I stare at the screen, heat crawling up my neck. They cut to footage of my “husband” at practice—sweaty, focused, jaw clenched in a way that makes women weak and offensive linemen terrified—and for a second, I forget to breathe.
Because I know that jaw.
I’ve kissed it.
I know what it feels like when he presses it to my shoulder at night, and how it feels when he kisses below my ear or when he drags his nose along the inside of my wrist to smell my perfume. I know what he looks like before he falls asleep. I know what it sounds like when he’s tired and whispers my name in the dark, low and gruff and barely awake.
And now the world knows he’s in a relationship.
With me.
The screen cuts to a panel of smirking hosts at a broadcasting counter with a green screen behind them. One of them jokes, “Let meremind the fans that since no official marriage license has been found, it means this could be a very elaborate PR stunt.”
“Well, if it’s a publicity stunt—it’s working,” a burly dude in a purple suit quips. “My wife hasn’t shut up about them since she saw the reel on Instagram.”
They all laugh.
I scowl. “Publicity stunt?”
Another guy chuckles. “Since when does Maverick McBride need a PR stunt? He’s one of the highest-paid players in the league—he’s already dominating the team coverage now that they expect him to be off the rehab list soon.”
Off the rehab list? That’s good news. Why hasn’t he said anything? I know nothing about football—or sports in general, if I’m being honest. I need to be spoon-fed this information.
“Don’t forget the real story here,” he continues. “McBride led the league in solo tackles last season, top five in total stops, and he has been miraculously injury free for the past four seasons until this last one. PR stunt or not, the man is a machine.”
One of them nods. “Reports out of Arizona say he’s come back even stronger. Coaches are calling him the anchor of the entire defense.”
I have no idea what any of this means, but I am glued to the television.
“And if he’s playing this well while navigating a mystery marriage?” someone adds, eyebrows raised. “Other teams should be nervous.”
“Especially with the Jets reshuffling their offensive line.” The female host jumps back in. “And don’t sleep on Miami. Their new QB has legs, but he’s not outrunning McBride.”
Another round of agreement, arguments, and the screen splits—one side showing Maverick mid-tackle in a practice scrimmage, the other from what must be last season.
The subhead below reads:Newlywed Maverick Mcbride: Back to Crush Offenses.
“Ugh!” I click the TV off.
Silence swallows the massive apartment. I stare at the black screen, my own reflection staring back.
What the hell are we doing?
I press a hand to my stomach. Not because I’m sick—because I’m spun up. Suddenly anxious and nauseous in the way you get when something you didn’t mean to matter starts mattering awhole damn lot.
I sink onto one of the barstools at the counter, phone in hand, and open my texts. Nothing from him checking in with me yet.
I swipe that away, opening Instagram to see how many times I’ve been tagged. I had to make my sad little account private and go through the new followers I’d gained overnight, whittling away at deleting them, one by one.
What a pain in the ass.
Go back to my discovery page, and there we are again.
A blurry shot of Maverick with his arm slung around my shoulders the night of the wedding, my face turned up toward him, laughing. Beers. Evy.
I barely remember that moment.
But someone caught it. Posted it. Found us and tagged us.
