Chapter 39 Maverick
maverick
. . .
Imiss her backhanded compliments, the way she looked at me with her beautiful green eyes and bit her lower lip. I miss watching her draw and color on my couch.
I miss her.
Rubbing my hand down my face, I release a ragged breath. My chest feels tight from four nights of whiskey burn and not enough sleep. My eyes sting, red-rimmed from hours staring at the ceiling, waiting for a text that never came.
The ticking of the kitchen clock thuds in my skull, louder than it should be. My eyes sting, raw from the tears I’ve let fall for her.
I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady my breathing, when movement flickers at the edge of my vision.
My eyes lift until they land on Amelia.
She’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, wearing one of my old jerseys that hangs loosely on her frame. Her hair is messy; her eyes are wide and unsure.
God, her eyes look just as wrecked as mine.
For a second, everything in me breaks open again.
My chest lurches, hope and pain colliding, and I rasp out the words from my throat. “What are you doing here?”
She swallows, her voice small and fragile. “I came back to talk, I—”
“No.” My voice cuts sharply through the air, harsher than I intended, but I can’t stop. The anger has been boiling over for too long. “You don’t get to start with that.”
Her lips press together, trembling.
I step forward, the floor creaking under my boots.
“You disappeared, Amelia. Four fucking days. No goodbye. No explanation. Nothing. Just silence.” My voice cracks, my throat burning, but I don’t hold it back.
“Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting here wondering what the fuck I did wrong? Wondering if I imagined everything?”
She flinches, tears filling her eyes, but it only sharpens the pain in me.
“I didn’t give you the quarterback,” I grind out, slamming my palm against the counter. “I didn’t give you the show, the media smile, the perfect image. I gave you me. Just me. Raw. Messy. Honest. And you still ran.”
Her eyes shine, glassy, her chest heaving. “Maverick—”
I shake my head, pacing, my hands tearing through my hair. My lungs feel like they’re collapsing. “You look at me like you’re waiting for me to turn into him. Like I’m some fucking time bomb just waiting to hurt you. But I’m not Jax. I will never be Jax.”
The words rip straight out of me, raw and broken. “I would set myself on fire before I ever laid a hand on you or made you feel small. Don’t you get it?!”
Her hand lifts to her mouth, shoulders shaking as tears spill over.
My chest caves in, and the confession slips out before I can stop it. “I love you.” My voice cracks and splinters. “God, I fucking love you, Amelia. And it’s not because of some contract. It’s you. It’s always been you. And I’m so fucking tired of you pretending you don’t feel it too.”
She staggers back a step.
The rage and desperation tear through me.
I push away from the counter and storm over to the drawer by the fridge. My hand grabs the thin stack of papers I swore I’d never look at again, the contract. The fucking lie. The proof of the deal that started all of this.
I slam it down on the counter, the sharp crack reverberating through the kitchen.
My chest heaves as I open it, reading the words that now feel like poison.
My pulse pounds, fury rising in my veins, and then I start ripping.
Pages tear in my fists, split down the middle, scattering across the countertop like broken promises.
Her eyes widen as she sucks in a breath.
“No more contracts,” I rasp, my chest heaving. “No more fake marriage. You either want me, or you don’t. But I’m done pretending this is anything less than real.”
The torn shreds slide across the floor, curling and folding on the hardwood like everything we’ve been hiding behind is finally dead.
I stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding so loudly I can feel it in my teeth. Tears blur my vision; I don’t bother to hide them.
And all I can do is watch her—my wife, my soul, my everything—and wait to see if she’ll finally stop running.
The papers tear in my hands, jagged edges fluttering to the floor like ash. My chest heaves, throat raw, but I can’t stop—I won’t.
“This isn’t fake!” I snarl as I rip through the page, jagged edges fluttering to the floor. “Do you hear me, Amelia? This was never fucking fake.”
Her lips part as she presses her hand to her chest like she’s holding herself together.
I slam my palm flat against the shredded pile, leaning over it, eyes burning into hers. “I want to provide for you. I want to love you. Protect you. Be your fucking husband. Not for a deal. Not for the cameras. For me. For us.”
She takes a shaky step back, tears welling, but I push forward, words pouring out, raw and gutted.
“Ask me, Amelia,” I snap, my chest heaving. “Ask me why I haven’t slept with anyone in two years.”
Her breath catches, a stutter slipping out on her lips. “W-why?”
“Because you’re the only one I’ve fucking wanted!” I roar, the sound ripping straight from my chest. “Every night, every fucking day, it’s been you. Only you!”
Her gasp pierces the air, her eyes wide and trembling with a mixture of fear and hope.
I reach for the chain around my neck, yanking it out from under my shirt. The wedding ring—my ring—swings between us, shining in the light. I choke out my words, voice breaking.
“Ask me why I wear my wedding ring around my neck, Amelia.” My throat tightens, “Ask me.”
Her tears spill, her lips parting, but no sound comes out.
“I’m begging you,” I rasp, my voice cracking. “I’m begging you to fucking see that this was never fake. That I never wanted it to be fake. I love you. Fuck, Amelia, I fucking love you.”
She doesn’t say anything as she crosses her arms around her chest tightly, tears falling down her cheeks.
“But you—” I jab a finger at her, then curl it back into my chest, my voice cracking under the weight. “You won’t let me in. You won’t let me prove it. Because you’re stuck in the past, convinced every man is like that bastard who broke you.”
She lets out a broken sob, clutching the jersey tighter.
I grab the last page from the stack and shove it away, the paper scattering like confetti across the tile, worthless scraps of what never mattered anyway.
“Don’t let one fucking rotten man ruin the good one standing right in front of you.”
The silence after is heavy, broken only by my ragged breathing and the soft flutter of paper settling on the floor. I stand there, fists shaking, heart bare and bleeding, praying she finally hears me.
The papers still lie scattered on the wooden floor, and she’s standing there, trembling at the bottom of the stairs, tears streaking her face.
For a second, the silence stretches so thin it feels like it might snap.
My chest is heaving, my throat’s raw, and if I stay in this house one more second, I’m going to shatter completely.
I rake a shaking hand through my hair, swallowing down the burn in my throat. “You stay here. I’ll go.”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide, glistening. “Mav—”
“If space is what you want,” I cut her off, “then I’ll give it to you.”
She flinches as her lips part, but I can’t look at her anymore. Not when it feels like my heart’s being ripped out of my chest.
I grab my keys off the counter, the metal clinking against my palm, and stalk to the door, slamming it shut loudly enough to echo back at me as I step into the night.
My Bronco waits in the driveway, its moss green chrome glinting under the porch light. I wrench the door open, throw myself behind the wheel, and press the start button with more force than necessary.
The engine roars to life, headlights flashing across the gravel. My chest feels tight, lungs seizing, but all I can think is that if I don’t get away, I’ll drop to my knees and beg her again.
And I can’t, not after this.
Reed doesn’t ask questions when I arrive at his door at midnight. Just lets me in with that unreadable stare, drops his keys in the bowl, and juts his chin toward the couch. “Beer?”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
He heads into his kitchen, returns with two bottles, and sinks into the chair across from me. The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. That’s Reed for you. He’s not gonna pry. He’ll just sit there until you start bleeding on your own.
And I do.
“I told her I loved her,” I say finally, staring at the condensation dripping down the glass in my hand. “Yelled it, actually. Ripped up the damn contract, told her it was never fake. Begged her to fucking see me.”
Reed doesn’t flinch or blink. Just takes a slow sip of his beer and waits.
“And then I left.”
His voice is calm, low. “Why?”
I laugh bitterly, running a hand over my face. “Because she needs space. Because if I keep pushing, she’ll run even further. And I’d rather give her miles of distance than watch her walk away for good.”
I shake my head, words tumbling out before I can stop them. “But the truth? I needed the space too. Because—fuck, Reed—she gutted me. I bent over backward for her. Let her in where I don’t let anyone. And she still looked at me like I was just some deal she got stuck with.”
My chest heaves, the confession tearing me open.
“I love her. Fuck, I love her more than anything. But when she doubts me like that? When she pulls back, runs like I’m not worth trusting?
It’s like she rips the ground out from under me.
And I can’t—I can’t keep standing there, begging her to see me, while she’s ready to bolt at the first sign of real. ”
Reed leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, green eyes locked on mine. “You’re hurt.”
“Yeah, no shit sherlock.” My laugh is broken.
“You love her,” he says again, calm, steady.
“Yeah, I love her. But it’s more than that, Reed.
She’s embedded in me. I’m broken for anyone else.
I wear that ring like it’s my last hold, because even when it’s fake, it’s real to me.
Every time I touch it, it’s like I can almost feel her hand in mine.
And if that makes me pathetic? Fine, I’ll be pathetic.
I’d beg on my knees before I’d let her think she’s anything less than my everything. ”
He nods once, slowly. “So give her the space. But don’t lie to yourself about why. You left because you needed it too. You don’t have to bleed out in front of her just to prove you love her.”
I stare down at my hands, my knuckles tight around the bottle. “What if giving her space means she never comes back?”
Reed stays quiet for a long beat. Then he says simply, “Then she doesn’t deserve you.”
I look up at him, and I see it—the truth in his eyes. Not judgment, not pity. Just the weight of a man who knows what it feels like to love and lose, to be gutted and still stand.
And in that shadowed living room, with the scent of cedar and whiskey lingering in the air, I finally admit it to myself.
I didn’t just walk out because Amelia asked for space.
I walked out because I’m bleeding too.