Page 123 of Married to the Scottish Player
I need to call someone before I actually melt into the pavement, like a sad street pancake.
I dig my phone out of the tiny zipper pocket in my shorts and scroll toLucy.
She answers on the second ring, sounding out of breath. “Tell me you’re not dead in a ditch.”
“I’m not. But Iamspiraling. Does that count?”
There’s a pause, then rustling. “Where are you? What happened?”
“I’m window-shopping without a wallet in a town that sells cowboy hats and crystals that cost thousands of dollars.”
“So . . . you’re fine?”
“No, Lucy. I amnotfine. I am sweating in places that shouldn’t sweat. I got calledMrs. McBrideby the doorman, my wedding band is in my bra, and I may have heatstroke. And also a broken heart.”
Lucy’s voice sharpens at that last one. “Did Maverick do something? Talk to me.”
“Yes. He ...” I swallow hard, dragging my sweaty palm down my even sweatier cheek. “He wants to tell the world I exist. And I’m not ready.”
Lucy lets out a soft, knowing noise. “Ah.”
“Don’t you dare‘ah’me.”
“I’m just saying. That sounds like the kind of thing a guy says when he wants to be serious.”
I groan. “No. It’s the kind of thing a guy says when hispublicistwants him to be serious. She’s pushing this whole redemption arc—like I’m some support wife here to fix his image.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “I didn’t realize his image needed fixing.”
“I thought all young football players needed fixing,” I mutter, shading my eyes as I squint up at one of the nearby high-rises. Sleek. Modern. Too many balconies.
Lucy’s quiet for a second, then asks carefully, “What does Maverick think about it?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That making a public statement isn’t about branding. That it’s about ... me. Us controlling the narrative.”
“Uh-huh.” I can practically hear her nodding. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Harris and I did the same thing.”
They did? “You did?”
“Yes. You were probably too busy with your own shit, but after that whole lumberjack stunt, the sports world went nuts. So when I flew to Arizona, they dug up photos of us at the lodge—that night he carried me out. Then pictures of the logrolling competition. Interviewed people from town, who were all too happy to spill the tea.”
I scowl at that. “Of course they were.”
“Right? So the team leaned in. We leaned in.”
As she talks, I walk slowly, dragging my hand along the stucco wall of a taco shop and mentally calculating how many hours of therapy I’m going to need to unpack my feelings.
Lucy goes on. “I’m not saying you owe Maverick anything. I’m just saying it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe you should stop running from it.”
“I’m not running. I’m walking.”
“Same thing.”
“Did you roll your eyes at me?”
Lucy laughs. “Yes.”
I sigh, lean my forehead against the glass. “I just want to keep pretending, you know? That this is our bubble with no one else in it. Just me and him and sex and the quiet. No press. No expectations.”
