A small, approving smile lifts the corner of his mouth.He begins sketching. “Four carats, emerald cut, silver band, no extras. Just the stone and clean lines.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Make it sharp. Crisp. Like it was meant to be on her hand and nowhere else.”
He nods. “Two weeks. Maybe sooner.”
“That works.” I slide my card across the counter, watch him ring it up, and pocket the receipt.
Transaction complete, I step back into the brisk air, phone already in my hand. I scroll to the number I looked up earlier, hit call, and listen to the ring.
“Georgia Aquarium, this is Tasha speaking.”
“Hi, Tasha, this is Maverick Hayes.” I hear the faint pause on the other end as recognition sinks in.
“Oh! Mr. Hayes, what can we do for you?”
“I need to rent out the entire place two weeks from now. Private swim with the whale sharks, the works.”
There’s another pause, then a small laugh. “Well… we can definitely make that happen.”
I hang up. The plan is set—a ring, an aquarium date, a way to make what exists between us something I can’t walk away from. Something she can’t either.
For the first time in a long time, I know exactly what I fucking want in my life.
It’s not about football, fame, or money.
All I want is to be her husband, to provide for her and love her unconditionally.
I pull into the stadium,and the mood I had walking out of the jewelry shop is already souring.
Maggie’s waiting again just inside the players’ entrance, arms crossed, her heels clicking on the polished floor. She doesn’t even say hi, gives me a look that could peel paint.
“Well, look who decided to show up today instead of parading at the beach,” she says, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “I’m shocked you could squeeze in practice between all your media fiascos and?—”
I don’t even let her finish.
“Enough!” My voice comes out sharp, echoing down the hallway. “I’m paying you, remember? I don’t need the sassy comebacks. I’m doing the best I fucking can!”
Her mouth snaps shut. I can feel every set of eyes in the hallway turn toward us—staff, interns, a couple of rookies pretending not to stare.
Maggie’s lips press together, and the muscle in her jaw twitches, but she says nothing.
I let out a dry laugh, shake my head, and push past her. The tunnel entrance opens up to the field, and the thick scent of turf and sweat hits me all at once.
JP jogs up beside me, helmet under his arm, brow furrowed. “You good, man?”
I ignore him, shove my helmet on, and stalk toward the huddle.
Coach is already barking plays, clipboard snapping in his hands. The sun beats down hard, burning through my jersey. My cleats dig into the turf, the faint chemical smell of it mixing with the salt of dried sweat in my facemask.
We line up for the first snap, and I force myself into the motion—count, set, snap. The ball is in my hands, and my mind switches to muscle memory. I drop back three steps, eyes scanning the field. JP cuts across the middle, and I throw him a tight spiral before the defense can close in.
“Again!” Coach’s voice booms.
The rhythm stays steady—snap, drop, throw. The sound of pads hitting and cleats scraping fills the air. There’s a faint metallic smell of blood when someone takes a helmet to the chin. My lungs burn, my calves scream, but I keep pushing forward, play after play.
Whenever JP or Pierce tries to check in, I wave them away. I’m not here to chat; I’m here to work and to burn off the frustration that’s tearing me apart.
Sweat drips down my spine beneath the pads. My grip on the ball becomes slick, forcing me to wipe my hands on my pants before every snap. The sky is a harsh blue overhead, with no clouds to block the sun’s glare, and I can feel the skin on the back of my neck heating up under it.
