head out of your ass. You think the Daredevils are gonna roll over just because you’re brooding? You play like this next week, you’ll lose the whole damn season!”
I suck in a sharp breath, helmet clutched tight in my hands. The words sting because I don’t give a fuck about the Daredevils. Not today.
My grip tightens until the pads squeal against my fingers.
The ball snaps again. I push forward, forcing myself through another play, my muscles screaming, my lungs burning. Sweat drips into my eyes, blurring the field. But no matter how fast I run or how hard I throw, I can’t outrun the images of her flashing through my mind.
Another snap. Another throw too hard and wild, the ball sailing just out of reach. Pierce curses, flailing his arms.
“Fuck!” I roar, ripping my helmet off and slamming it down so hard against the turf it bounces once, twice, before rolling to a stop.
The whole field freezes.
My chest heaves, sweat dripping into my eyes as I rake both hands down my face, fingers digging into my skin like I can claw out the anger gnawing at me.
“Hayes!” Coach Mike barks, storming across the field, clipboard in hand. His voice is sharp, cutting through the tense silence. “What the fuck is going on with you? You want to throw a tantrum, do it in your house. Out here, you’re a quarterback, not a kid slamming his toys.”
I spin toward him, fists clenched, rage boiling in my chest. “Maybe I’m fucking tired of carrying everyone on my back every damn day!”
A ripple goes through the team. Shock. Nobody’s used to hearing me like this.
Pierce mutters something under his breath. JP whistles softly. The air feels heavy and tense.
Coach Mike steps in closer, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Then pull your head out of your ass before next week. Daredevils aren’t gonna care about your feelings, Hayes. To keep this team standing, you need to lock in. Or I’ll bench your ass, golden boy, and let the second-stringer get a shot.”
The words should gut me. Threats like that have always been there before. Today? I just let out a harsh laugh, bitter and hollow. “Do what you want, Coach. I don’t give a fuck.”
Gasps ripple along the line.
Before anyone can respond, I shove past, shoulders tense, and storm off the field. My cleats hit the tunnel concrete hard, each step echoing along the corridor.
I enter the locker room, adrenaline still pounding through my veins.
Maggie’s waiting, leaned against the row of lockers, arms crossed, tablet in hand. “Well,” she says, smirking, “at least you’re finally showing the world who you really are.”
My jaw tightens, teeth grinding. “Not now.”
“You think sponsors are gonna line up after you throw a fit in front of the whole team?” she needles, pushing. “Quarterback golden boy? More like quarterback disaster.”
I shove past her, ripping open my cubby and tossing my gloves inside. My hands are shaking, and not from exertion. “Fuck the sponsors. Fuck the press. And fuck you, Maggie.”
She scoffs, pushing off the lockers. “Keep talking like that, Hayes. See where it gets you.”
Before I can answer, Coach Mike’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Enough!”
He steps in, his gaze drilling into me. “Final game of the season. Kentucky Daredevils. One week. I don’t care about your mood swings, I don’t care about your sponsors. All I care about is you showing up and playing the damn game. You got that?”
I yank my shirt over my head, the fabric sticking to my sweat-slick skin. My response is nothing but a guttural grunt.
Because right now, I don’t give a fuck about Kentucky, the season, or the goddamn sponsors.
The only thing I care about is the one person I can’t reach.
Amelia.