And it scares the hell out of me, how desperately I want her to keep looking at me.
amelia
. . .
Game day.
Time to put on a show of being an NFL star’s fake wife.
My thoughts drift back to last night, when Maverick asked me one question.
“What do you like to do when you feel this way?”
And when I answered him and told him I love the beach, the one place that calms my feelings and my drowning thoughts about my past, he gave me directions, took me to his jet, and flew me to Moss Cove without asking any questions.
It’s strange living with a man who doesn’t put you down or gaslight you into thinking you’ve done something wrong, making it seem like you are the crazy one.
Walking on eggshells with a man you thought you loved, tiptoeing, pretending to be perfect so you wouldn’t get yelled at, begging for the bare minimum to feel appreciated by him, but it was always a fucking problem.
I scoff and push that feeling deep into the back of my mind.
I’m sitting on the sidelines, per Mavericks’ request; he specifically said he wanted to be able to see me when he’s switched in and out of the game.
Odd man he is.
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Everyone is screaming, stomping their boots, and shouting ‘Go Mustangs!’ as they show their excitement for the first game of the season.
Screams echo across the stadium in pulsating waves, vibrating through the bleachers, crawling under my skin, and sinking deep into my chest. The sun is starting to dip behind the towering lights, casting everything in dark amber. It’s hot, but the breeze carries a sharpness, a crackle of energy that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Every seat in the stadium is full. Fans are on their feet, faces painted, dark green and white jerseys all around, holding signs, and shouting after the players.
Sitting on the sidelines is pure madness.
Reporters cluster around with massive cameras, coaches shout out plays, trainers hustle across the grass, refs blow their whistles to catch bad plays, cheerleaders wave white pom-poms with tight smiles, and the marching band thunders somewhere behind me with a bassline that rattles my ribs.
I scan the field until my eyes lock on Maverick, who’s pretty easy to spot since he’s the biggest guy there.
He’s pacing the field in full uniform, a dark green and white jersey with the number seven stretched across his broad back, shoulder pads emphasizing his already massive frame. His helmet is under one arm, and sweat darkens the collar of his jersey. Even with his eyes shielded by the sun, I can sense the moment he spots me.
He grins. A big, wild, boyish grin spreadsacross his lips. That signature Maverick look that screams cocky and heart-melting at the same time.
Right there, in front of the whole damn stadium, Maverick lifts his hands and forms a heart shape with his fingers at me, again.
I blink, feeling the blush creeping up my cheeks. I quickly take a sip of water, trying to calm my nerves.
A girl two rows ahead squeals. Somewhere behind me, someone shouts, “Look, his wife’s here!”
The crowd erupts again, this time with a different kind of energy, making my ears ring.
My mouth traitorously curls upward against my will because, damn it, he’s ridiculous and sweet.
The referee blows their whistle, signaling the start of the game. Both teams huddle in the middle of the field to begin their formations.
The center snaps the ball cleanly, and Maverick moves swiftly. His body is a blur of motion, backpedaling in perfect rhythm, his eyes scanning the field. The defense rushes toward him, but he spins out of their reach.
He throws the ball across the field with remarkable grace. It arcs high, a perfect spiral, and lands right into the hands of the wide receiver.
First down.
