CHAPTER 23 Maverick Jennings
Standing on the Sidelines
I hate standing on the sidelines when I should be out on the field, but Coach is letting me communicate with Brandon and call plays, and at least I feel like I’m a part of the game.
Even if it isn’t the part I want to be involved in.
I’m listening to the plays being called upstairs through a headset, and I give Coach my opinion when I’m asked.
And I rip the headset off my head and throw it on the ground in anger when I’m ignored and it leads to a turnover.
Fuck.
She was gone when I woke up this morning, as expected, but I was hoping she’d fall asleep too and be there anyway. Maybe that’s why I’m in a pissy mood.
Or, probably more likely, a pissy mood is just my general demeanor.
The repercussions didn’t matter to me as much as being with her did.
I don’t know what’s happening.
Instead of hating her very existence and the people who brought her here, I find myself glancing over at her during the game.
I’ve never glanced at a woman during a game.
Not even back when I was married.
I’ve always been hyper focused on gameplay. Warming up. Intentionally stretching. I couldn’t let a woman interfere with that.
And now I can’t stop thinking about what happens when her year is up. When I’m all fixed and no longer need a brand strategist. When I have my future mapped out, when I have all the sponsorships I can handle, when my legacy is secured.
My legacy.
What a goddamn joke.
The only motivator I had before to work on my legacy was for my mother’s reputation. But my mother doesn’t even know who the hell I am. What difference does my legacy make?
Zero. None. Zilch.
And yet, as I glance over at the woman who’s been trying to help me with it anyway, I can’t help but think that maybe it does matter. Maybe I want to change for her. Maybe I want to be someone worthy of someone like her.
I don’t know how to do that. How to be that. How to open up to her. How to tell her what happened in my past that made me the man I am today, the one who has no fucks left to give because they were all buried with my past.
She’s awakening them. She’s making me want to care again. And it’s confusing as hell.
I never wanted to care again. It’s easier not to.
Or maybe I want to continue being the fuck-up I am so she’ll have to stick around longer than a year.
Our eyes catch, and she looks surprised that I’ve taken my focus off the field. I return it where it should be as expected, not sure why I’m suddenly more interested in watching her survey the field and look over at me every so often than I am in watching my teammates on offense.
It’s not what I was expecting.
It’s not something I’m ready for.
I want to put the shield back up, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll lose access to the first thing that I’ve wanted since it all went down over ten years ago.
The Aces win. Handily. We head back to Vegas after the game. She sits with the staff even though I want her next to me. We don’t say goodbye. Her car is already in the parking garage when I get home, and she must already be upstairs because she’s not in the lobby.
I stare at her door a few extra seconds, willing it to open, before I head into my own condo.
I’m being stupid.
But when things got too hard to handle on my own, she was there for me. When the demons held sleep hostage, she stepped in and battled them for me without even knowing how important it was that she showed up for me.
Nobody shows up for me. I’m alone, and I have been for a long time.
She once told me I wasn’t broken and that it was okay to tell her why I think I am.
I didn’t take her up on that, but it might be time to confess.
It might be time to get it out of the place where I’ve let it sit, rotting and festering for ten long years.
It might be time to let her in. It might be time to reclaim my life rather than continuing to live in the shadows, battling the demons alone.
I never wanted to. I was better off this way for over an entire decade. Ten fucking years.
And then she stepped into my life, all red lipstick and danger, and made me see that maybe, just maybe, there could be something else in this life to bring me some semblance of joy again.
I’ve been standing on the sidelines of my own goddamn life for too long. It’s time to take it back, and she’s the one who’s making me see that.
I walk over to the mantle where I keep the photo of my mother and me from my wedding.
I allow the memories that I’ve worked so hard to push away to rise to the surface.
I think back to this exact moment. I’d just married the love of my life.
We were young, only twenty-two, college graduates getting married the week after graduation—before my first season as a pro football player got underway.
It was quick, but we dated all through college, and when you know, you know. Right?
I knew.
I don’t know if she knew.
Distance helps define things, and it’s easier to see now that she loved the idea of being a football wife more than she loved actually being one.
She loved being a football girlfriend, too.
Of course she did. She was a cheerleader.
I was the captain of our college team. We went together like peanut butter and jelly.
Or so I thought.
I was wrong, and I didn’t find out until it was far too late, creating scars in the already broken heart that would never, ever fully heal.
I’d never, ever fully trust again. Little did the man in this photo, the one dancing with his mother at his wedding reception, know. There’s so much joy in this photo.
It was before my mom’s diagnosis.
It was before I found out the truth about my wife.
It was before I knew exactly how much I lost.
It was before my first season ever started as a pro football player.
So little joy has followed the events that took place a mere month after this photo was taken. We were still newlyweds. We were still celebrating. I had to leave a few weeks later for my first training camp, and football was the only reprieve from the harrowing loss that was eating me alive.
The harrowing loss I’ve constantly lived with for a decade.
I deserve the chance to move on. I never thought I did until someone pointed out to me that maybe I’m not broken.
Maybe the one who created this mess was the one who was broken, and I was just the debris in the aftermath. One of many pieces of debris, really.
I pack for my one night out of town tomorrow.
I think about texting Everleigh. I think about asking her if she can come over.
I don’t.
I also don’t get much sleep.
When morning dawns, I get up and run on the treadmill. Since we won, we don’t have practice today or tomorrow, but Coach has sent some film for me to review. I can do it on the plane later, but I decide to do it now so I can focus on other things while I travel.
I study, analyze, and make mental notes to prepare for our home game against the Eagles this weekend—my first regular season game as the starting quarterback of the Vegas Aces.
And then it’s time to meet Everleigh.
Unfamiliar nerves dart through me. I run my sweaty palms down the front of my shorts to dry them off as I sling my overnight bag over my shoulder and my garment bag over my arm.
I head out into the hallway, and I find my neighbor locking up her door, a small suitcase that’ll fit in the overhead by her feet.
“You ready for LA?” she asks.
I nod, and I find myself without words.
I hope they come because I want to tell her everything. I need to tell her like I need to breathe.
We take a car toward the airport, and before I lose my nerve, I reach over and take her hand in mine in the backseat. I lower my voice so it’s just for her, and I say, “I hated the idea of this when Ellie first mentioned it, but now I’m glad to have some time with you.”
She squeezes my hand, and she looks a little confused, like she’s not quite sure what to say.
I’m confused, too.
“Me too,” she says.
I blow out a breath, and I don’t want to tell her everything here in the back of a car where someone else could overhear it, so I don’t say anything at all.
We arrive at the airport. We grab lunch. We board our flight. She pulls out her laptop and immediately gets to work, so I review the film again since this doesn’t feel like the time to bring up my past.
We land, and we’re ushered to the hotel where the event is taking place. We head toward check-in. “Checking in. Last name is Bradley,” she says, and she pulls out her license and a credit card.
“I see you’ve requested a two-bedroom suite,” the hotel clerk says, tapping a few keys. “With tonight’s event, unfortunately all our two-beds are taken, but I can get you into a one-bedroom suite.”
She glances at me and snags her lip between her teeth. “Does that have more than one bed?”
The clerk shakes her head. “There’s a couch in the living area, but it doesn’t convert to a bed. I can send up extra sheets if you’d like.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say.
Everleigh glances over at me, still worrying her lip between her teeth.
“It’s fine.” I incline my head a little meaningfully, and she looks nervous as she turns back to the clerk.
“It’s fine.” She lets out a little breath, and then the clerk hands over our room keys and sends us on our way.
We call the elevator, and the suite is fine. It has a king in the bedroom along with the couch as described, and if Everleigh is uncomfortable with the situation, I’ll just take the couch.
“I need to get dressed since the event starts in an hour,” she says, and she ducks into the bathroom.
I sit on the couch, a little perturbed we haven’t had a chance to talk at all yet, and she takes her time in there. So much time, in fact, that forty-five minutes later, I decide to get into my suit.
She emerges as I’m buttoning the jacket, already uncomfortable and hot as fuck as I yank at the collar that feels like it’s choking my thick neck, and she freezes in the doorway of the bathroom.