amelia
. . .
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Maverick left the hospital—a little paler, a little thinner, but still towering, still stubborn. He hasn’t touched a football since. The Mustangs announced he’s out indefinitely, and the world is buzzing with speculation. But I don’t care about the world—I care about the quiet ache in his eyes when he looks at me and doesn’t quite let me all the way back in.
So I’ve been trying.
Really trying.
Which is laughable because I don’t do this. I don’t grovel. I don’t show up with coffee runs, folded laundry, and stay up late watching movies just to make sure he’s not alone when he can’t sleep. I don’t rearrange my tattoo schedule so I can drive him to physical therapy or sit on his couch while he ice his ribs. That’s not me.
But for him? I’m learning.
The first morning after leaving the hospital, I went out and bought groceries. I held up a paper bag like a peace offering. “I brought eggs. And, uh… three different kinds of Pop-Tarts because I didn’t know which ones you like.”
He raised an eyebrow, like he wasn’t sure if I was joking. “You don’t even eat Pop-Tarts.”
“Yeah, well. You do.” My voice cracked in the middle, and I busied myself with unloading so that he wouldn’t see how badly my hands shook.
That was the first step.
Since then, it’s been the small things. Sitting with him in silence when his head hurt too much for noise. Curling up against his side on the couch, even when he kept his arms stiff, not wrapping around me.
It’s not easy. Every instinct in me wants to retreat when he’s quiet, when he doesn’t smile, and when his blue eyes stay shadowed. Every time he doesn’t reach back, it feels like rejection, like proof that I’ve broken something I can’t fix.
But I stay.
I make him tea when his headaches get severe. I doodle tiny tattoos on his wrist with a Sharpie just to see if I can coax a smile. I listen when he talks about nothing—about JP’s stupid group chat memes, about Pierce bitching at practice, about Carter telling him to sit his ass down—because I know if I wait long enough, he’ll slip, and I’ll get a glimpse of the man who used to look at me like I was his entire world.
And when I catch those glimpses, no matter how fleeting, it feels like oxygen.
He hasn’t touched a football since that night. His cleats are still by the door, and his playbook remains closed on the counter. And maybe that’s what scares me most. Because football was always his armor, his identity. Now, it’s just me and him, and all the rawness between us.
So I keep trying. Every day. Every hour.
Even when it feels like walking barefoot on broken glass.
Because he deserves it. Because I love him. Because this time, I’m not running.
The house is quiet, with only the low hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the clock above the fireplace. Maverick lies stretched out on the couch in black sweats and a hoodie, his arm lazily draped over his eyes, as his chest rises and falls softly, finally steady.
I sit cross-legged on the floor beside him, Rex curled up in his dinosaur hoodie on my lap, while I scroll through my phone aimlessly. Every so often, I glance up just to watch him breathe.
When he shifts and groans, I set Rex aside and grab the glass of water I’d been keeping nearby. “Here,” I whisper, pressing it into his hand before he even opens his eyes.
“Thanks, dollface,” he rasps, his voice gravelly from sleep, but he drinks it anyway.
I pull the blanket tighter around him, brushing damp strands of blond hair from his forehead, and for the first time in days, his mouth curls into something close to a smile. Small. Fragile. But real.
The knock on the door breaks the silence.
Maverick pushes himself up slowly, muttering, “I’ve got it,” before I can even say anything.
“Mav—sit down,” I warn, following him as he shuffles toward the entryway. But he waves me off, his stubborn back straight even though I can see the faint wobble in his steps.
He pulls the door open.
