I drop my phone on the counter and drag both hands down my face. I’ve got approximately forty-five minutes to get my ass rebranded as a human being.
This is fine.
Everything’s fine.
I grab my keys, trip over a sandal that absolutely shouldn’t be there, and yell—“CUPCAKE, IF I DON’T COME BACK, DELETE MY SEARCH HISTORY.”
She barks once, then goes back to chewing on the molding.
Fuckkk.
I lunge for the door, nearly rip off the handle, and burst outside. Gravel slides beneath my boots as I dash across the driveway, jam the key into the lock, and fling the door open so forcefully it rattles on its hinges.
Cupcake’s tiny face peers out the window from inside the house, ears perked.
My sweet angel girl, I hate leaving her.
I slam the door, start the engine— it roars to life, loud enough to wake the entire block. My knee hits the steering column, my elbow bumps the door, but I shift into reverse anyway, tires kicking up rocks as I speed off.
My heart pounds, and my pulse buzzes in my ears. My sponsors are waiting to talk to me, probably going to chew my ass out, but at least I have a great ass. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror, my blonde hair’s a mess, fuck.
“You got this, Mav,” I mutter to myself, gripping the wheel. “The worst that can happen is Maggie screams at me, and my sponsors back out.”
I’m fine, we’re fine.
I slam the Bronco into gear, roar down the open road,and floor it toward the stadium—late, sweating, but determined to walk in as if I had planned it this way.
Sunlight bleeds through the clouds, casting rays of yellow on the slow crawl of traffic. My fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel as my heart races in my chest, making me nauseous.
I should be used to the pressure, performance, and walking into rooms where everyone expects me to be louder than life and twice as charming.
But lately, I don’t feel like myself.
The public expects me, Maverick, to be the funny guy, the crowd favorite, the touchdown-throwing, quote-dropping wildcard, but it’s starting to feel more like a costume I can’t take off.
And I’m exhausted.
I pull into the structure and throw my Bronco into park; my stomach coiling with nerves. I wipe my hands on my jeans as I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ve been here before. I’ve pushed through injuries, national scrutiny, and an ex-girlfriend who tried to sell my boxers on eBay.
I can handle this.
Pausing, I take a deep breath as I push through the large glass doors, and everyone’s eyes meet mine.
Coach Mike stands against the large bay window, arms crossed, jaw tight with a permanent scowl etched between his brows. Maggie’s seated at the head of the long table, her tablet in front of her and murder in her eyes. The screen on the wall glows with four boxes—sponsors, already logged in and frowning.
I slip into the seat, intertwining my fingers, and set them on my lap.
No one smiles.
“Maverick,” one of the reps says, adjusting his earpiece. “Let’s be clear. We’re concerned.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
“You’ve been a valuable asset, but your recent behavior has shifted public perception.”
Another rep chimes in, “You’re not just an athlete, you’re a brand. And right now, that brand seems unstable.”
I force a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Look, I know I’ve made some noise lately, I’m working on it. Fast.”
