She looks at me, really looks at me, and there’s something fractured behind her eyes. Something old and bruised.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
The waves roll in, higher this time. The tide’s crawling closer by the minute.
We sit in silence, as the salty beach air wraps around us.
“You know…” I try, stretching my legs out and leaning back on my palms, “If this doesn’t cheer you up, I could always do a backflip.”
I glance sideways. She doesn’t laugh.
I swallow hard. “Front flip?”
Still nothing.
The breeze picks up, whistling through the cove, and I rub my hands together to stay warm. My heart beats more slowly now, steadier, heavier.
“Amelia.” I shift forward again, my arms resting on my bent knees. “Why won’t you let me in? I’m not gonna hurt you, I would never hurt you.”
She turns to me, and this time, she doesn’t look away. Her lashes are damp. Her eyes? They look like they’ve held back a thousand storms, and she’s tired of pretending it’s not raining.
“I’ve been married before, Maverick.” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts like a blade. “Clearly gotten divorced. It’s... something I don’t like to talk about.”
I blink, swallowing the knot in my throat.
She’s been holding that close, tighter than I held that football in our championship game last year. Like if she lets go, everything inside her will spill out.
I nod slowly. “Okay,” I say, “we don’t have to talk about it.”
Her eyes flicker with something unreadable before she exhales shakily and looks back toward the ocean. Her fingers twitch in the sand, restless.
“What’s the story behind your tattoo sleeve?” she asks after a pause, and I can tell she’s trying to deflect, trying to turn the spotlight away from herself.
I flex my arm, the black ink twisting beneath the pale moonlight. Her gaze lingers on the clock on my outer bicep, peeking through the short sleeve of my shirt, its hands forever frozen at eleven-eleven.
“That clock,” she says softly, “it’s stuck.”
“Yeah.” I huff out a breath, “I’m sure Catalina told you, but… my mama died when I was twenty-three.”
Her head snaps toward me again, concern creasing her brow.
“I was with her when they loaded her into the ambulance. Carter was away transferring cattle, Reed was in LA for the fire academy, and I was the only one at home.”
My voice falters, so I clear my throat, pushing past the lump that always forms when I say this shit out loud.
“Eleven-eleven was the time she died,” I murmur. My fingers trace the faded lines of the clock, the tips brushing over the numbers as if they might rewind time if I press hard enough. My throat tightens, heat pricks behind my eyes, but I keep going.
“I held her hand until her last breath,” I continue, my voice hoarse and barely above the steady roar of the ocean behind us. My other hand clenches the damp sand beside me, grains sticking to my skin as I try to ground myself. “The last full conversation I remember having with her was about football.”
I exhale sharply, the memory flashing every time I blink. My lips twitch into something that tries to be a smile but doesn’t quite make it.
“I’d just been scouted in college,” I say, glancing up at the night sky for a second.
The stars blur at the edges of my vision.
“And she told me—” I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. My jaw tightens, and my voice drops slightly. “‘Don’t lose yourself in the game, Maverick. Stay true to who you are. I love you, honey.”
As the words leave my mouth, I close my eyes and press the heel of my hand against them, forcing back everything that threatens to spill over.
