She stalks across the field, her fiery orange curls bouncing with every step. She’s dressed in a steel grey pantsuit, with her phone clenched in her manicured hand, and her eyes fixed on me as she stomps to the sideline.
Fuck.
Coach Mike notices her, too, and rolls his eyes as she approaches him.
They exchange a few tight words.
Coach snaps his neck towards me, brows furrowed, and the vein on his forehead’s about to explode.
“MAVERICK!”
I freeze mid-laugh.
Every guy on the field goes dead silent.
I sigh, toss my helmet to the ground, and jog toward the sideline, ignoring Pierce’s whispered “RIP” as I pass.
“Hey, guys,” I say, patting Coach Mike on the back. “What’s cooking?
They both give me heated glares as they gesture to follow them back into the Coach’s office.
Coach Mike’s office smells like burnt coffee and stale vanilla scones. The fluorescent lights faintly hum overhead, casting a harsh glare over the framed jerseys on the wall.
Jerry Rice, Jim Brown, Lawrence Taylor, Joe Montana, Tom Brady, and Walter Payton; legends of the game.
Coach is already pacing, and Maggie’s standing beside his mahogany desk, with her tablet in hand.
“Mav,” Coach starts, “want to explain this?”
He gestures at the screen Maggie’s holding up as she scrolls past images of my past couple of weekends.
Me shirtless in a hot tub, surrounded by a carousel of women.
Me leaving a club at three in the morning.
Me flipping off paparazzi while holding a bottle of Mezcal, stumbling out of Honky Tonk Central in Nashville.
I squint. “...That last one’s not real.”
Maggie doesn’t blink. “That one was taken two nights ago.”
Oh.
“Shit.”
Coach glares.
Maggie sighs through her nose. “We’ve got brands pulling back. Gatorade is pausing its campaign, and there’s speculation about who you’re dating, and some fans are convinced you’re sleeping with your tight end, JP.”
I blink. “...Honestly? Not the worst rumor I’ve heard.”
“Maverick.”
I look at her, flashing her a toothy grin.
She glares at me.
Shit, this is serious.
