Page 137 of Married to the Scottish Player
We’re married.
Legally, officially, permanently.
“I’m the lucky bastard who gets to call you mine.”
Chapter 33
Annabelle
This press conference room smells like sweat, men, and coffee.
I nibble on my bottom lip, watching from the back of the room as Callum takes his seat behind the long banquet table, his agent on his left, Arizona’s coach on his right.
Every surface gleams under fluorescent lights; every camera angle trained on the man at the front—the one who dragged me into the center of a universe I never thought I’d orbit.
This is the first time I’ve ever been in a football headquarters, and it does not disappoint. Glistening polished floors. Glass walls. Crystal team logos. A waterfall in the main lobby.
I squint under the bright light as Callum adjusts himself on the tiny folding chair, rows of them lined up for reporters, microphones ready, hungry for a story. They’re here for blood. Or headlines. Or both.
Same damn thing.
This is about me. About us. I agreed to this after his agent’s sales pitch: Why not capitalize and monetize on the wedding and the baby? Let the story pay for both, ha ha.
Yes, originally the idea made me uncomfortable. Before this, my life had never been about clicks and coverage—even the times I wasdoing the most to promote my small business to brides. The thought of strangers dissecting my choices makes my stomach churn.
But that was then, and this is now.
My new life.
I am embracing it.
The hum of voices dies down as Callum’s coach pulls a thin microphone toward his face, prepared words on a sheet of paper in his hand. He’s an older man with a low voice that carries years of shouting on the sidelines and probably lots of whiskey; it’s the kind of tone that can silence a locker room.
“Afternoon, thanks for coming,” the coach begins, eyes sweeping across the restless room of reporters. “Before we open the floor, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the man sitting beside me. Mav McBride has been with the Arizona program for five seasons. In that time, he’s been a captain, a leader in our locker room, and one of the most consistent players on the field.”
Click, click, click—the cameras capture his speech.
“McBride has logged over six hundred career tackles, one hundred and twenty for loss, and twenty-two sacks since joining Arizona. He’s forced more fumbles than any other player on our roster and holds the franchise record for most consecutive starts on defense.”
Reporters lean forward, pens hovering.
“That kind of consistency doesn’t just show up on the field,” Coach continues. “It shows up in leadership, in toughness, and in the kind of man he is off it. Today he’s here to share something even bigger than football.”
Maverick’s jaw ticks with nervousness. Sure, he looks calm on the surface, but I know that muscle twitches when his nerves fire. He looks out at the sea of cameras like he’s staring down an offensive line—shoulders square, unflinching.
He leans toward the microphone, one big hand braced on the table, and clears his throat. “First, like Coach said, thank you all for being here.” His throat clears again as he prepares to deliver the news. “I know there hasbeen speculation.” The pressroom tightens, reporters practically salivating. “I’m here today to confirm them. Yes, I’m married.” His gaze flicks over to where I’m standing, a lightning strike I feel everywhere. “And we have more news. My beautiful wife and I are expecting our first child.”
The reporters begin firing off questions. Flashes blind. The cold air buzzes with urgency as reporters shout over each other, trying to be heard:
“When did you get married?”
“How long have you known each other?”
“How will this affect your career?”
“Annabelle, are you prepared for this spotlight?”
Maverick doesn’t waver. Barely blinks. He plants his elbows on the table and raises the mic closer.
