God help us.
I smirk, already feeling better as I twist the black, titanium wedding band around my finger.
A night with my brothers sounds like exactly what my overworked brain and overstimulated body need.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out, but Maggie steps in front of me, holding her clipboard with her glasses low on her nose, her lips pursed, my PR death angel.
“Hayes,” she says sharply. “Don’t think I didn’t see those flirty heart hands you threw for the first practice of the season.”
I blink, confused. Why does that matter? “They were for morale.”
“For the crowd?”
“For my wife.”
She sighs, gripping her clipboard. “Look, I’m not here to kill your fun, but the first game of the season is tomorrow, and we’ve got the Henderson gala soon, which, surprise, will be crawling with reporters.”
I nod, half-listening as I swipe my towel across my neck. “Let me guess. You want me to behave.”
“I want you to keep doing whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing with your little wife,” she says flatly, flipping a page. “Because the media may be chewing on her background, but our sponsors? They’re eating up the ‘reformed playboy in love’ storyline.”
My jaw twitches. “She’s not a storyline.”
Maggie raises her brow. “Uh-huh, no drama, no disappearing into the night with half a bottle of Patrón and a bar girl on your arm. If you’re serious about your image, now’s the time to act like it.”
“I haven’t touched anyone in two years,” I mutter, shoving my towel into my bag.
She stares, eyeing me up and down, scoffing. Walking off with her heels clacking, I watch her go, letting out the breath I was holding in, and glance at my phone again, typing out a message.
Maverick
on my way
Carter, baby, you better be making your famous ribs.
If I can’t party in public, I might as well get fucked at my brother’s house.
I turndown the volume on the stereo, my hand resting lazily on the wheel as I cruise through the winding backroads of Ruby Ridge. The late afternoon light bleeds into orange across the horizon, bathing everything in a haze of amber. Dust kicks up behind my Bronco’s thick tires, the lifted frame humming with power beneath me.
I’m halfway to Carter’s when it hits me.
I haven’t gotten Amelia a ring.
I mean, Maggie chose the one I gave her at our ‘wedding,’ but I want her to have something that’s hers, and I want to. I want something on her hand that tells every guy breathing to look elsewhere. Something she sees when she’s alone and maybe thinks of me.
Without thinking, I tap her name on my screen and hold the phone to my ear as the Bronco hums beneath me.
She answers on the third ring, voice dry as ever. “What?”
“Hey, dollfaceeee,” I grin, settling back in my seat. “Quick question. What’s your dream ring?”
There’s a pause. “Why would I tell you that?”
“Becauseeee,” I drag the word out with a half-laugh, “we’re fake married and it’s all I can think about while I’m driving past cows and cornfields. So come on, dollface. Throw me a bone.”
She sighs. “Fine. Four-carat emerald cut with a silver band. Clean design, no halo, pave, and no diamond. Just keep it simple and don’t make it weird.”
I let out a low whistle, smirking. “Four carats? Damn. You trying to break my wrist every time I hold your hand?”
