My career has been slowly making me unhappy. But why should I complain? I’m a professional athlete who makes fucking bank, and most people would tell me to shut the fuck up.
The tide’s sound fills the silence between us.
I open my eyes to find Amelia still watching me, like she sees straight through the humor I use to hide my sadness and deep grief that we all continue to bear.
“And that day in the ambulance,” I continue, barelyabove a whisper, “she could hardly speak. She looked at me and said, ‘I love all my boys, please,’ like she was begging the universe not to forget about us.”
My voice wavers just a bit. I close my eyes and take a quick, sharp breath.
“She stopped breathing right after that.”
I fall silent, dropping my head down, looking at the sand moving with the wind.
Amelia inches closer, her hand sliding over mine in the sand, her fingers curling gently around my knuckles.
Her touch is soft.
I intertwine my fingers with hers and squeeze. I look at her to find her already staring at me, her eyes telling me that she’s here without even saying a single word.
The silence between us isn’t empty anymore. It’s filled with everything we’ve both lost and are still trying to hold onto.
“I miss her every day,” I say quietly, not looking away from the tide.
“I think she’d be proud of you,” she whispers, her thumb brushing back and forth along my knuckles.
I look at her again.
This time, there’s no wall, no bite. Just her hair, wild from the wind, eyes rimmed with salt, and her skin glowing in the moonlight.
She breaks the silence. “Do you actually love it?” Her voice is soft, thoughtful, almost cautious. “Football, I mean.”
The question catches me off guard. I look at her, but she’s not smirking or teasing. She’s serious. Curious.
She truly wants to know.
Most people only ask about the game, stats, plays, and the following season.
Nobody’s ever asked me how I feel.
I drag a hand down my face, staring out at the black stretch of ocean. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
A hollow laugh escapes me. “I love the game itself. When I’m out there, when the ball leaves my hand perfectly, when the crowd’s just a blur in the background, it feels like flying.” My voice falters, the waves filling the pause. “But everything else? The press, with its constant pressure to be perfect, wears you down. It makes you forget why you loved it in the first place.”
Her knee nudges mine in the sand. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard, digging holes in the sand with my fingers. “Some days it feels like it’s slowly killing me.”
She stays still, leaning in closer until her shoulder touches mine. Her voice softens, cautious but steady. “Then why keep doing it?”
The lump in my throat grows.
“Because I don’t know who I am without it,” I admit, my voice rough. “Football’s been my whole life. Take it away, and I don’t know what’s left.”
She tilts her head, her eyes catching the moonlight as she watches me. “But maybe… maybe you’re more than you think you are,” she says quietly. “You’re Maverick Hayes, more than the jersey.”
Her words hit me deeper than any tackle I’ve ever taken on the field. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a quarterback, a headline, or a paycheck. I feel like a man, and she’s looking at me like that’s enough.
