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 topivot, but he’s focused on the screen now and purposely ignoring me.
“Whodidn’tI 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 namingspecificcoaches who did him dirty.Specificteammates he didn’t get along with—and why they didn’t get along.
Where in my fucking notes did it ever say he should dothat?
I’m standing there shaking my head, waving my hand in front of my throat to indicate he shouldcut, 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 sayonenice 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.
