Page 117 of Married to the Scottish Player
“So.” He clears his throat. “Did you happen to see the story about me and Annabelle on the news?”
His mom leans in closer to their laptop screen. “The one about the wedding?” She says it slowly, as if there’s more to decode and she wants to figure it out before her son gives her the ending. “At first we thought it was a PR stunt. Or one of those TikTok couples who fake engagements to go viral.”
“Right?” his dad adds. “Didn’t seem real. We’d have gotten photos or an announcement at least. Nothing but a headline and blurry images of you two in the woods at a wedding, and we know you were on that rehab retreat.”
Definitely did not seem real to me either.
Maverick shrugs like we’re discussing brunch plans. “Well ... there is no marriage certificate filed, but ...”
His mother hangs on his unfinished sentence, brows in her hairline.
“We’re going to try and make it work.”
His mom’s lips part, her face caught somewhere between supportive and amazed and “what in the McFuck have you done.” His dad guzzles from his water bottle.
“And you two ... like each other?” his mom asks delicately, obviously afraid to use the wordL-O-V-E. As if one of us will spook.
Maverick doesn’t hesitate. “Aye. I like her.”
His mom gives him a long, searching look, as if gauging the sarcasm level or sincerity—which, to be fair, is always kind of difficult to ascertain.
He grins and turns to me. “Imorethan like her.”
Awww.
“He’s all right,” I mutter, which makes his dad bark out a surprised laugh.
“Oh, thank God,” he says, setting his bottle down. “I was worried this was a hostage situation.”
“Blink twice if you’re in danger.” His mom laughs, half serious.
I hold up three fingers and deadpan, “I married a man who eats peanut butter straight from the jar. Send help.”
Maverick slings his arm around my shoulder. “You love it.”
“Debatable.”
“We’re glad you’re both okay,” his mom continues. “That you’ve got each other. We didn’t know what to think when we saw the headlines—we figured if it was serious, you’d call, but ... you’re grown. We didn’t want to interfere.”
“And now we know.” His dad scratches his head. “Still processing how it works without a marriage certificate and calling each other husband and wife, but all right.”
Maverick shares a look with me—one of those telepathic “should we just rip off theBand-Aid” kinds of looks—so I know what’s coming next.
Oh God.
Here comes plot twist number two.
His hand squeezes my thigh. “Not to dump a shit ton on ye, but ...” He sits up straight, sliding his arm around the back of me. “There’s one more thing.”
“One more thing?” his mom echoes, blinking.
“We didn’t plan for it,” Maverick says gently, and now I feel every nerve ending in my body light up like it’s bracing for impact. “But ... we’re expecting.”
Silence.
Not just quiet—true, soul-splitting silence.
You could hear a pin drop.
