Page 11 of Maverick (Playing For Keeps #2)

REESE

Maverick hadn’t spoken to me since Saturday night.

Granted, two days may not have been a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like forever.

When I woke up alone Sunday morning, I tried not to think anything of it.

I was a heavy sleeper and without my alarm, I was the last one in the house to drag myself downstairs.

Talking to Maverick would just have to wait.

Now, as we warmed up on the field, I didn’t miss the glances he kept throwing my way—but I could also see him looking at Quinton the same way.

Jealousy spiked so aggressively that I rubbed at my chest to will it away.

I couldn’t get jealous over him, not anymore.

I’d made that clear before and I couldn’t expect one drunken hookup to change his mind.

It was going to take so much more than that to prove to him I meant it.

And if he never wanted to speak to me again—as much as it would hurt—I’d have to accept that.

Still, the heat of his body against mine when we lined up to watch the coin toss was pure torture.

Whether he’d chosen to stand directly behind me was a conscious choice or not, I wasn’t sure, but it made me…

squirmy. The way he fought to catch his br eath, winded from the warmups was way too similar to what he sounded like when he was about to?—

“Heads! Black Bears defer their choice to the second half. The Yellowhammers have the ball.”

The time for dwelling over Maverick Crawford was over.

The ball was set on a tee in the middle of the field, and both teams lined up: defense first, and offense behind them.

Electricity sizzled in the air. Every man on the field practically vibrated with energy.

In fifteen pounds of gear with the sweltering Alabama sun beating down on us, my back was already drenched in sweat.

Our team’s kicker strode up to the tee, increasing his speed until he dashed and his foot connected with the ball.

Twenty-two pairs of feet jumped into action.

The ball soared overhead, nearly disappearing in the blinding late-afternoon light before it dropped toward the ground.

A runner on the Black Bears stretched his hand out, and the ball made contact.

He ducked and dived, dipping toward the sideline in an attempt to rush toward the end zone—but he wasn’t fast enough.

Players gained on him, and his eyes darted left and right, searching for an opening.

I knew this guy’s moves—I’d studied him. Right on cue, he rotated over his left shoulder to face the mass of players surrounding him. His right arm reared back…

And I leapt into the air, intercepting the pass.

Size was great for a football player, but most underestimated the benefits to being smaller, more lithe.

No one expected the little ones to be good players.

I pivoted and sped in the opposite direction, weaving between those large bodies like my life depended on it.

Finally, I found a gap. Unlike the unlucky player who’d messed up the pass, I didn’t need to look at who stood there.

Operating off pure instinct, I whirled around and snapped the ball to my left—straight into the hands of our quarterback.

The heat was off me, but my job wasn’t finished.

Jake swiveled and sprinted toward our end zone. My heart pounded in my ears, a thundering beat with each footfall. The entire play only lasted seconds, but it felt like hours.

A linebacker lunged for Jake, but he was faster. Mav intercepted a block from his right; I shoved off another player to my left. Lines and colors blurred, crimson and navy fusing together in a flurry of bodies.

And then it all stopped.

Jake crossed the goal line—touchdown for the Yellowhammers.

Game on.

The Black Bears gave as good as they got.

The entire game was neck and neck, with no one being able to predict who would ultimately come out on top.

The heat and humidity made it that much harder to breathe.

In between quarters, I ripped off my helmet to chug as much water as I could.

Each time I did, I swore I felt eyes on me, only to find no one watching.

However, I could feel Maverick’s presence like a heavy shadow looming over me.

As we broke for halftime and retreated to the locker room, I tried not to stare when he shook out his sweaty curls but…

he was just there . Damn it, he shouldn’t look so good if he didn’t want me watching him.

His skin glistened in the sunlight. Sweat beaded on the ends of his hair and dripped into his face. And as his tongue darted out to lick a drop away from his top lip…

My water bottle crashed into my teeth. Quinton stood there, a knowing grin on his face. “Sorry—you looked thirsty.” He winked at me, then continued on his way.

I still hadn’t caught Maverick looking my way, but at least now his lip quirked into that grin that drove me wild.

The team’s medic approached him, instructing him to sit to have a friction burn on his arm checked.

Turning my back to him, I drenched my head with the water. I needed to calm the fuck down.

I wasn’t closeted by any means, but I wasn’t out either.

If someone asked, I’d happily tell them, but I wasn’t sure if Maverick shared that sentiment.

To put some distance between us, I found a seat on the other side of the room, accepting a protein bar from Jake as I listened to the coach’s strategy for the second half of the game.

Back on the field, the feeling that I was being watched lingered, and Mav started to stumble.

There were one too many close calls where he didn’t shed a block properly, and every single one only served to make me angrier.

I knew what he was doing wrong, and I could tell him how to fix it—he just wouldn’t listen to me.

Every time I got close to him, he would move the opposite way.

By the last quarter, I was getting frustrated. He had to listen to me one way or the other.

The game was close, and it all came down to a single touchdown.

Currently, we stood in the sidelines, waiting for a time out to be over.

While Maverick was distracted, I wove my way through the rest of the players and approached him from behind.

If he didn’t see me coming, maybe I could get my words out before he walked away.

Unfortunately, he zeroed in on my presence the moment I got within five feet of him. Rolling his eyes, he tried to scurry off again, but I was faster. “Mav, wait,” I called, grabbing his arm.

He froze in place, but the way he glared down at my hand made me wish I was six feet under instead. I let go, fully expecting him to leave.

He didn’t.

“Taylor?” he questioned instead, glancing around us as if someone would catch us. I’d be lying if I said that hearing him using my last name didn’t hurt. Yeah, we were on the field, but… it wouldn’t have tipped anyone off.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. I was tempted to drop the matter altogether.

I thought seeing tears in Maverick’s eyes was the worst sight ever, but I was so horribly wrong.

I’d never seen such… hurt before. He wasn’t even upset, he was angry, and rightfully conflicted.

Standing there, I practically witnessed the war of emotions happening behind those swirling hunter eyes.

“Your block shedding technique is off,” I finally blurted. “You?—”

“ That’s why you’ve been following me around like a sad little puppy all day?” He scoffed and shook his head, reaching for his helmet as the whistle blew to continue the game. “You still think you’re better than me, don’t you?”

“That’s not?—”

“Save it, Reese. It’s my own fault for thinking you were different.”

If the worst feeling ever was knowing that I hurt that man, then watching him walk away from me became a close second. I stared after the retreating number thirteen on his back, wondering if the ache in my chest was even a fraction of his experience at the party all those years ago.

Someone knocked against my shoulder, snapping me out of it.

We were in the most crucial point of any game. We were down by just a couple of points, and the next play could make or break us. Despite trying to shake it off, I felt Maverick’s presence everywhere I turned. I could predict his next move almost better than he could.

The timer started. Suddenly, the ball was in play.

It flew from the Black Bears’s quarterback to a runner.

I attempted an interception, but missed.

The runner took off down the field, bracketed by Quinton and Maverick on either side.

Quinton attempted a tackle, getting enough leverage on the guy to make him trip and drop the ball.

Jake snatched it before anyone realized what was happening. The next few moves seemed to stretch into hours.

The entire mass of men changed course in an impressive turn of events.

Jake passed to one of our runners, and the opposing team swarmed.

Blood rushed in my ears. Someone shoved into my side, trying to throw me off, but I was that much quicker.

I pushed him away, returning my attention to the runner—and the opposing team shifted their focus.

After a long, grueling game, they’d discovered our weak link: Maverick.

He’d held his own, but he was starting to get tired, and it showed in how he defended the runner. Given his size, his blocks should have been more confident, but each one got weaker—like he was scared to hurt the other person.

We approached the end zone, and every noise in the place got more intense.

The shouting—both on and off the field. The pulsing in my ears got louder.

Over twenty men converged into one mass, all surrounding that single runner with the ball.

He tripped and hit the ground. The ball rolled from his hands.

Every thump of my heart coincided with another second ticking away.

Players scuffled for the ball, but it did nothing more than delaying the inevitable.

Finally, the Black Bears got the ball and snapped it back in the opposite direction.

I ducked around to meet Maverick on the other side of the runner.

If he wasn’t going to let me help improve his skills, then the least I could do was back him up on the field.

But then my head knocked into his shoulder.

A flash of navy to my left revealed a determined linebacker hell bent on taking me down.

He shoved again, sending me into Maverick so violently that my head spun.

I slowed, ever so slightly, and that gave the guy the leverage he needed.

One more forceful push, and I went down hard.

By the time I climbed to my feet, the timer went off. The Black Bears hadn’t scored a touchdown, but it didn’t matter—they didn’t need it.

We lost.

Losses were inevitable. That was just something you had to get used to in the world of pro sports—hell, in life. But that didn’t stop them from sucking any less, especially when they were on home turf.

As we trudged back to the clubhouse, I once again found myself staring at that giant number thirteen, right below Maverick’s last name.

My hands itched to reach out to him, but I refrained—barely—but his head slowly rotated over his right shoulder, those intense green eyes meeting mine, and the look there said it all.

It was enough for me to keep my mouth shut for once.

I hardly even remembered what the head coach said in the locker room. My focus was on showering as fast as possible. I had to, or else I risked walking up to Maverick and making our situation even worse.

Even as I left the stadium that day, I swore I could feel his eyes on me with every step.