“I know fame might not be something you want, and I’ll do anything to make sure you don’t have that. Fuck, we can leave Montana and live on some shitty remote island somewhere if it’ll make you happy. I’m not losing you. You belong with me.”
“But… you love football. I know you claim not to, but deep down, you do.”
I cock my head. “Maybe, but not nearly as much as I love you.” I cup her cheeks. “You want to go to Florida? Fine, go. But I’ll be right there by your side to support you.” I pause. “If you’ll have me there.” A hint of insecurity seeps into my voice.
She’s stunned for a few seconds, but she quickly recovers. I watch her expression shift from shocked to something softer. Something warmer. Something… only for me.
Looking at her like this. I know I’m doing the right thing. This is fucking right.We’reright.
“Does it make things harder that I love you too?”
I chuckle.
“Do I want fame? No, not really, but it wasn’t the fame aspect that made me cut things off with you, Nathan. It was the idea of you losing everything you’ve worked so hard for.”
I shake my head. “The Missarali Storks are a successful team. None of it was for nothing. But playing for them… it’s not for me anymore. You are.”
Mae releases a small laugh, but it looks uncertain. “You’d actually move to Florida?”
“Princess, I’d move to Mars if you were there.”
She leans against the kitchen counter, and I hook my finger under her chin. She allows her hand to trickle down the side of my face, fingers grating against my stubble.
But her eyebrows are still pinched together as her gaze drifts over my shoulder, jaw working as she thinks.
“It seems I haven't made myself clear, so I'll reiterate it for you. There’s no guilt on your part. You didn’t make me do this. I did this. I lost the passion for football a long time ago, at least the competitive side of it, and even though I always told myself I needed to win the Super Bowl to make me feel better about my mother’s death, in reality, I know I’d feel just as empty as I did when we weren’t champions. All my mother ever wanted for me was happiness. She’d want me to do this. She’d want me to make this decision for myself.”
I’m sure my mom has been screaming at me from the sky to quit football for years, but I never listened to her. I allowed my father to get inside my head and control me. I’m not letting that happen anymore, though. I’m not a puppet.
“You’re so much more than Nathan Slater, the famous football player, by the way,” Mae tells me. “I want you to know that. You’re sensitive. Sweet. You’re a good cook. You love your team, and you’d protect Poppy with your life. Radish loves you. And so do I. You have so many more layers to you than just football. I want you to know I see them.”
“I need you by my side, Mae Bexley.”
She dips her chin in a nod, arms wrapping around my neck. “I will be.” Then, a smile appears. “I told Flo I’d never want a photo of you on my bedroom wall.”
Confusion makes my eyes narrow.
“And that’s still true,” she continues, “because I want the real thing. A photo won’t cut it.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You want to wake up to my face every morning?” I press my lips to her neck, circling my hands around her waist and pressing her against me.
“Maybeonyour face.”
An involuntary groan escapes me as I drop my forehead to hers. “Trust you to say something like that.”
This woman knows just how to rile me up. I love it.
She smiles at me, cheeks pinched and lips stretched, but her eyes shift when she feels my boner sticking into her stomach. “Nathan,” she sighs, eyes clouding with need, dropping her hand, running it over my length.
“Fuck, Mae.”
Her fingers then find the zipper to my jeans, and when I hear the zipping noise of her undoing them, I hoist her up in my arms so she’s straddling my waist.
“Bedroom. Now.”
