Chapter 42 Amelia
amelia
. . .
The image won’t leave me.
Maverick sprawled on the turf, with number seven swallowed by a silent stadium, teammates kneeling beside him. The announcer’s grim voice echoing.
“Maverick Hayes has sustained a serious injury and will not return for the remainder of the game.”
I’ve been trembling ever since, trying to keep my hands steady over a tattoo while my vision blurred with tears. I told myself he’d be okay, he had to be okay.
Maverick always gets back up.
My phone buzzes, over and over, pulling me out of my spiral.
I snatch it up with shaking hands.
Catalina
Where the fuck are you?
Catalina
He’s in the hospital.
Catalina
He’s having seizures, Amelia.
Catalina
If you care about him, get here now.
My knees buckle, and the world tilts sideways, bile scraping my throat.
A seizure.
It’s more than a concussion. It’s more than bruises. Something even worse.
“Amelia?” June’s cautious voice drifts from the counter. "What’s going on?”
My mouth feels dry, and my voice is barely audible. “Maverick.”
That’s all I can manage before I’m ripping off my gloves, ink staining my palms. My chest caves inward, every beat of my heart too loud, echoing like it might shatter my ribs.
“June, please, I need you to drive me. To the hospital. Now.”
She doesn’t ask questions as she grabs her keys, her face pale, and heads for the door.
I snatch my bag from the stool, fingers instinctively brushing over the spot on my left hand where the emerald-cut diamond used to be. My chest tightens when I see it empty.
I stumble past June, the TV still blaring behind me in the store—commentators filling the silence with pointless chatter, replays of the hit showing from every angle. I can’t look.
The night air hits me like a slap, cool and sharp against my tear-warm skin. My breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps as June practically drags me to her car.
I slump into the passenger seat as June speeds off, tires squealing on the pavement. Neon signs and traffic lights blur together as we rush through the city.
My forehead presses against the cold glass, tears slipping quickly down my cheeks. My hand grips my bare finger, clutching at the nothing there, whispering a prayer I don’t know how to say out loud.
Please stay, Mav. Please stay long enough for me to tell you I love you.
The ride feels like it lasts forever, even though June drives like a bat out of hell. I don’t breathe the entire time, my fingers digging crescents into the seatbelt, heart pounding with every red light we run.
When she screeches to a stop outside the emergency entrance, I fumble with the door before the car’s even in park. “Thanks for the ride,” I choke out, voice barely there. June squeezes my wrist once, her eyes wide and scared, but I don’t wait for more. I’m already running.
The automatic doors whoosh open, spilling me into bright lights. My boots squeak against the linoleum as I rush to the front desk. A nurse looks up, eyebrows raised.
“M-Maverick Hayes,” I stammer, my voice catching on his name. “ I-I’m his…” The word sticks in my throat. My chest locks. “I’m his wife.”
The syllables wobble, fragile, but I push them out.
The nurse barely glances at the screen before nodding. “Third floor, neuro unit. Room 317. Take the elevator on your right.”
I don’t wait for more. I run.
The elevator ride feels like torture, with the numbers crawling slowly as I twist my bare fingers together and press my palms against the cold steel wall. By the time the doors open, my chest is burning, and each step down the hallway feels heavy with the weight of what I’ll find.
His door is slightly ajar. I push it open, my breath catching.
Maverick lies in a hospital bed, his broad chest rising and falling unevenly, the blanket pulled up to his waist. His face is pale against the white pillow, lips cracked, blonde hair damp with sweat at his temple. His eyes are closed.
Is he sleeping or unconscious, I can’t tell.
The sight of him like that nearly buckles me.
A doctor is at his bedside, flipping through a chart on a tablet, murmuring instructions to a nurse. He looks up as I rush in, my heart pounding. His gaze quickly assesses me. “And you are?”
I swallow hard, struggling to get the words past the lump in my throat. “His wife.”
The doctor nods, accepting it without question, then gestures toward the chair beside the bed. “Sit down. I’ll explain.”
I sink into the seat, my knees trembling, my hand already reaching for Maverick’s, wrapping around his fingers even though it’s limp.
The doctor exhales, his tone calm. “Mr. Hayes sustained a significant concussion. That much was obvious the moment he went down on the field. But his seizure complicates things. This wasn’t his first head injury, was it?”
My chest tightens. “No,” I whisper, guilt crawling hot up my throat. I’ve heard the stories. Seen the way he brushes off headaches. The way he hides the pain with humor.
The doctor nods grimly, as if confirming what he already knows.
“That doesn’t surprise me. From his history, it’s clear he’s endured repeated trauma over the years.
Football players are highly susceptible to chronic traumatic encephalopathy.
CTE. It’s a degenerative brain condition caused by repeated head injuries. ”
I look at the doctor wide-eyed, my lips parting, but nothing comes out.
The doctor continues, voice steady. “Symptoms can develop gradually—memory loss, mood swings, difficulty concentrating—but repeated concussions speed up the process. The brain becomes more fragile with each impact. Tonight’s hit may have triggered a seizure because the cumulative trauma has reached a tipping point. ”
I press my free hand to my mouth, choking on a sob. My other hand grips Maverick’s limp fingers.
The doctor continues, his voice gentle yet heavy.
“We’ll be running more tests—an MRI, EEG monitoring—to rule out any acute bleeding or swelling.
But I won’t lie to you. The risk is real.
Each time he takes the field, each time he absorbs that kind of impact, he’s increasing the likelihood of permanent damage.
CTE doesn’t go away. It doesn’t heal. It only progresses. ”
His words echo through me, louder than the monitors and my heartbeat.
Permanent. Degenerative. Progressing.
I glance at Maverick’s face, so pale and still, and my chest suddenly feels like it’s breaking apart. I thought I was afraid of loving him and losing myself. But this, this is so much worse.
Because loving him means one day, no matter what, I might lose him.
The doctor closes his chart with a soft click. “He’s stable for now. Rest is critical. The seizure has passed, but we’ll need to keep him under close observation.” He pauses, his eyes steady on mine. “Prepare yourself, Mrs. Hayes. Football may not be an option anymore.”
I nod, but I can’t find the words. My throat feels raw, and my chest feels hollow.
The doctor hesitates, just for a beat, before stepping closer. His hand rests gently on my shoulder, the weight warm and steady against the tremor running through me.
“You’re here,” he says softly, his voice free of medical formality. For a moment, it’s not a doctor speaking—it’s a man who has been in too many rooms like this. “That’s what matters most right now.”
I swallow hard, my throat constricted with tears, but I nod. It’s all I can do.
He pulls back, his hand sliding away. The door opens with a soft hiss, and he slips out; the latch clicks shut.
And just like that, I’m left alone with him.
The silence presses down, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor and the hiss of the oxygen line.
I pull my chair closer until the metal legs scrape against the tile, the sound jarring in the quiet.
My knees bump the edge of the bed. Maverick’s hand lies limp on the blanket, palm open, calluses rough even at rest. I slide my fingers over his, curling them into mine, trying to hold on as if I can anchor him here with me.
His skin is warm, but his face is pale, lacking the sun-kissed color I know. Sweat beads form at his hairline, blond strands sticking to his forehead. He appears too still, too different from the Maverick who fills every room he enters.
“I should’ve been there,” I whisper, my words trembling. “I saw it happen, Mav on TV. I saw you go down, and my heart just—” My chest tightens, the sob rising before I can finish. “I thought I lost you.”
The monitor maintains a steady rhythm, unaffected.
I press his hand harder between mine, desperate.
“I’ve been so fucking stupid. Letting Jax’s voice stay in my head, letting fear make me believe that running was safer than staying.
That pushing you away would hurt less than letting you love me.
” Tears blur my vision until his face becomes a smear of pale and shadow.
“But the truth is, it hurts more. So much more.”
A tear slips down my cheek and splashes onto his wrist, forming a dark dot on his skin.
“I love you,” I choke out, the words catching on a sob as my hands clutch the edge of his hospital blanket.
My chest heaves, my throat raw. “I love you, Maverick Hayes.” I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the back of his limp hand, tears dripping onto his skin.
“And it terrifies me, but it’s the only truth I’ve ever been sure of. ”
I shake my head, swallowing hard, my voice breaking as I lift my eyes to his still face.
“I don’t care about contracts, or Maggie, or the cameras.
” My fingers brush over his knuckles, desperate to feel warmth.
“I just want you. I want mornings with you, even the ones where you burn the pancakes.” My lips tremble, a broken laugh escaping.
“I want your laugh when you’re being a goon, when you drive me absolutely insane and somehow make me love you more for it. ”
My voice cracks again, lower now, almost a whisper. “I want forever, Mav, even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy. Because I don’t want perfect, I just want you.”
His fingers tremble beneath mine.
My breath catches. I lean forward, heart pounding, tears falling freely. “Mav?”
His lashes flutter as his lips part on a shallow breath, chest rising unevenly. He blinks once or twice, his eyes glassy and unfocused, reflecting the fluorescent light overhead.
Relief crashes over me so hard my body sags. “Hey, it’s me,” I whisper, squeezing his hand tightly. “It’s Amelia. You’re safe. You’re okay. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
His gaze drifts across the room, passing over the machines, the ceiling, and the edge of the blanket. Finally, his eyes land on mine. For half a second, I swear there’s recognition, a flicker of him.
“Who are you?”
My breath catches, tears spilling hot and relentless as my chest caves in. I stare at him, at the man I love more than I’ve ever admitted, and all he sees is a stranger.
I clutch his hand tighter, my voice breaking into a sob. “It’s me, Mav. It’s Amelia. I’m your—” The word snags in my throat. “I’m your wife.”