Chapter 40 Amelia
amelia
. . .
The buzz of the tattoo gun drowns out everything else—the roar in my head, the silence in my phone, the image of his eyes when he told me he loved me.
I focus on the needle tracing black into skin, my hand steady even though my chest feels like it’s caving in.
My client’s stretched out on the chair, scrolling through their phone while I carve a phoenix across their forearm, each line pulling me deeper into the distraction.
Because if I stop, even for a second, I’ll think about him.
I know it’s game day.
His last game against the Kentucky Daredevils.
I know the Mustangs fans are filling the stands, yelling his name, waiting for him to lead them to victory as he always does.
I know Maggie is probably pacing the sidelines, her perfect nails tapping on her clipboard, hoping he doesn’t fuck up the image she’s spent years creating.
And me?
I’m sitting here, hiding behind buzzing machines and ink-stained gloves because I couldn’t bring myself to go.
I couldn’t sit in the stands and watch him, knowing the last words I left him with were silence.
Knowing the last look I saw on his face was wrecked, broken, and still burning with love, I can’t allow myself to take.
God, Amelia. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
I press the pedal, deepen the shading, anything to drown out the guilt gnawing at me.
He told me not to let one rotten man ruin the good one standing right in front of me. And what did I do? I let fear win. I let it keep me out of the one place I should’ve been today, by his side.
My client hisses when the needle hits a tender spot, and I mutter an apology, refocusing. Line work. Black fill. Keep your hands steady. Pretend your heart isn’t unraveling, I mentally tell myself.
Because I know one thing for sure: no matter how deeply I bury myself in work or how hard I try to run, when I close my eyes, I still see him. And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for not being there.
The hum of the machine is the only thing keeping me going. That sharp, steady whine drowns out the noise in my mind, the ache in my chest, and the way Maverick’s voice still echoes when I close my eyes.
This was never fucking fake.
I wipe away a bead of ink, lean closer, and guide the needle along the curve of the phoenix’s wing. My hand remains steady and precise, with every line crisp against my client’s pale skin. If there’s one place I don’t fall apart, it’s here.
But my chest still throbs.
The door jingles open, and June breezes in, jangling keys in one hand and an iced coffee in the other.
“Afternoon,” she says, kicking the door closed with her boot.
“Whole damn city’s at the stadium. Even the coffee shop was dead.
I think we might be the only people not wearing green and screaming right now. ”
I hum, not looking up. “Means no walk-ins.”
She laughs, dropping her bag behind the counter. “Bad for business, depending on how you look at it. But hey, gives me time to catch up on paperwork.”
I don’t respond because my stomach is already twisting. I know where this is heading before I hear the click of the remote.
A second later, the shop is filled with sound—thunderous and electric. The roar of a stadium crowd blares through the speakers, louder than the machine in my hand.
My pulse spikes.
On the TV mounted in the corner, the screen floods with green and white, fans packed shoulder-to-shoulder, faces painted, foam fingers waving. The announcer’s voice booms, deep and excited.
“Welcome to game day, folks. Tonight, the Tennessee Mustangs compete against their longtime rivals, the Kentucky Daredevils. All eyes, as always, are on star quarterback Maverick Hayes.”
My chest lurches, and my breath catches sharply in my throat.
My foot jerks off the pedal, cutting the needle mid-line. The sudden silence is deafening. My client flinches, craning their neck to look at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter quickly, forcing my voice to stay even. I set the gun down, peel away the wipe, and gently clean the half-finished line. “Hand cramped.”
But my eyes betray me, flickering up to the TV.
And there he is.
Helmet tucked under his arm, golden hair damp with sweat under the stadium lights. Black paint smeared below his eyes, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack. He’s jogging out of the tunnel, his broad shoulders dominating the camera shot as if he owns the field.
Except… he doesn’t look like him.
Not the Maverick who grins like an idiot. Not the one who teases me until I want to scream. Not the one who kissed me like I was air after drowning.
His eyes are hollow, red-rimmed and dark with something heavy. The same way he looked in the kitchen—like he hadn’t slept in days, like everything he ever wanted had slipped right through his fingers.
Because it did.
Because of me.
I focus back onto my client, dragging the line across the phoenix’s feathers, anything to drown out my thoughts. Anything to drown him out.
But I can still hear the announcer’s voice, loud and giddy through the shop. “Hayes has carried the Mustangs all season, but tonight will test everything; his leadership, his focus, his heart.”
My chest twists painfully.
I keep working, shading in the wing, my hands steady even as my vision blurs. Because if I don’t, if I stop for even a second, I’ll turn around, watch that screen, and admit what I already know.
Instead, I hide in the only way I know how to survive, through ink, needles, and silence, while he steps onto the field appearing devastated.
The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the shop, steady and high-pitched, vibrating through my fingers.
It should be comforting, the sound that always keeps me grounded, but today it’s not enough.
Not when the roar of the crowd booms over it every few seconds, spilling from the TV June turned on an hour ago.
I’ve tried to keep my head down, eyes on the phoenix rising across my client’s arm, with each black line sharp and precise.
But I can’t shut out the game no matter how hard I try.
Every time the announcer shouts his name, every time the camera focuses on number seven in green and white, my chest lurches.
Halftime blurs together. The score was close—Mustangs just three points behind. Now the third quarter is halfway through, with the stadium roaring so loudly it shakes the speakers. I continue working as my eyes flick up to the TV.
Maverick’s jogging back to the line of scrimmage, helmet tucked tight, sweat glinting under the floodlights.
His mouth guard shifts as he shouts the play, veins bulging in his neck.
Even through the screen, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the fury in his eyes.
He’s carrying the weight of every teammate, every fan, every expectation—and the ghost of me.
He’s holding onto the ball, stepping back, arm cocked, scanning downfield. The pocket is collapsing. My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe.
A massive and merciless Kentucky lineman charges through unimpeded—six-foot-six, three hundred pounds, a wall of muscle in red and black.
Maverick doesn’t see him.
The impact is devastating. The lineman’s shoulder crashes into his chest like a battering ram, forcing Maverick’s body back violently before he collapses to the turf. His helmet hits the ground with a sharp, sickening sound.
I flinch.
The commentators’ voices rise in alarm, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. My ears are ringing, and my pulse drowns out everything else. All I can see is Maverick lying there, his arm bent awkwardly at his side.
My hand presses hard against my mouth, trying to hold in the sound clawing up my throat.
“Get up,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Please, Maverick. Get up.”
The camera zooms in, capturing the trainers sprinting across the field, kneeling beside him, waving frantically toward the sideline. Players gather, helmets removed, hands folded in front of their faces, some pacing, some kneeling—a stadium of seventy thousand falls eerily silent.
But all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, and the rush of panic filling every inch of me.
My miscommunication with him plays in my mind like a harsh montage—his voice cracking when he said he loved me, his face strained with desperation, and the way I told him I didn’t need him.
He begged me to see him, and I shut him out.
Now he’s lying on the grass, still, while strangers gather around him.
Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to blink. If I look away, even for a second, he might slip further from me.
The camera zooms in again, too close, too harsh. Maverick lies motionless on the field, helmet tilted, his jersey stained with grass, as his broad chest barely moves. Teammates rush over to him, kneeling beside him, patting his shoulder pads, whispering prayers with their heads bowed.
I can’t breathe.
My gloves tremble as I set the tattoo gun down on the tray, ink smudges staining the paper. My hands quickly fly to my mouth, muffling the cry that escapes me.
The announcer lowers his voice, grave. “Hayes is still down. Trainers are on the field, and medical staff are rushing over now. He hasn’t moved since taking that sack. This is... this is very concerning.”
The shop feels like it’s spinning, the fluorescent lights are too bright, and the smell of antiseptic is too sharp.
An ambulance rushes onto the field, lights flashing as the stunned crowd watches. The camera catches a quick glimpse before pulling away, focusing on the nervous fans, the sideline, and everything but the man lying broken on the turf.
The announcer clears his throat, his voice grim. “We’ve just received word—Maverick Hayes has sustained a serious injury and will not return for the remainder of the game.”
Fuck.
I fold forward, pressing my palms against my face as tears spill hot and fast down my cheeks.
I see him in my mind, every version of him—the cocky quarterback who teases me, the golden retriever who sneaks into my bed with pancakes, the man who tore up a contract and said he loved me even when I didn’t deserve it.
And I ran.
God, I fucking ran from him.
Because I was too afraid to believe he meant it. Too afraid to let him stay.
I love him.
The truth hits me so hard I almost double over. I love him. With every scarred, broken piece of me, I love him.
And now, my actions might prevent me from having another chance to tell him.
What if he doesn’t want me back? What if he opens his eyes and decides the girl who left him bleeding in silence isn’t worth it?
My tears blur the screen, but I don’t wipe them away. Because no matter how hard I’ve tried to run, no matter how much I’ve told myself I ruin good things, there he is.
The only good thing I’ve ever wanted enough to stop running.
And I just might have lost him.