I scowl at him, and he relents.
“Fine. I’ll try to shoot some shit.”
He meets with Adrian first, who’d been working with him on throwing shorter distances and keeping up his strength with exercises that wouldn’t affect his ribs. But now he needs to get back to full game speed and strength, which means he has just a few days to get back to where he was before the injury.
I listen with rapt attention as I try to piece out where I can be helpful, but this is sort of all Maverick from this point. I snap a few pictures as he trains with Adrian, and I send them to Ellie, who’s devising his social media plan. He’ll need to approve everything first, and I can fully see him telling us not to post any of this, but if he wants his angle to be split somewhere between grinding athlete and everyday dude, we need to get started somewhere.
It’s a long day as he starts in the weight room and then joins the rest of the team for drills on the practice field. As a bystander, it appears to me that he never missed a beat. He’s at his most natural when he’s standing on the line, looking downfield for his receiver as he holds the ball in his hand. He’s confident and patient, two words that wouldn’t come straight to mind when I think of the little I’ve gotten to know of Maverick Jennings.
I’m reminded of when he told me he’s broken. I’m reminded of when he asked why I haven’t left yet. I’m reminded of the way he has exactly zero patience for me.
But this man on the field is someone else entirely. He waits for his moment. He scans the field. He’s precise and disciplined.
It’s commanding and beyond sexy.
I shake that word straight out of my head.
The only reason it would matter if he’s sexy is if I can somehow use it to help his image. My personal feelings on the matter need to be kept in check at all costs.
My phone rings while I’m watching practice, and I see it’s my little sister Ivy calling. I send the call to voicemail since I’m working right now.
Practice ends, but Maverick doesn’t leave the field with everyone else. In fact, even the coaches leave, and he’s still out there on the field. He’s running some extra drills, testing things out. He’s probably happy to be back here in the place he loves—the one place that gives him respite from whatever it is that seems to plague him. Because something is definitely buried beneath the surface with this guy. You don’t just walk through life hating everyone without having some reason why.
I walk over toward him after a good fifteen minutes, and I’m not sure why. It’s starting to get dark out here as the sun goes down, and the sky is a brilliant shade of pinks and oranges. Sunsets in Vegas just hit differently than they do in Chicago, especially when there are a few clouds in the sky—a rare occurrence in the desert.
I stand by the goalposts as I watch him run his drills, and I lean against it, watching him. Observing. Thinking.
He’s working through some footwork, weaving, dropping back, sprinting. Faking throws. He holds a ball but doesn’t let it go, and he repeats the same drills several times before he finally glances over at the sky, and then he walks over toward me.
“You shouldn’t be on the field,” he grunts. He stops in front of me. He’s close enough to touch, close enough to reach out and grab a fistful of his practice jersey. I don’t.
Until he moves in closer. “You shouldn’t be here at all,” he says. His body is flush against mine, and his arm loops around me to haul me into him. That’s when I grab a fistful of his jersey.
His eyes are heated as they move down to mine, and I’m honestly a little terrified as I stare up at him. Terrified of the complexity of these feelings that seem to be growing between us. Terrified we’ll get caught. Terrified he’ll kiss me. Terrified he won’t.
His arm is above my head, balancing on the goalpost as he leans into me, and he leans down so his nose brushes mine again, just like the other night. The hate between us seems to cross onto some other plane that’s passionate just the same. I think for a second about how getting into bed with him would be absolutefire.
The reality is that I’d befiredif anyone caught us. If anyone saw us out here like this.
And the other reality is that I can’t lose this job. It’s my key to the rest of my life. The key to the career I’ve always dreamed of. I’m here to do a job, not to give in to whatever it is that’s burning between my client and me.
His lips are a breath from mine, and I use that fistful of jersey to push him away.
“I can’t do this,” I mutter, and I run off the field before he can hit me with another line that will only leave me feeling worse.
I’m shaking as I get to my car.
I shouldn’t have run out. I should have let him kiss me even though I know I did the right thing.
I need a distraction, so I call Ivy back once I’ve started my car and pulled out of theparking lot.
“Hi Ev,” she answers.
“Hey, babe. What’s going on?”
“Mom hurt her arm, and I’m kind of worried,” she says.
“She hurt her arm? How?”
