Page 138 of Married to the Scottish Player
“We’ve kept a low profile as long as we could. And while our relationship is new—and this may come as a huge surprise to some, we’re having a great time—I’m looking forward to getting back to work.” Maverick squeezes the mic once, steady, then adds, “Football is what I love—it’s what I’m good at. But this”—he tips his chin toward me, and the shift of cameras my way is jarring—“this is my family, and I’ll protect it the same way I protect my team: with everything I’ve got.”
The room quiets just for a heartbeat, like even the reporters recognize when they’ve been leveled.
They turn on me.
Reporters shout over each other again, their questions tumbling on top of one another until it’s just noise. My name threads through the room like a hook: “Annabelle, Annabelle, did anyone get the timeline?” “When is the due date?”
Maverick ignores them, leaning forward. “Babe, wanna come up here and say something?”
No!
I’m not built for this! I mean, yeah, I’m great with people, but I’ve never in my life had to deal with something like this. Not stadiumlights. Not a hundred pairs of eyes waiting for me to either slip or shine. Jeez, what if I say something stupid and it lives with me forever?
But Maverick isn’t offering me up to the wolves. He’s inviting me to stand beside him. To claim my place.
So then I think,Sure—why the hell not?
I smooth the front of my dress, even though the fabric doesn’t need it, and cross the short distance to the raised podium, where he’s sitting, and his agent stands to offer me his seat.
Maverick kisses my cheek and takes my hand.
The microphone looms too close to my mouth.
I take a breath. “Hi.”
Several people chuckle.
“I’m Annabelle.”
“Annabelle,” Maverick repeats into his mic like he’s introducing royalty. “My wife.”
The room vibrates at that word—wife—like a pack of bloodhounds hearing the crinkle of a treat bag, followed by excited murmurs.
“See, you’re already better at this than me.” He gives my hand an encouraging squeeze, speaking to the room. “Did you hear the applause after she said her name? Nobody clapped when I said mine.”
The pressroom laughs, and so do I, because it’s impossible not to when Maverick decides to charm.
I lean forward and speak again. “Don’t encourage him,” I warn. “If you laugh at his jokes, he’ll never stop.”
“I’m hilarious,” he says, deadpan.
“You’resomething, that is true,” I mutter, which gets another ripple of laughter.
This is bonkers. I thought I’d be eaten alive by this crowd, but it seems Maverick and I have an uncanny ability to tilt the atmosphere, to make it feel less like a firing squad and more like a dinner table where he’s holding court. I’m part of the act now ...
One brave reporter calls out over the din, “Annabelle, how did our guy propose?”
Our guy . . .
I blink. “Oh. Um—he didn’t until our official wedding.”
Whispers.
Maverick throws his head back, laughing.
I swat his arm. “Why are you laughing? You’re the one who proposed at the altar!”
He leans toward the crowd, conspiratorial. “She basically proposed tome.”
