Chapter 23 Annabelle
Annabelle
Steam curls from the bathroom as I towel dry my hair, the apartment blessedly quiet now that Maverick has gone to meet with his agent.
Lucy is still unavailable, and it’s been impossible coordinating even the slightest meet-up with her.
Coffee, tea. Lunch. It’s been frustrating, to say the least, but hey, I get it; she’s essentially in the same situation I’m in, minus the wedding part, blissfully spending every waking minute with Harris before she has to hop on a plane home.
I have Maverick’s place to myself, which means: no rush to get dressed after my shower, no rush to do my hair and get cute, no rush to do anything. I can walk around in a robe if I want to and not get dressed. Three slices of avocado toast?
Don’t mind if I do!
The TV hums in the background above the living room fireplace—a sports highlight reel I’m only vaguely paying attention to as I bite down into my toast, savoring the salt and sweet and the sound of the crunchy, crusty crust. I take it along with me and pad barefoot to the sink for water when a sentence about us stops me short:
“—NFL linebacker Maverick McBride was spotted earlier this week leaving a Scottsdale brunch spot with his rumored wife—”
I freeze, one hand still on the cabinet handle.
Rumored wife.
Yup, that’s me.
The screen flashes a photo—me, in Maverick’s Arizona hoodie, Birks, my favorite sunglasses, walking next to him as he shields my body with his to avoid candids like this.
It’s blurry, and, honestly?
We look . . . good. Like we belong together.
Like a real couple.
We do not look like two people who recently met and accidentally drunk tied the knot during someone else’s wedding reception, with Cousin Pastor Dan as the officiant.
Phew, that was a mouthful.
I would laugh, but suddenly it doesn’t seem so funny.
Water glass clutched in my hand, my eyes stay glued to the TV.
“—though no legal records have surfaced confirming a marriage license, sources close to McBride say the two are ‘exploring their relationship privately.’”
“Sources?” I ask the television. “What sources say we’re exploring?” Exploring. Hmpf. “Guess that’s one word for it.”
I stare at the screen, heat crawling up my neck. They cut to footage of my “husband” at practice—sweaty, focused, jaw clenched in a way that makes women weak and offensive linemen terrified—and for a second, I forget to breathe.
Because I know that jaw.
I’ve kissed it.
I know what it feels like when he presses it to my shoulder at night, and how it feels when he kisses below my ear or when he drags his nose along the inside of my wrist to smell my perfume.
I know what he looks like before he falls asleep.
I know what it sounds like when he’s tired and whispers my name in the dark, low and gruff and barely awake.
And now the world knows he’s in a relationship.
With me.
The screen cuts to a panel of smirking hosts at a broadcasting counter with a green screen behind them. One of them jokes, “Let me remind the fans that since no official marriage license has been found, it means this could be a very elaborate PR stunt.”
“Well, if it’s a publicity stunt—it’s working,” a burly dude in a purple suit quips. “My wife hasn’t shut up about them since she saw the reel on Instagram.”
They all laugh.
I scowl. “Publicity stunt?”
Another guy chuckles. “Since when does Maverick McBride need a PR stunt? He’s one of the highest-paid players in the league—he’s already dominating the team coverage now that they expect him to be off the rehab list soon.”
Off the rehab list? That’s good news. Why hasn’t he said anything? I know nothing about football—or sports in general, if I’m being honest. I need to be spoon-fed this information.
“Don’t forget the real story here,” he continues. “McBride led the league in solo tackles last season, top five in total stops, and he has been miraculously injury free for the past four seasons until this last one. PR stunt or not, the man is a machine.”
One of them nods. “Reports out of Arizona say he’s come back even stronger. Coaches are calling him the anchor of the entire defense.”
I have no idea what any of this means, but I am glued to the television.
“And if he’s playing this well while navigating a mystery marriage?” someone adds, eyebrows raised. “Other teams should be nervous.”
“Especially with the Jets reshuffling their offensive line.” The female host jumps back in. “And don’t sleep on Miami. Their new QB has legs, but he’s not outrunning McBride.”
Another round of agreement, arguments, and the screen splits—one side showing Maverick mid-tackle in a practice scrimmage, the other from what must be last season.
The subhead below reads: Newlywed Maverick Mcbride: Back to Crush Offenses.
“Ugh!” I click the TV off.
Silence swallows the massive apartment. I stare at the black screen, my own reflection staring back.
What the hell are we doing?
I press a hand to my stomach. Not because I’m sick—because I’m spun up. Suddenly anxious and nauseous in the way you get when something you didn’t mean to matter starts mattering a whole damn lot.
I sink onto one of the barstools at the counter, phone in hand, and open my texts. Nothing from him checking in with me yet.
I swipe that away, opening Instagram to see how many times I’ve been tagged. I had to make my sad little account private and go through the new followers I’d gained overnight, whittling away at deleting them, one by one.
What a pain in the ass.
Go back to my discovery page, and there we are again.
A blurry shot of Maverick with his arm slung around my shoulders the night of the wedding, my face turned up toward him, laughing. Beers. Evy.
I barely remember that moment.
But someone caught it. Posted it. Found us and tagged us.
#McBrideAndBride
Jesus. So surreal.
I check my mentions. They’ve quadrupled. Random strangers weighing in on whether I’m good for him. My appearance. My weight. The size of my boobs.
Whether I’m a bad-luck distraction. Whether I’m “the one.”
The one. As if this is a fairy tale.
My stomach flutters again, and I press my hand to it again.
I exit Instagram, thumb hovering over my weather app like that’s going to bring any sense of control back into my life.
Instead, my screen flashes with a little red dot—a reminder from my period tracker. Log your cycle. Right. Almost forgot my uterus likes to stay on schedule.
I sigh and tap it open, more muscle memory than intention, waiting as the app spins and loads.
A buzz. The screen goes blue.
You’re six days late. Please update period.
I blink at the screen.
Nope. That can’t be right, can it? I scroll. Double-check the dates.
Last logged period: four and a half weeks ago. Mood notes: bloated, tired, craving salt. Ha ha, sounds about right. Most months I’m moody, crabby, and bloated, but the new hubby doesn’t need to know that.
Six days.
That means nothing, right?
My heart kicks hard behind my ribs. My mouth goes dry. I can still taste his mouth on mine from last night. He’s been wearing condoms, because we still have not gotten tested, but there were those times before when he didn’t.
Plenty of times before.
“You’re being dramatic,” I tell the app.
Still. Maybe I should . . . you know . . . go grab a test?
There’s a pharmacy around the corner. Two blocks. I’ve seen it on the way back from coffee runs, tucked between a dry cleaner and a smoothie place that smells like grass.
I keep my head down as I walk. Sunglasses on even though it’s not that sunny. Every person I pass, I wonder if they recognize me. Her. Maverick McBride’s mystery wife.
The one he’s keeping hidden.
The one not seen out in public.
My stomach churns.
The automatic doors hiss open, and I head straight for the back corner like I’ve done this a million times, even though my hands are shaking. I bypass the vitamins, the skincare aisle, the snacks.
Straight to that aisle.
And there they are. An entire wall of choices.
One for early results. One with “rapid response.” One with words instead of lines. There’s even one that connects to an app, which feels . . . extra.
I grab a box of three. Apparently I don’t trust science or myself.
At the counter, the clerk gives me a polite smile and doesn’t say a word. Thank God.
Back outside, the sun is hotter than I expected, my T-shirt clinging to my back. The bag in my hand weighs more than it should. Or maybe that’s just what it feels like when you’re carrying around a question mark that might change your entire life.
By the time I reach the apartment again, my fingers ache from clutching the bag too tight.
I pause in the hallway.
Breathe.
Then unlock the door and slip inside.
“Hey. Did you go for a walk?”
“Jesus!” I gasp, practically flinging the bag into the kitchen island as I jump out of my skin.
Maverick’s leaning against the fancy oven, barefoot, shirt slung over his shoulder, a protein shake in one hand. Duffel bag on the marble floor.
I clutch the strap of my purse to my chest like it’s going to slow my heart rate, breathing in and out.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You were gone when I got back.”
“Just needed some air,” I say too quickly. “Um. And to stretch my legs.”
His eyes go to the bag. Then to my eyes.
I smile weakly. “How was your meeting?”
Maverick narrows his eyes, but thankfully doesn’t press. He takes a long pull from his shake. “Meeting was fine. Long. Boring. Agent is pissed I’m not giving interviews right now.”
Oh? “Do you have to?”
“Not about my personal life, no.” He yanks open the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and cracks the seal. “But you know how it is. If I don’t talk, people fill in the blanks.”
I nod slowly, lips pressed together. People are filling in the blanks. I saw the headlines. I saw the comments. And I’m not a blank anymore.
He shuts the fridge and looks over at me again, like he’s trying to read between the lines. “You okay?”
“Totally fine,” I say.
He eyes the bag still half tucked under my arm. “What’s in the bag?”