Halftime blurs together. The score was close—Mustangs just three points behind. Now the third quarter is halfway through, with the stadium roaring so loudly it shakes the speakers. I continue working as my eyes flick up to the TV.
Maverick’s jogging back to the line of scrimmage, helmet tucked tight, sweat glinting under the floodlights. His mouth guard shifts as he shouts the play, veins bulging in his neck. Even through the screen, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the fury in his eyes. He’s carrying the weight of every teammate, every fan, every expectation—and the ghost of me.
He’s holding onto the ball, stepping back, arm cocked, scanning downfield. The pocket is collapsing. My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe.
A massive and merciless Kentucky lineman charges through unimpeded—six-foot-six, three hundred pounds, a wall of muscle in red and black.
Maverick doesn’t see him.
The impact is devastating. The lineman’s shoulder crashes into his chest like a battering ram, forcing Maverick’s body back violently before he collapses to the turf. His helmet hits the ground with a sharp, sickening sound.
I flinch.
The commentators’ voices rise in alarm, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. My ears are ringing, and my pulse drowns out everything else. All I can see is Maverick lying there, his arm bent awkwardly at his side.
My hand presses hard against my mouth, trying to hold in the sound clawing up my throat.
“Get up,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Please, Maverick. Get up.”
The camera zooms in, capturing the trainers sprinting across the field, kneeling beside him, waving frantically toward the sideline. Players gather, helmets removed, hands folded in front of their faces, some pacing, some kneeling—a stadium of seventy thousand falls eerily silent.
But all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, and the rush of panic filling every inch of me.
My miscommunication with him plays in my mind like a harsh montage—his voice cracking when he said he loved me, his face strained with desperation, and the way I told him I didn’t need him. He begged me to see him, and I shut him out. Now he’s lying on the grass, still, while strangers gather around him.
Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to blink. If I look away, even for a second, he might slip further from me.
The camera zooms in again, too close, too harsh. Maverick lies motionless on the field, helmet tilted, his jersey stained with grass, as his broad chest barely moves. Teammates rush over to him, kneeling beside him, patting his shoulder pads, whispering prayers with their heads bowed.
I can’t breathe.
My gloves tremble as I set the tattoo gun down on the tray, ink smudges staining the paper. My hands quickly fly to my mouth, muffling the cry that escapes me.
The announcer lowers his voice, grave. “Hayes is still down. Trainers are on the field, and medical staff are rushing over now. He hasn’t moved since taking that sack. This is... this is very concerning.”
The shop feels like it’s spinning, the fluorescent lights are too bright, and the smell of antiseptic is too sharp.
An ambulance rushes onto the field, lights flashing as the stunned crowd watches. The camera catches a quick glimpse before pulling away, focusing on the nervous fans, the sideline, and everything but the man lying broken on the turf.
The announcer clears his throat, his voice grim. “We’ve just received word—Maverick Hayes has sustained a serious injury and will not return for the remainder of the game.”
Fuck.
I fold forward, pressing my palms against my face as tears spill hot and fast down my cheeks.
I see him in my mind, every version of him—the cocky quarterback who teases me, the golden retriever who sneaks into my bed with pancakes, the man who tore up a contract and said he loved me even when I didn’t deserve it.
And I ran.
God, I fucking ran from him.
Because I was too afraid to believe he meant it. Too afraid to let him stay.
I love him.
The truth hits me so hard I almost double over. I love him. With every scarred, broken piece of me, I love him.
And now, my actions might prevent me from having another chance to tell him.
