My stomach clenches as the room fills with his pain. The Maverick everyone knows, the cheerful quarterback and golden boy, isn’t standing in front of me. Instead, I see the man behind that facade, crumbling right before my eyes.
He drops to the floor. His knees hit hard, his broad frame crumpling as the first sob breaks free. It’s so raw, so guttural, it makes my throat ache.
I move across the space in seconds, lowering myself onto his lap and straddling him so he has no choice but to feel me there. My hands cup his face, forcing his tear-filled eyes to meet mine. “Look at me, Maverick. Look at me.”
His jaw trembles.
“If this is making you unhappy, then… retire,” I whisper, my thumbs brushing away the wet tracks on his cheeks.
His hands move to grip my hips as he shakes his head firmly. “It’s not that simple, Amelia. This is my life. What the fuck am I supposed to do afterward?”
I open my mouth, but all I can say is, “I don’t know.” My voice cracks because it’s the truth; I don’t have the answer, and I hate that I can’t fix this for him.
He takes a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against my shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, dollface. I’m sorry for waking you.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I murmur. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. Just let me be here with you.”
He shudders, dropping his gaze, voice hoarse. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I already do,” I answer, brushing my thumb against his cheek, wiping away a tear. “You think that scares me off? You’ve clearly never met me.”
Something loosens in his chest then—I can feel it, the way his shoulders sag, like he’s been supporting the whole world and suddenly can’t anymore. His forehead rests against mine, heavy and desperate.
“I’m so fucking tired, Amelia,” he whispers. “Of pretending I’ve got it together. Of the cameras. The pressure. All of it.”
I cup his jaw, steadying him, my voice quiet but firm. “Then stop pretending—with me. You don’t have to be Maverick Hayes here. Just Mav. That’s enough.”
His chest rises and falls, his hands tremble, and all my instincts scream at me to step back. I want to tell him to fucking sort it out himself, just like I always had to. Yet, my feet refuse to move, and my hands stay clutching him.
I hold him tighter, my fingers tangled in his hair, my cheek pressed against his damp skin. Because no matter what he says, I won’t let him sit here alone in the mess, not tonight.
I don’t know how long we sit there on the cold kitchen floor, with him slumped against the cabinets and me straddling his thighs, my palms pressed against his damp, overheated skin.
His breathing slows, but it remains uneven. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence, starkly contrasting with the storm that recently tore through this kitchen.
He doesn’t loosen his hold on me as we leave the kitchen. His arm remains heavy around my waist. I steer him upstairs, taking one slow step at a time, until we reach the bedroom.
The sheets are still warm from where I’d been lying. I climb in first, sliding beneath them, and he follows, stretching out on his back before immediately tugging me against his side.
My head rests on his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding me, even though I can still feel the faint tremor running through his muscles. His hand slides along my hip, holding me there.
“Don’t let me ruin you, dollface,” he whispers finally, lips brushing the top of my head.
I tilt my chin up, running my fingertips along hisjawline. “You’re not ruining me,” I whisper. “You’re letting me in. There’s a difference.”
“Not many people wanna see this side of me,” he admits, voice low and rough. “They want the quarterback. The smile. The highlight reel that doesn’t fuck up.” His hand slides up my back, anchoring me closer. “Women, too. They wanted the name, the jersey, the headlines. Not once did any of them ever say they wanted to know me.”
He swallows nervously, and I notice the shake in his chest. “And I let ‘em. I played the part, slept around, gave ‘em exactly what they thought I was.” His jaw clenches as he exhales sharply through his nose, calm yet intense. “But the moment I saw you, Amelia…” His voice wavers slightly, but he keeps his gaze fixed. “It all stopped—the women, the one-night stands, all of it. I didn’t want fake anymore, I craved something real. Even if you didn’t or don’t want me, I’d wait until you were ready.”
The honesty in his tone takes my breath away. No lines, no showboating, just his raw truth.
His arm tightens around me, his lips brushing the top of my head. “You don’t look away. Even when I’m at my worst.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “Maybe that’s because I know what it feels like to fall apart,” I murmur. “And how much it matters when someone stays.”
His eyes cut down to mine, searching. “Who stayed for you?”
The question steals my breath.
