Maverick stops mid-step, his head snapping toward me. The second my voice cuts through the static, something in his posture eases.
“You got this,” I tell him, my voice just loud enough for the mic.
There’s a beat of silence, then his voice threads through the headset. “Hi, baby.”
God, that smile, boyish and crooked, lights up his whole damn face, and it’s like the stadium noise fades for a second.
I can’t help the small laugh that slips out. “Give ’em hell, baby.”
The corner of his mouth lifts higher as he gestures for me to keep watching him.
He tugs at the chain around his neck, pulling it free so the silver glints under the lights, his wedding ring swinging from it. He presses a kiss to it, never breaking our gaze, then flashes me the dumbest, sweetest heart with his giant hands before jogging back to the huddle.
I can’t stop the grin spreading across my face. Thousands are out there adoring that ridiculous, perfect man, and he still manages to remind me that I’m the only one he’s playing for.
A ref blows the whistle, and the Mustangs take their positions. Maverick’s in the pocket, hands poised under center, eyes scanning the defense like he’s already thinking two plays ahead. The crowd is shouting, stomping, and waving signs with his name written across them.
The ball snaps, and he’s in motion—three steps back, with the kind of smooth footwork that’s so ingrained it’smuscle memory. His arm whips forward, and the pass sails through the air, landing perfectly in Pierce’s hands for a twenty-yard gain.
The crowd loses it.
Next play, Maverick fakes the handoff, keeps it, and runs downfield himself. His cleats dig into the turf, shoulders low, blazing past one linebacker, then stiff-arming another. He doesn’t stop until he’s tackled at the forty-five. He pops right back up, helmet tilting toward me, and I know—that run was for me.
The Blackhawks struggle to keep pace, as Maverick constantly stays ahead. Each time they close the gap, he finds a new lead. His passes are accurate, and his reads are sharp. When the pocket breaks down, he runs the ball himself, taking hits that make the crowd gasp, yet he always gets back up with that same wild grin.
By halftime, the scoreboard shows a big lead—Mustangs: twenty-eight, Blackhawks: seven.
The second half is worse for them.
Maverick’s locked in now, and the whole team functions like a well-oiled machine. JP catches a deep pass in the end zone, then Pierce makes another reception, and the Mustangs’ defense shuts down every counterattack.
When the final whistle blows, it’s a slaughter—Mustangs: forty-nine. Blackhawks: fourteen.
I barely notice the announcer declaring victory before I see Maverick with his helmet ripped off, sweat dripping down his temples, hair a wild mess as he sprints toward me across the field.
“Amelia!”
I’m already moving toward him, and when we collide, his arms wrap around me so tightly that my feet lift off the ground. He spins me once, twice, the world swirling aroundus, before his mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s hot, messy, and shameless in front of thousands.
“I told you,” he breathes against my lips, forehead pressed to mine, “you were my good luck charm.”
“Dress comfy,”he says, squeezing my waist.
I turn my head slightly, catching his smirk in the mirror. “What do you have planned?”
“You’ll see, baby.”
The way baby rolls off his tongue sends a flutter through my stomach. “Just dress comfy for me.”
I want to ask more, but his hands are already sliding under the hem of my shirt, tugging me toward the bathroom. “Shower first,” he says.
We strip together, steam filling the space before the water even hits our skin. He stands behind me under the spray, rinsing the shampoo from my hair while his palms roam slowly and lazily over my sides. His lips press kisses to my damp shoulder, and for a second, I wonder if we’re going to make it out of the hotel room at all.
When we finally step outside, we’re both dressed in soft hoodies and sweats, hair damp, sneakers tied. He grabs the keys to the rental car from the dresser and interlocks his fingers with mine as we head down to the parking garage.
In the car, his hand drifts to my thigh as his thumb makes idle circles. At a red light, he squeezes, glancing over with that cocky glint in his eye.
“You’re going to wear that look all night, aren’t you?” I tease, watching the faint smirk tug at his mouth.
