Pierce snickers. “Yeah, what’s it like having a woman fine enough to ruin your credit score?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I grunt, adjusting my stance.
“You love ussssss,” JP fires back, popping his gum.
“Focus on the snap, you fucks. We’ve got a game tomorrow.” I growl, crouching low.
We run a clean play, tight route, fast pivot, end zone spiral, and I make the throw without missing a beat. The ball slices through the air, toward Pierce’s hands, and he snatches it with ease, spiking it dramatically as the crowd erupts behind the fence. My arms are on autopilot, driven by pure muscle memory and repetition, doing the work.
Everything else?
A goddamn disaster.
My head’s back in that tattoo chair.
I jog back to the huddle, but my pulse is still racing for the wrong reasons. My chest feels tight. My shorts feel even tighter. I’m dangerously close to calling a timeout just to shove my head in the nearest ice bucket.
“Clean pass,” Coach calls out, taking me out of my haze. “Now keep your brain in the damn game, Hayes.”
I jog back toward the sideline, chest heaving, and glance toward the fence where a few fans are gathering.
Amelia didn’t show up today, not that I expected her to, after I basically self-destructed in front of her while she kept a straight face.
I slip my glove off and check my phone under the excuse of needing water, or I’ll perish.
Maverick
You thinking about yesterday?
Maverick
Because I am.
Maverick
Constantly.
Maverick
Still can’t tell if you were torturing me on purpose.
Maverick
(If so, 10/10. Would suffer again.)
Maverick
Also, hi. Miss your face.
Before I can shove it back in my pocket, Maggie steps onto the field with a clipboard in hand and sunglasses that frame her whole face, as her wild red-orange burnt curls twirl in the breeze.
“Don’t get used to this, Hayes. This PR glow-up doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Love you too, Maggie,” I mutter as I break into a run for the next drill.
Practice continues as the sun blazes down, making my pads feel heavy, sweat stinging my eyes, and the air thick with turf dust. When the final whistle blows, my lungs burn and my legs are sore.
Fans crowd the fence, waving jerseys and posters, sharpies in hand. I tug off my helmet, sweep damp hair back, and flash the smile I’ve perfected for them, the one that says I’m unshakable, the golden boy quarterback they came to see.
