I call the next play, and the guys hustle into position. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the cadence.
Set. Snap. Move. Throw. Repeat.
No room for Maggie, reporters, or anything else—just the game and the thought that Amelia is the only person I want to talk to right now.
Coach Mike blows the final whistle, and my jersey clings to my back as I walk toward the locker room. The guys jog off, following suit, helmets tucked under their arms, cleats clattering on the concrete tunnel floor.
I’m halfway through unstrapping my pads when JP falls into step beside me.
He’s easy to spot—tall with broad shoulders filling his practice jersey. His brown hair sticks up from his helmet, and his blue eyes sparkle brightly even under the dim lights. Freckles dot his nose and cheekbones. He has that farm-boy charm, the kind that easily captivates reporters.
“You gonna tell me what’s crawled up your ass,” he says, “or do I gotta guess?”
I grunt and push my way through the door into the locker room.
JP drops onto the bench across from my locker, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been a damn brick wall all day, Hayes. You missed my perfect cut in the third set. That’s how I know you’re off.”
I yank my jersey over my head and throw it into my duffel. “Not in the mood for a therapy session.”
“Too bad,” he says, leaning back and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Because I’m your teammate, and you’re the quarterback. Your head’s gotta be right, or the whole team feels it.”
The edge in his tone makes me pause. JP’s easygoing ninety percent of the time, but when he gets serious, you listen.
I rake my hand through my hair, the strands damp and curling from sweat. “It’s just… the bullshit, and Maggie breathing down my neck… It’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but you’ve handled worse.”
“Not like this.” I slam my locker shut, the clang echoing off the tile. “It’s not just about me anymore.”
JP’s eyes narrow. “Amelia.”
I don’t answer, but that’s enough of an answer.
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Then figure your shit out. Protect her, but don’t burn yourself out in the process. You’re no good to her if you’re a mess.”
His words linger with me long after I hit the showers, the steam clinging to my skin, the scent of soap barely cutting through the day’s grit.
By the time I get dressed and head to the parking lot, I’ve already decided—I’m going home and I’ll make sure Amelia knows where she stands with me, fake marriage or not.
amelia
. . .
Maverick’s boots thump across the hardwood, each step dragging a bad mood behind it.
I tilt my head just in time to see him drop his gym bag near the wall, running a hand through his messy blonde hair.
“You look tired,” I say, scratching behind Rex’s ears.
His blue eyes flick to me, and for a moment, I think I see relief, but then it disappears. “Rough day.”
“You okay?”
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he pulls off his hoodie, drapes it over the back of the couch, and heads into the kitchen. The cupboard doors open and close, and the fridge hums as he opens it.
I set Rex down and follow him, leaning against the counter while he fills a glass of water. “Wanna talk about it?”
He takes a long drink, then sets the glass down more forcefully than necessary. “It’s just… Maggie, the media, and the apology I had to make. Feels like everyone’s watching, waiting for me to fuck up. And—” He stops, clenching his fists against the countertop. “And, I know I dragged you into this, but I hate that it’s touching you. I hate that you’re in this spotlight because of me.”
