From my bed, Cupcake lifts her head, blinking slowly as she slobbers all over my slippers.
Damn it.
Just as I drop the towel and lean against the edge of the sink, my heart pounds in a rhythm I can’t slow down with my breathing, and the sharp vibration of my phone cuts through the quiet.
The screen lights up.
Amelia
Don’t make me regret coming out there.
Fuck.
I walk downstairs and pace through the kitchen, then the living room, back again in a loop. Maybe movement will shake the nerves loose. I should sit down, eat, and probably drink some water before I pass out from being dramatic.
“Ughhhhh, why do I never have my shit together!”
I groan, yanking open the fridge, and stare blankly at a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, half-eaten Chinese food, and Cupcake’s specialty dog food.
My head’s fucking spinning.
No matter how many laps I run around this damn house, it doesn’t slow down.
And this isn’t just about impressing a woman.
It’s not about charm, swagger, or pretending I’ve got my shit together; it’s about proving something.
To her, sure, but mostly to myself.
I still care. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can be more than a walking disaster with a killer arm and a nice smile.
My phone rings, interrupting my spiral.
I glance at the screen, and my stomach drops.
Maggie.
I answer with zero confidence. “Please don’t scream at me.”
Her voice is sharp. “Put a shirt on and get to the stadium. Now.”
“I’m... sorry?”
“The sponsors want a meeting,” she snaps, “they’re nervous. The photos from VYCE hit every major outlet, and apparently, the NFL isn’t thrilled with your hobby of getting dry-humped by strangers on camera.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I thought we agreed that was just a very intense hug?—”
“Coach Mike is pissed, again. They want a call with all of us. Today. You miss this, we’re fucked. Understand?”
“Can I reschedule?”
“No, Maverick. You cannot reschedule your sponsors.”
“Shit.”
“Yes,” she snaps, “shit, indeed.”
She hangs up.
