When I look up, Maverick is already gazing at me with adoration in his eyes.
He leans against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, watching me with that irritating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Fuck, his eyes, though, they’re fixed on me as if I’m theonly thing in the room, and I feel the sensation of butterflies fluttering in my stomach, a feeling much too foreign to me.
“You’re staring again,” I say flatly, not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Can you blame me?” His voice dips low, teasing. “You just wrapped your lips around that straw, and I couldn’t focus on anything else.”
I freeze mid-sip, the straw still in my mouth as I glare at him. “Seriously?”
He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just an honest man appreciating the art in front of me.”
I shake my head, holding in a laugh as I walk past him. “You’re the worst.”
His laugh follows me. “Dollface, I’m the best terrible decision you haven’t made yet.”
I let out a long sigh.
God help me, he isn’t wrong.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say, finally meeting his eyes as I sit back down in the living room, organizing boxes.
“You’re welcome.”
He lowers himself to the floor beside me, careful not to crowd me this time. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he attempt to touch me again, just quiet company.
Our shoulders brush, barely, but his warmth seeps into me anyway.
I don’t pull away, and I don’t lean in, either.
I just let him sit there as the late afternoon light filters through the curtains and stretches across my half-packed apartment.
He doesn’t push or fill the silence with his jokes or any of the things he usually does to crack me open.
For some reason, his quiet company makes me see himin a different light. He isn’t just a cocky football player who’s a notorious flirt and a womanizer; he’s someone without the jersey, and seeing him like this makes himreal.
That’s what scares me the most.
We pack in silence with our shoulders touching and the faint pass of his fingers across mine.
I glance over at him, and he’s struggling with a roll of tape, and in that moment, I crack a small smile to myself.
It feelslike I’ve torn a piece of myself away from LA and handed it over to someone else.
I haven’t said thank you, and I’m not sure I fucking can, not without my throat tightening with resentment, guilt, or something in between.
I drag one of my suitcases onto the porch, and Maverick’s phone rings. He glances down, frowns, and exhales before answering.
His voice begins casually, but as he listens more, his posture shifts—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward me, as if the conversation has suddenly become more serious than expected.
He hangs up a moment later, running a hand through his hair before facing me.
“That was Coach,” he says, stepping toward me and grabbing my suitcase. “First practice of the season is tomorrow. It’s open to the public, press, fans, cameras, the whole shabang, and Coach wants me on my best behavior.”
I watch him intently, with my arms crossed.
