Wildcat (Mavericks Tackle Love Book 1)

by Max Monroe

  My heart pounded wildly inside my chest, and I felt like someone had reached their hands inside my throat and closed a vise-like grip around my lungs.

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and did my best to breathe through the panic. I wasn’t sure why I was freaking the fuck out, but that wasn’t a question I could reason through in that moment.

  Anxiety had taken the wheel, and all I could do was grip the “oh shit” handle and endure the ride.

  Once my breathing had slowed and my heart rate had calmed down to a more normal pace, I stood up straight and pulled my cell phone out of my jacket pocket. Even though I knew it was probably the very last thing I should’ve done, I clicked open my Safari icon and typed Quinn’s name into the Google search bar.

  Instantly, the most recent articles populated on the screen, and I clicked the one that had the word girlfriend connected to it.

  My screen filled with that candid, invasive picture of the two of us kissing. We were in the Birmingham airport, and I knew it had occurred the day he’d surprised me and taken me to his parents’ house.

  I hadn’t even known there were paparazzi in the airport, much less that they were snapping photos of us.

  The headline of the article: Quinn Bailey’s New Girlfriend: We’ve got the scoop, and it looks like our favorite quarterback isn’t going for his usual taste in women…

  And the subheading: Could this be why his game is off?

  What in the fuck was that supposed to mean?

  I flicked my finger down the screen, scrolling past the headline and photo of us, until I reached more photos, but this time, they were of Quinn’s girlfriends of yore.

  Models. Actresses. Pop singers. It was a plethora of the same three variations: blond, famous, and white.

  Wow. Now, I understood what they meant by that whole not his usual taste comment.

  Is this why his parents don’t like me? Because I’m not white?

  I cringed at those thoughts. I didn’t want to think that was their reasoning, but my gut instinct told me otherwise. And now, after seeing this article, it appeared his parents had never seen him with anyone besides blond, white women.

  I tried to read through it, but I had to stop when I was forced to come to the hard realization that the paparazzi knew a lot more about me than any sane human being who wasn’t in the limelight would want. They knew my name, my age, where I grew up, my work schedule, even details about my family and Caterpillar & Co.

  This spread was much different from that initial article. It was like they’d hired a private investigator to find out everything about my life. Not to mention, the overall tone wasn’t exactly positive since they were questioning if I was the reason Quinn’s game was off and comparing the skin color of his other girlfriends to mine.

  It was all too much to process.

  As I tapped the screen to close out of the page, an Instagram notification popped up on the screen, and my finger managed to hit that instead. The screen redirected, moving from the article to my Instagram account at a rapid pace.

  And that was where things got ugly.

  Hundreds, probably even thousands, of notifications appeared. It was too many to count, and included new followers, likes and comments on my photos, and requests for direct messages.

  Morbid curiosity running the show, I tapped on one of the notifications, and instantly, one of my photos from last Christmas appeared. It was a photo of my mother and me, wearing our favorite Christmas sweaters and smiling toward the camera.

  What originally had all of a handful of comments was so cluttered with new responses that I couldn’t even view them all. It was pages upon pages of comments from random strangers that I’d never met in my entire life.

  Some were nice.

  Some were there to just tag their friends to come stalk my photos with them.

  And a lot of them were really fucking mean.

  All related to one thing: the recent news of my relationship with Quinn Bailey.

  His superfans, his haters, and even people who just enjoyed following celebrity gossip had made their way on to my Instagram profile and sifted through my photos like my personal life was there for them to dissect and comment on.

  It was awful. I’d never felt so violated in my life.

  Too overwhelmed, I shut my phone off completely.

  And by the time I made my way back to the hotel room, Casey and Nikki had apparently already heard the news.

  It was no surprise. Casey followed BuzzFeed and Cosmo like his life depended on it.

  “Are you okay?” Nikki asked as Casey stood up from the bed and pulled me into a tight hug.

  “I’m not sure,” I whispered. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”

  I’d had all intentions of calling Quinn tonight, once things had settled down and I’d managed to eat some dinner. I’d seen his missed calls over the past two days, and my avoidance wasn’t because I didn’t want to talk to him. I did. I just didn’t know what to say. Honestly, deep down, I think it had more to do with the fear of hearing him say the one thing I didn’t want to hear: We can’t make this work.

  But now, I wasn’t so sure that was just a fear.

  It felt more like a reality.

  I stared out of the window, watching the wings of the plane slice through the sky.

  After spending an entire night crying into Casey’s and Nikki’s arms, and not sleeping for shit, I was ready to get home and attempt a full night’s rest in my bed.

  The fact that I was on a tabloid wasn’t the main thing that had upset me.

  It had been the headline, the content of the article, and the fact that paparazzi had managed to sneak pictures of us at the airport and I hadn’t even realized it. Not to mention, the thousands of horrible, mean comments on my Instagram photos from random strangers.

  No matter how confident, how self-assured you thought you were, it wasn’t easy seeing people say cruel things about your appearance, your life, your social-class status, your skin color, and pretty much anything else they could find.

  Sure, some people had said nice things, but that wasn’t what my brain focused on.

  No. Only the negative things stuck in my mind.

  Between the media shitstorm and the way things had been left between Quinn and me, I felt like I’d reached a new low of insecurity.

  With a deep inhale, I stopped scrolling through the Cosmopolitan magazine in my lap and shut my eyes, resting my head against my seat.

  “You okay?” Casey whispered into my ear, and I opened my eyes to find him looking at me with concern in his eyes.

  I nodded. “I’m just tired.”

  I hated that both he and Nikki had to deal with my quiet, reflective, moody ass.

  I knew I’d basically been mute the entire flight, but I just couldn’t help it.

  I couldn’t seem to snap myself out of it.

  C’mon, Cat. Stop fixating on the negative. Think of the good things. Focus on the positives…

  I couldn’t deny that, despite the whole tabloid debacle, my trip to Cincinnati had been much-needed. I’d spent time with my two best friends, laughing and having fun in our hotel room when we weren’t training, and even when we were training, we still found time to dick around and be goofy.

  And my parents. God, I’d missed them.

  I’d managed one dinner, several hours of catching up, and a fun, exciting work session with my dad, talking anything and everything Caterpillar & Co. And, I had to be honest, I was excited for all of the things happening for our tiny company.

  What had started out as a little hobby my dad and I had shared when I was a kid had turned into something viable and had the potential to have huge success. I was thankful he had managed to keep the ship sailing while I’d been busy jet-setting and starting my flight attendant career.

  Fingers and toes crossed that more good things came for Caterpillar & Co.

  I sure as hell would start making it a priority and already had plans of setting time aside on
a weekly basis to work on more sketches and cutesy tag lines.

  The pilot announced our nearing departure, and by the time our bird safely fell from the sky and executed a smooth and steady landing at JFK, I’d packed up my snacks and phone and magazines, sliding them safely into my purse.

  Nikki and Casey were the first two out into the aisle, and I followed their lead.

  We walked out of our gate, through the terminal, and by the time we reached baggage claim, flashes of light filled my view until it became blinding.

  “Catharine! Catharine! Over here!”

  “What’s it like dating Quinn Bailey?”

  “Are you going to his game in Minneapolis?”

  Questions and more flashes came from what felt like every angle.

  I couldn’t even blink past the assaulting lights from their cameras to put actual faces to the paparazzi who were asking the questions and snapping the pictures.

  “Cat.” Nikki’s voice startled me out of my shock. “C’mon, girl. My husband is just outside. He’ll drive us home.” She grabbed my hand and led me through the obnoxious crowd and out of the airport.

  Once she spotted Mr. Miller, we ran over to his car at a jog, and it was only then that I realized Casey had kindly retrieved our bags from baggage claim and was tossing them in the trunk.

  The three of us slid into the car, and the instant my ears were hit with the silence and safety of the car, I looked toward Nikki in the front passenger seat and asked, “Nik, can I stay at your house tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “I just don’t think I can go home right now.”

  I didn’t want to go to my house for fear there’d be cameras waiting for me.

  I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to talk to Quinn in that moment.

  I didn’t know what I wanted.

  The beep was like a taunt in my ear as, once again, my call to Cat rolled to voice mail.

  I pulled at the fabric of my suit pants and smoothed it needlessly over my knee. The team plane was rowdy as everyone else spoke excitedly about the upcoming game, so I cupped my hand around my mouth and turned away from the noise as much as possible.

  “Hey, Cat. I’m on my way to the game in Minneapolis. We’re about to take off, and it takes about three hours to get there. I’ll call you when I land, but I have Wi-Fi all flight, so send me an email if you want to get in touch before that. I…” I paused, trying to figure out what to say that would get through to her. “Just… Call me back, okay? I really want to talk to you.”

  I’d been trying to get her on the phone for the past three days, all to no avail. When my call went unanswered the fifth time, desperation had set in, and I’d driven all the way to her apartment to try to confront her in person—only, my truck had never stopped rolling.

  A crowd of fifteen to twenty paparazzi stood outside her apartment like vultures, waiting for a sign of a wounded animal. To them, that’s all Catharine was—someone to capitalize on, someone with a sordid story to sell. Knowing my showing up would only make things worse for her, I’d kept on rolling and driven right back home. I hoped she’d found somewhere else to go, somewhere to shelter since she obviously didn’t want it from me.

  Dr. Winnie Lancaster, the team physician and my boss’s wife, took the seat across from me as I scrolled from calls to messages and clicked to draft one to Cat. Apparently, Winnie was the only one not put off by the waves of disgruntlement rolling off of me.

  Swiftly, I typed out a note and hit send.

  Me: I know you’re busy with your own life and the problems I’ve caused for you, but I’m hoping that you’ll please, please call me back. If you can’t get me and don’t want to email, I’ll try calling again later. I love you.

  I sighed and pushed my head back into the headrest as the plane taxied to the runway. I knew I sounded desperate, but I didn’t mind. I was. Desperate to make this work by any means necessary. I wanted Cat to know that.

  Winnie glanced my way, I could feel it, but she was courteous enough to stay silent as I ran through my thoughts and tried to compose myself.

  The nagging, sinking feeling of knowing I might have lost Cat for good wouldn’t ease its grip.

  My parents had been awful, and I hadn’t done a good enough job of apologizing for it. Their thoughts didn’t reflect my own, and I should have skywritten it if I had to. Then, on top of that, the locusts had come out of the media woodwork. Both official, in the capacity of tabloids, and social, via Instagram and Twitter and every other goddamn thing, people had been on the attack. Her clothes, her skin color, her very involvement in my life—you name it, they picked at it.

  I’d made a post discouraging the behavior strongly and asking for, just this once, some privacy in my personal life. Anytime I saw a negative comment directed at Cat on my social media, I deleted it and blocked the responsible user, but it was all just a drop in the bucket. I couldn’t fucking protect her from all of it, no matter how hard I tried.

  The engines roared and the cabin shook as the pilot hammered the throttle and sent us barreling down the runway toward the sky. Planes, understandably, had turned into something of nostalgia to me. I tried not to focus on all the memories as I stared out the window and watched the ground fade farther away.

  “Okay,” the good doctor finally remarked, turning in her seat to face me. The cabin leaned as our plane made a wide sweeping turn to head back in the direction we needed to go, and I inclined into it to avoid her eyes. “I’ve let you sit over there and stew, thinking it was none of my business,” she went on. “But now I’m thinking you need someone to help you climb out of the tailspin.”

  I struggled against it, but as her voice grew softer and softer, it got harder to avoid meeting her eyes.

  “Quinn,” she implored, and finally, with a throaty sigh, I gave in. When I looked across the aisle, her eyes were patient and kind.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Thirty minutes of intensely one-sided conversation later and I’d laid it all out for her. Her eyes were shining with moisture, and her posture was sunken. I’d left nothing out—the good, the best, and the ugly—and apparently, Winnie was feeling personally attached.

  I understood. I was fond of our story too.

  “I’m honestly not sure how to fix it,” I admitted, the words that lent themselves to my painful lack of control burning as they made their way out.

  Her body was nearly pliant with kindness. “You obviously care about her.”

  I shook my head. “I love her.”

  Her shoulders squared as she reached a conclusion, thanks to my words. Her lips curved up, and all the unshed tears in her eyes cleared. “It’ll work out,” she declared. “Right now, she’s feeling overwhelmed and scared, and talking to you is like confronting the problem. As long as she avoids you, she can avoid this. She’ll get over that once she gets her bearings.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, afraid to water the little seed of hope in my belly. Once it sprouted, it’d be a lot more painful to kill.

  “Because when a man feels about a woman like you feel about her, we know it. I know because of my experience with Wes and my friends’ experiences with their men. Somewhere, under the layers of smoggy doubt and vulnerability, she’s got your love to see her through. Just keep loving her, and she’ll find her way out.”

  “But I feel like I should do something, say something, fix something.”

  “Can you fix the whole world? No. Can you change the opinions of your…” She frowned. “Closed-minded parents? No.” It was pretty apparent she’d wanted to use a ruder word but had deferred out of politeness. “But you can love her. I can see it with my own eyes, and she’ll see it with hers too. Be patient, Quinn,” she advised. “That’ll put you where you want to be in the end.”

  Emotionally exhausted and ready to get some sleep, I settled into the bed in my hotel room in Minneapolis and picked up my phone one last time.

  I had to try, to make the effort, just in case she
decided to answer.

  The rings bled together in my ear, and anticipation fizzled like a soda going flat.

  She wasn’t going to answer.

  I took a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, preparing to leave her another voice mail, when the phone clicked, and the sweetest voice I’d ever heard came on the line.

  “Hi,” she whispered. Not a question, not a doubt. She knew I was the caller, and she knew the conversation.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to slow my heartbeat enough to sound relatively normal. “Hey, kitten.”

  “Quinn,” she said, her voice brittle enough to break in the middle of even my short name.

  “I know, Cat. I know everything is shitty, and I haven’t done enough to make it not be, but I think if we can just get together, talk everything out, we can find a way to—”

  “No,” she interrupted my rush to get everything out, the desperation in every word climbing higher.

  “No? No, what?”

  “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “No,” I refused, sitting up in bed. Everything in my body was pounding. “I refuse to accept that. I can fix this. I don’t care what all the other people think. I love you, and they’ll eventually see that you and I are meant for one another.”

  She sniffed. “This isn’t just about your parents or the magazines or the people online, Quinn.” It almost sounded like she was apologizing—for all the things I was fighting to render obsolete. “It’s more than that. It’s the day-to-day of how we make this work. There’s always going to be someone thinking they’re more important than our relationship, and in some cases, like with your job, or my job, they might be right. We’re both trying to be what the other needs, and we don’t even have the time to be what we, ourselves, need.”

  “That’s not true,” I argued. “When you make something a priority, anything is possible. It’s fucking possible to have it all. I refuse to believe anything different.”

  “I wish I could see it, Quinn,” she whispered. “The way you do. But I’m not sure I can. I’m sorry.”