CHAPTER 27 Everleigh Bradley
Back to Square One
“Come with me,” he says, and he holds his hand out to me.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He leads me toward the elevator, but rather than pressing the button to go down, he presses it to go up.
My brother lives on the top floor, so I assume that’s where he’s taking me—maybe to tell Dex about my mom, to hold my hand while I do it.
Which is why I’m surprised when he cuts to the stairwell instead of my brother’s door.
I follow him up the stairs to a door marked Rooftop Access.
I didn’t know there was rooftop access in this building, but apparently there is.
He props the door open so we don’t get locked up here like some scene straight out of a comedy, and we walk over toward the side that looks out over Las Vegas Boulevard. He hasn’t let go of my hand yet. I haven’t let go of his, either.
We stare at the famed skyline for a few quiet moments.
“Have you ever heard of finger breathing?” he asks.
I glance over at him with furrowed brows and shake my head.
He lets go of the hold he has on my hand, and instead, he turns in toward me and holds my hand up in the air between us.
“Breathe in,” he says as he slowly traces the outside of my pinky finger and stops at the top.
“Hold here,” he says, and he pauses for a beat before he traces the path down the other side of my finger.
“And let it out.” He pauses again between my pinky and my ring finger, and then he does it again.
“In,” he instructs. “Hold.” He pauses at the top.
“Out,” he says, tracing back down. He goes through all of my fingers, and he breathes with me on the last two rather than instructing me aloud.
“Sometimes when I get overwhelmed, I come up here. It’s quiet, somehow more peaceful than my place even when I’m alone.
I look out over that skyline at a place that’s anything but quiet or peaceful with its flashing lights and tourists and dancers and money being lost and won, and I do my finger breathing, and it recenters me. It calms me.”
He's still holding my hand in the air between us, and I wrap that hand around his. I use my other to trace his jawline, my fingertips light on his skin, and I stare up into his eyes. Something shifts between us, some new understanding, or a new bond, or something. I’m not sure what, but I feel it, and it feels somehow like it’s us against the world.
Like together, we can do anything. Like we can stand up here staring out at that skyline, breathe deeply together, and everything will turn out okay.
When I wake in the morning, it’s with Maverick’s arms around me. It’s only the second time we’ve spent the night together, but this time was different.
We stayed up on that rooftop a long time just talking. We talked about my fears, about my complicated relationship with my mother, about everything. He listened, and he told me more about his own complicated relationship with his mother, too, as he held my hand.
It felt like I was giving him pieces of myself that I won’t get back. Like I took pieces of him for myself, too. Like our souls were entwining.
Would I have felt that way if it had been Billy there to comfort me? Unlikely.
I was together with Billy longer, but what I’m starting with Maverick feels different. Deeper. More passionate. More important.
It’s a Saturday morning, and the Aces have a home game this weekend, which means light practice today. I get up and take a quick shower, and Maverick is awake in my bed when I emerge dressed for the day.
“Feeling okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Thanks for last night. I needed that.”
He gets up and wraps his arms around me. “So did I.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and it makes me wonder what an actual relationship with him would be like. Would it be tender nights and sweet mornings?
Something tells me that with a guy like Maverick, the answer is no. He let out his tender side for a night because I needed it, but even with me, he doesn’t always show that side.
And with anyone else? He never shows that side.
Before we leave for practice this morning, he has an interview with two popular former players who started a podcast, and I help get him set up.
He has a home office in his condo where he can record things like this.
A jersey from his college days hangs in a frame behind his desk, but no traces of the Cowboys are here in his office—or the Aces, come to think of it.
His office has a recliner chair in the corner with a small table beside it on which sits the latest Patterson thriller.
I can’t help but wonder if he gets a thrill from reading them.
I wonder what gives him a thrill at all.
I sit in the chair to give him a few coaching tips before the podcast begins.
“Stick to what we’re trying to do here. If you want to mention the foundation or the Hope Gala, great.
Keep it positive. You didn’t get screwed by the Cowboys; you’ve learned a lot from the Aces.
Can you tell me your top three talking points? ”
“Grinding athlete, everyday kind of guy, football-focused?” he guesses.
I chuckle. “Works for me. Don’t let them trap you. Pivot whenever you need to. Questions?”
He grimaces as he keeps his gaze focused on me, and then he shakes his head and connects to the call.
“Hey, Mav. I’m Reggie Bishop,” Reggie says.
“And I’m Darren Vickers,” Darren says.
Reggie takes over. “Thanks for joining us. We’ll give you a quick intro and then launch into our questions. Anything off-limits?”
“I don’t discuss my personal life,” he says.
“We won’t ask. We’ll keep it focused on gameplay. Ready?” Reggie asks.
Maverick nods.
“Okay, going live in three…two…one. Hey athletic supporters, it’s your boy Reggie Bishop—”
“And Darren Vickers!” Darren interrupts.
Reggie picks up from there. “Coming at you from Detroit. Today we have Maverick Jennings with us, star quarterback formerly of the Cowboys and ready to start his first game coming off an injury with the Vegas Aces. Welcome, Maverick.”
“Thanks,” he grunts. I make eyes at him and wave my arm in a give them more kind of motion, and he grimaces a little as he adds, “Good to be here.”
I almost laugh out loud. It’s like pulling teeth around here just to have a normal conversation.
How is this the same guy who held me in his arms all night and told me about how hard it is to watch his mother’s memory deteriorate?
“Let’s get into this injury first,” Darren says. “What happened?”
I give him warning eyes that he seems to take to heart.
“Accident during practice that ended up fracturing a rib.” He pats his side. “Good as new, though, and I’m ready to take the field tomorrow.”
“Can you describe the accident?” Reggie presses.
“A teammate was overcompensating.”
“Which one?” Reggie asks.
Maverick sighs, and I get nervous for a second as I repeat the word in my head over and over. Pivot! Pivot! I feel like Ross on Friends for just a second. And then, miraculously, he pivots. “It’s not something I want to focus on.”
It’s clear he’s already struggling, though.
“Right,” Reggie says. “You’ve made a lot of headlines lately. Can we expect more, or would you care to comment on that?”
“I’m working on some new things and hope to make positive headlines going forward.” He glances up at me, and I nod with a bright smile and a thumbs-up.
“Tell us about it,” Darren says.
“I’m working with the Aces on a new foundation to benefit kids who have experienced trauma, for one. I’ve recently taken on some new sponsorship opportunities, including a partnership with Athlenergy, a new energy drink on the market that promotes hydration and muscle function.”
“Oh, send some of that shit my way,” Darren says, and he and Reggie laugh.
Maverick doesn’t crack a smile.
“Let’s talk about the headset incident in Cincinnati last weekend,” Reggie says.
I suck in a breath. Man, they’re not making this easy on him.
“What about it?” Maverick asks.
“Rumor has it Dallas shipped you off because of an attitude problem. Was that the kind of thing they were referring to?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. What is he going to say?
“Dallas shipped me off because they had an attitude problem,” Maverick says.
I close my eyes as I wince.
“How’s that?” Darren asks.
“I put up the numbers with almost no support, and they blamed me anyway. Vegas snapped me up because they want to win. End of story,” Maverick says.
“Who’d you clash with most in Dallas?” Reggie asks.
I stand up and try to get his attention to pivot, but he’s focused on the screen now and purposely ignoring me.
“Who didn’t I clash with? After week eight, nobody cared anymore. Every goddamn player in that locker room was just collecting a paycheck at that point. And half the coaching staff didn’t have a clue what they were doing. I’m better off here in Vegas.”
I press my lips together and close my eyes.
I can’t interrupt him, and I can’t legally cut his microphone despite the temptation plowing into me. We’re live, so I can’t even request edits.
Dammit, Maverick.
It gets worse from there.
He starts naming specific coaches who did him dirty. Specific teammates he didn’t get along with—and why they didn’t get along.
Where in my fucking notes did it ever say he should do that?
I’m standing there shaking my head, waving my hand in front of my throat to indicate he should cut, all the things…and he’s ignoring me in favor of trash talking his former team.
Just when I thought he was turning a corner, we’re back to square one with yet another mess I’m going to have to clean up for him.
When the call ends, I glare at him. “What the fuck was that?” I scream.
“It was me being honest.” He shrugs, and his total lack of accountability does nothing but piss me the fuck off.
“You trash talked your former team! How is that spinning anything into positivity? And what about pivoting? You didn’t pivot! You made a mess for me to clean up. I thought we were turning a corner!” I’m yelling, and I’m angry.
“We did turn a corner. But that doesn’t mean just because I turned a corner with you that I forgive my former team for what they did to me.”
“You wouldn’t be here turning corners at all with me if they hadn’t let you go,” I hiss.
“That doesn’t change the fact that I never wanted to be here.”
“God, you just don’t get it! You can’t just say one nice thing about being here—like that you’re getting me out of the deal.”
“Am I getting you, though?” he asks. “We’re hiding, Ev. We’re pretending it’s nothing in public.”
My brows pinch together. Is he already jumping ship, scared of how big and important this could be, fucking things up to back out of it before it even gets started?
“It’s not like you’re innocent,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my hand flying to my chest as rage pulses through me.
“The big Bradley secrets. The illegal casinos. What if that got out? What would that do to your future brand strategy company?” he asks.
The question feels like a punch to the gut, and at the same time it feels like a threat. “Those don’t belong to me. You knew about it before I did.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that your last name is on it.”
“Are you threatening me?” I ask softly.
He stares carefully at me, and he doesn’t answer.
I thought after the talk we had last night, he’d leave my family out of this. My mother is dying, for Christ’s sake. Exposing my dad’s illegal gambling ring is the last thing my family needs right now as we all gear up to fight for her life—to fight against losing her too soon.
It just makes me realize that I need to hold even more tightly to my family’s secrets…and if push comes to shove, I need to hold more tightly to my family, too.