Even if it’s my brother.
This is sacred to Maverick.
“Who else?” he asks, otherwise unfazed by who his first peer is.
“Evan Wilkinson and Austin Graham.”
He presses his lips together and nods. “You look hot today,” he says quietly.
I laugh. “So do you.”
“I bet that red dress would look nice on the floor of my bedroom.” He quirks an eyebrow.
“Even better with your pants on top of it,” I shoot back.
“And yourpanties—”
“Jesus, you two,” Dex whines, interrupting us as he walks into the room. “Can you save it for after hours?”
My cheeks turn pink, but Maverick is as cool as always.
“You ready?” Maverick asks my brother, and Dex glances at me.
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then he closes it, turns back to Maverick, and says, “Ready.”
They head toward his office, and I bury myself back in my work. Maverick has definitely turned himself around—especially in the most recent few weeks—but that doesn’t mean my work is done. It’s just transitioned a bit. Now instead of hopping onto the defensive, I’m working on building his lasting legacy.
He doesn’t want to share the details of his story publicly, but he might be open to it in the future. He’s enjoying the one-on-one time with his teammates, but he’s open to doing public speaking engagements with local high school teams interested in launching his program that’s part of his new foundation as Jack suggested.
His goal is to create a program in high schools that will build leadership and help student athletes work through trauma. In his own experience, he had the coaches to help build his talent but nobody to guide him through the pressures and expectations that were put on high school kids who were good enough to go pro. He wants to give seniors tools that they can pass down to freshmen, tools they can use for the rest of their high school careers and into whatever path they take in their future.
It's a beautiful sentiment, one I fully support and stand behind. And it has sort of become my job to brand that program. We’re calling it MAV, short for Mentorship, Accountability, Victory—also short for Maverick—and we’re launching it locally first. I’ve gotten Desert Lights High School on board, and we’ll be launching the program over thesummer when football student athletes participate in their annual summer camp. I’m deep in the planning process, and I’ve already booked several podcasts for Maverick where he can talk about this program as he begins to build the legacy that was always waiting there inside him for someone to unlock.
As it turns out, it was Jack Dalton and I who each held one end of the key. We both knew there was potential in Maverick despite the fact that I was forced into working with him. Jack saw it first, and he knew how much the Aces needed a guy like him. Not the brooding, grumpy asshole, but the guy underneath that façade—the one who’s been through some things and can use his own experiences to positively help those around him who are also suffering in silence.
They don’t have to be silent anymore knowing they have someone like Maverick on their side.
And as my brother emerges from Maverick’s office thirty minutes later, I can’t help but narrow my eyes.
I get the feeling they weren’t in there talking about trauma at all—at least not from the smile on my brother’s face and the twinkle in Maverick’s eyes.
I study the two of them as I wonder what’s going on.
“Bye, Ev,” Dex says, and he waves as he walks by the conference room.
“What was that all about?” I ask carefully since I know what goes on in the office is confidential.
He chuckles a little, and he gives me the smile he so rarely graces anyone with. He may have melted a little with this peer mentorship thing, but in general, he’s still mostly a fairly grumpy asshole—I meanperfectionist—who smiles once in a while now since he’s got a girl like me.
“Oh, you know, just your brother warning me not to hurt you. Issued a few threats as if he could really kick my ass.” He rolls his eyes.
I narrow my eyes and purse my lips for a beat. “As I recall, my job here working with you back at the beginning of the season was delayed because my brother laid you out on your ass and broke a rib.” It’s probably not thebestidea to bring up the past, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“That wasn’t kicking my ass. That was hitting a player in a vulnerable position.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” I say, as if to say it’s the same thing said a different way.
He lowers his head so his gaze falls a little darkly upon me. “I’d like to get you into a vulnerable position. Say…each limb tied to the four corners of my bed?”
