Maggie recovers quickly, folding her arms across her chest, her smile sharp and poisonous. “You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t tank your career over?—”
“You sure about that?” Maverick interrupts, leaning forward on the doorframe, his voice low and threatening. “Because you should’ve seen me tearing those fucking papers, it was very convincing.”
The reporter finally finds his voice, stepping forward. “So you’re confirming the marriage has always been fake?”
Maverick’s grin only widens, a reckless spark lighting up his blue eyes. “You want a story, fuckface?”
The reporter freezes, eyes nervously darting toward Maggie.
Maverick pushes off the doorframe, standing tall even though I can see the strain in his body. “Here’s your scoop, fucker, I retire.”
The reporter gasps, nearly dropping his notepad. Maggie lets out a strangled noise.
My knees nearly give out. He said it so casually, like tossing a grenade.I retire.Just like that. The game that’s defined his entire life, gone with two words.
“What?” Maggie hisses, her perfect veneer cracking, her voice rising. “You can’t just?—”
“Watch me,” Maverick cutsin.
The reporter stumbles forward, voice eager. “Mr. Hayes, are you saying?—”
“Print it in bold,” Maverick snarls, his grin sharp and wild. “No more touchdowns, no more contracts, no more letting people like her—” he flicks his chin toward Maggie “—use me until my brain turns to mush. I’m fucking doneeee.”
Maggie’s face twists, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “You’re making a mistake.”
“And you’re in my house,” I snap, finally stepping into the fray, my voice like a whip. “Get. Out.”
Maggie turns on me, scoffing. “Cute. Playing house with your fake husband.”
This bitch can eat shit, because I’m about to roundhouse kick her.
My blood boils, and before she can take another smug step into our space, I plant both hands on her pristine blazer and shove.
She stumbles back, her heels clicking against the hardwood, her eyes going wide in shock. “Excuse me?—”
“No,” I cut her off, my voice sharp as glass. “Excuse you.He’s not your quarterback anymore. He’s not your puppet. He’s not your paycheck. He’s mine.”
I shove again, harder this time, forcing her into the doorway. The reporter fumbles backward to get out of my way, his notepad nearly slipping from his sweaty hands.
Maggie sputters, trying to catch herself, her face blotchy with rage. “You can’t just?—”
“I can,” I snarl, every inch of me vibrating with fury. “And I will. You don’t get to waltz into this house and tear him down when he’s barely on his feet. You don’t get to call me fake, or pretend like you own him, when the only thing you’ve ever done is exploit him.”
Her eyes flash, but before she can fire back, I slam the door frame with my palm, leaning in close enough she can see the fury in my eyes. “So, unless you want me to beat the fuck out of you, you’re going to take your reporter and get the fuck out of this house.”
The reporter is already halfway down the porch, fumbling with his recorder, muttering, “Jesus Christ…” under his breath.
Maggie stares at me, stunned and breathless. For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks rattled.
And I can’t help but smile. “Bye, bitch.”
I give one last shove against her shoulder and send her stumbling onto the porch, her heels catching on the step. The door slams shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the whole house.
My chest heaves, my pulse racing, and when I turn around, Maverick is standing there in his sweats and hoodie, one eyebrow cocked, that infuriating grin tugging at his mouth.
“That was so fucking hot, yell at me next,” he says, his voice hoarse but tinged with laughter.
“You wish.” I tease.
