Chapter 44 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Maverick left the hospital—a little paler, a little thinner, but still towering, still stubborn.
He hasn’t touched a football since. The Mustangs announced he’s out indefinitely, and the world is buzzing with speculation.
But I don’t care about the world—I care about the quiet ache in his eyes when he looks at me and doesn’t quite let me all the way back in.
So I’ve been trying.
Really trying.
Which is laughable because I don’t do this.
I don’t grovel. I don’t show up with coffee runs, folded laundry, and stay up late watching movies just to make sure he’s not alone when he can’t sleep.
I don’t rearrange my tattoo schedule so I can drive him to physical therapy or sit on his couch while he ice his ribs. That’s not me.
But for him? I’m learning.
The first morning after leaving the hospital, I went out and bought groceries. I held up a paper bag like a peace offering. “I brought eggs. And, uh… three different kinds of Pop-Tarts because I didn’t know which ones you like.”
He raised an eyebrow, like he wasn’t sure if I was joking. “You don’t even eat Pop-Tarts.”
“Yeah, well. You do.” My voice cracked in the middle, and I busied myself with unloading so that he wouldn’t see how badly my hands shook.
That was the first step.
Since then, it’s been the small things. Sitting with him in silence when his head hurt too much for noise. Curling up against his side on the couch, even when he kept his arms stiff, not wrapping around me.
It’s not easy. Every instinct in me wants to retreat when he’s quiet, when he doesn’t smile, and when his blue eyes stay shadowed. Every time he doesn’t reach back, it feels like rejection, like proof that I’ve broken something I can’t fix.
But I stay.
I make him tea when his headaches get severe.
I doodle tiny tattoos on his wrist with a Sharpie just to see if I can coax a smile.
I listen when he talks about nothing—about JP’s stupid group chat memes, about Pierce bitching at practice, about Carter telling him to sit his ass down—because I know if I wait long enough, he’ll slip, and I’ll get a glimpse of the man who used to look at me like I was his entire world.
And when I catch those glimpses, no matter how fleeting, it feels like oxygen.
He hasn’t touched a football since that night. His cleats are still by the door, and his playbook remains closed on the counter. And maybe that’s what scares me most. Because football was always his armor, his identity. Now, it’s just me and him, and all the rawness between us.
So I keep trying. Every day. Every hour.
Even when it feels like walking barefoot on broken glass.
Because he deserves it. Because I love him. Because this time, I’m not running.
The house is quiet, with only the low hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the clock above the fireplace. Maverick lies stretched out on the couch in black sweats and a hoodie, his arm lazily draped over his eyes, as his chest rises and falls softly, finally steady.
I sit cross-legged on the floor beside him, Rex curled up in his dinosaur hoodie on my lap, while I scroll through my phone aimlessly. Every so often, I glance up just to watch him breathe.
When he shifts and groans, I set Rex aside and grab the glass of water I’d been keeping nearby. “Here,” I whisper, pressing it into his hand before he even opens his eyes.
“Thanks, dollface,” he rasps, his voice gravelly from sleep, but he drinks it anyway.
I pull the blanket tighter around him, brushing damp strands of blond hair from his forehead, and for the first time in days, his mouth curls into something close to a smile. Small. Fragile. But real.
The knock on the door breaks the silence.
Maverick pushes himself up slowly, muttering, “I’ve got it,” before I can even say anything.
“Mav—sit down,” I warn, following him as he shuffles toward the entryway. But he waves me off, his stubborn back straight even though I can see the faint wobble in his steps.
He pulls the door open.
Maggie. Perfect blazer, flawless blowout, phone in one manicured hand and a file tucked under her arm. Her eyes flick over him in one quick glance—sweats, pale skin, the faint bruise still yellowing along his temple—and her smile tightens, thin and businesslike.
“There you are,” she says. “We need to talk.”
The sight of her standing there, already halfway inside with her agenda, makes my blood boil.
Maverick rubs the back of his neck, already looking exhausted, his voice flat. “Maggie, not now—”
But she’s already moving forward, heels clicking on his hardwood floor. “No, now. The press is circling like sharks, the team wants answers, and your sponsors are nervous. We need to get ahead of this before you’re branded as ‘the quarterback with a broken brain.’”
I notice how his shoulders stiffen and see the flicker of shame in his eyes.
And that’s it. That’s my breaking point.
“Get out.”
The words escape my mouth before I can stop them, sharp and furious. Maggie blinks, her perfect smile faltering as she turns toward me.
“Excuse me?”
I step between her and Maverick, arms crossed over my chest, my entire body a shield. “You heard me. He’s still healing. He doesn’t need you barging in here with scare tactics and press bullshit.”
“Amelia—” Maverick begins, but I cut him off, my eyes never leaving Maggie’s.
“You don’t own him,” I snap, voice rising. “You don’t get to walk into his home and reduce him to a headline. He’s a person. He’s the man I love. And right now, he needs peace, not you parading his injuries around like a PR crisis.”
Maggie’s mouth opens, indignation flashing in her eyes, but I step closer, my voice low and deadly. “So either you walk out that door, or I’ll make sure every sponsor you’re worried about knows you’re exploiting a man who can barely stand on his own feet.”
Maggie’s eyes dart to Maverick, as if she’s expecting him to rein me in. But when I glance back, he’s simply staring at me, lips parted, with an unreadable look burning in his eyes.
She scoffs. “Oh, please. Pipe down. We both know this marriage is fake, sweetheart. You don’t get to play the doting wife now.”
My ears ring, my cheeks burn from anger, and I swear my fingernails nearly break skin where they dig into my palms. Fake. She said it like a weapon, like she’s been waiting to twist the knife.
My mouth opens, already full of enough venom to drop her right where she stands, but then she flicks her wrist, and my stomach plummets.
“Come on in.”
A man in a button-up shirt with a press badge steps across the threshold, his notepad already out and his recorder blinking red. His face is lit up with greedy excitement, as if Maverick lying half-dead on the field was the best thing that ever happened to him.
My chest lurches. “What the fu—”
Maverick cuts me off with a laugh.
Not a happy one. A sharp, cracking sound echoes through the house, ragged and too loud in the silence that follows.
Maggie stills. The reporter hesitates mid-step.
And Maverick—my broken, stubborn, infuriating man—pushes himself up, shoulders squared despite looking pale as hell, sweat dotting his temple. His grin is wolfish, unhinged, and it makes my heart trip over itself.
“You’re late,” he says, the smirk tugging at his lips. He tilts his head toward the reporter. “I already ripped the contract up.”
My jaw drops.
Maggie’s face drains of color. “You—what?”
“Yeah,” he says, shrugging, his eyes slicing toward her. “I tore that shit up. Because Amelia isn’t my PR stunt, she’s my wife.”
My wife, those words make me dizzy.
Maggie recovers quickly, folding her arms across her chest, her smile sharp and poisonous. “You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t tank your career over—”
“You sure about that?” Maverick interrupts, leaning forward on the doorframe, his voice low and threatening. “Because you should’ve seen me tearing those fucking papers, it was very convincing.”
The reporter finally finds his voice, stepping forward. “So you’re confirming the marriage has always been fake?”
Maverick’s grin only widens, a reckless spark lighting up his blue eyes. “You want a story, fuckface?”
The reporter freezes, eyes nervously darting toward Maggie.
Maverick pushes off the doorframe, standing tall even though I can see the strain in his body. “Here’s your scoop, fucker, I retire.”
The reporter gasps, nearly dropping his notepad. Maggie lets out a strangled noise.
My knees nearly give out. He said it so casually, like tossing a grenade. I retire. Just like that. The game that’s defined his entire life, gone with two words.
“What?” Maggie hisses, her perfect veneer cracking, her voice rising. “You can’t just—”
“Watch me,” Maverick cuts in.
The reporter stumbles forward, voice eager. “Mr. Hayes, are you saying—”
“Print it in bold,” Maverick snarls, his grin sharp and wild. “No more touchdowns, no more contracts, no more letting people like her—” he flicks his chin toward Maggie “—use me until my brain turns to mush. I’m fucking doneeee.”
Maggie’s face twists, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “You’re making a mistake.”
“And you’re in my house,” I snap, finally stepping into the fray, my voice like a whip. “Get. Out.”
Maggie turns on me, scoffing. “Cute. Playing house with your fake husband.”
This bitch can eat shit, because I’m about to roundhouse kick her.
My blood boils, and before she can take another smug step into our space, I plant both hands on her pristine blazer and shove.
She stumbles back, her heels clicking against the hardwood, her eyes going wide in shock. “Excuse me—”
“No,” I cut her off, my voice sharp as glass. “Excuse you. He’s not your quarterback anymore. He’s not your puppet. He’s not your paycheck. He’s mine.”
I shove again, harder this time, forcing her into the doorway. The reporter fumbles backward to get out of my way, his notepad nearly slipping from his sweaty hands.
Maggie sputters, trying to catch herself, her face blotchy with rage. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” I snarl, every inch of me vibrating with fury. “And I will. You don’t get to waltz into this house and tear him down when he’s barely on his feet. You don’t get to call me fake, or pretend like you own him, when the only thing you’ve ever done is exploit him.”
Her eyes flash, but before she can fire back, I slam the door frame with my palm, leaning in close enough she can see the fury in my eyes. “So, unless you want me to beat the fuck out of you, you’re going to take your reporter and get the fuck out of this house.”
The reporter is already halfway down the porch, fumbling with his recorder, muttering, “Jesus Christ…” under his breath.
Maggie stares at me, stunned and breathless. For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks rattled.
And I can’t help but smile. “Bye, bitch.”
I give one last shove against her shoulder and send her stumbling onto the porch, her heels catching on the step. The door slams shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the whole house.
My chest heaves, my pulse racing, and when I turn around, Maverick is standing there in his sweats and hoodie, one eyebrow cocked, that infuriating grin tugging at his mouth.
“That was so fucking hot, yell at me next,” he says, his voice hoarse but tinged with laughter.
“You wish.” I tease.
His grin softens, doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s real. “Ice cream?”
My shoulders drop, the anger draining into exhaustion, and I swallow hard, blinking at him. “Yeah, quarterback, let’s get you some ice cream.”