Catalina studies me for a second, then nods. “Okay, then just show her who you are when you’re not trying to be anyone else. That version of you... He’s not bad.”
I exhale through my nose and rub the back of my neck.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’ll go... do something productive now.”
Carter’s already halfway to the sink again when he says under his breath, “Idiot.”
I flip him off on the way out. Cupcake follows me, tail wagging, probably thinking we’re going on another walk.
“Yeah, c’mon girl. Let’s go clean up the mess.”
maverick
. . .
One week.
She’ll be here in a week, and I’m starting to impulsively clean my house like a freak.
I mutter to myself as I scrub harder, “It’s the only thing I can control.”
That one word takes me back to that day: the cold sting of antiseptic in the ambulance’s back, the metallic smell of blood in the air, and the blaring sirens that rattled my teeth.
Mama’s face was pale, her lips tinged blue, her hand slack and lifeless in mine, no matter how tightly I held on. Her skin had already grown cool, and I remember pressing my thumb into the soft spot of her palm, thinking that if I pushed hard enough, she’d wake up and we’d continue our conversation.
She didn’t.
I was right there, front row, for the worst moment of my life, and I couldn’t stop a damn thing. I couldn’t slow the clock, couldn’t control her breathing, couldn’t trade my lungs for hers.
Powerless, useless is what I felt that day.
When her house grew silent with her perfume still faintly lingering in the hallways, I grabbed a rag. I cleaned the kitchen until my shoulders ached, the lemon cleaner pricking my nose until it was all I could smell.
I scrubbed until my hands cracked and bled, until my skin was raw from bleach, because at least then something gave way under my grip.
At least then the mess vanished if I worked hard enough. At least then I got to decide how it ended.
Shaking off those thoughts, I refocus on the bathroom counter. My arm moves in steady circles, cloth in hand, even though the surface has been gleaming for the past half hour.
The lemon-scented cleaner clings to the air, stinging my nose and mixing with the quiet churn in my gut. Lemon cleaner, it’s weird, really, but ever since my mama died, it’s the only cleaner I can use.
My chest pulses with a constant, restless rhythm. My heart continues racing, and my mind isn’t far behind. I’m spiraling again, not about my mama, but about my career.
No one really explains how the spotlight affects you—those interviews, the game-day crowds, the stadium noise, or the cameras. How the limelight seizes you, rewires your instincts, and forces you to evaluate every word, move, and moment of your life based on how it will be perceived.
At first, it’s simple.
You smile, play your role, and become whatever version of yourself they want to see on a billboard. You say the right things, make the crowd laugh, and let them believe you’re perfect.
But it doesn’t take long before faking it and reality begin to distort themselves. Before you can’t tell where the persona ends and you begin.
The pressure you feel in your jaw when you clench too hard during another press conference, the flickering in your chest when the crowd cheers, and when the moment no longer feels like yours.
You get used to being watched at every waking moment in your public life. Then you start needing it, craving the attention that comes with it. And somewhere along the way, I lost track of who I was off the field, when no one was watching. When the helmet came off, the lights went out.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and stare a moment too long. I try to fix my hair, slick it back, then mess it up again—nothing feels right. My jaw is tight, and my eyes look tired. I don’t resemble the guy on the magazine covers; I don’t even look like the guy on the field.
Turning my attention back to the sink, I start scrubbing again, hoping it’ll help me breathe. The counter’s already spotless, but the repetition feels safer than silence.
