OLLY
What the hell did Amelia say to Maggie? She looked like death warmed over when she returned to the house last night. And when I got home from my workout this morning, all of the weights in the living room were gone. I meant to ask her where she wanted them last night so I could move them for her, but she went straight to bed.
I didn’t nose around the house to check out the treadmill because I had a feeling Maggie might want to show me herself, but she’s been MIA all day. When curiosity finally gets the best of me and I creak open the door to one of the spare bedrooms, I feel like an utter ass for snapping at her yesterday.
The guys said she got me a treadmill. I figured it was something rinky-dink because how could Maggie afford a nice one? And yet there’s a beautiful gym-grade machine right in front of me. Dumbfounded, I turn in a slow circle. There’s a workout bench. Those weights. Several bars and dumbbells. She even set up a full-length mirror, the kind you find in a gym, and in the corner is a small sound system and speakers.
Damn, this is great. I don’t know where she is or if she’s still upset, but I need to see her. I decide to text her.
This workout room is the coolest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you so much!
Twenty minutes later, she responds. Glad you like it.
That’s it. That’s all she says.
Fuck this.
I dial her number. When she picks up, I start talking. “What time are you gonna be home?”
“I get off at five.”
That’s right. She has a part-time job. I forget sometimes. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”
“But—”
“No arguments, Magnolia. Please let me do this.”
She eventually relents, thank God. Whatever Amelia told her last night obviously put her guard up, and Maggie and I have to get on the same page if we want any hope of surviving the season, much less the NFL. If I make it that far.
I flex my knee and test for soreness. I’ve been religious about my workouts and icing my injury to help stave off any inflammation. Because I want the training staff to see that I’m recovering well, I’ve done most of my workouts at the team’s workout room instead of with the guys at the football house.
Since Maggie went to such trouble to do this for me, though, I should probably do a few of those workouts here so she doesn’t feel like her gift was a waste. It wasn’t, of course. Having a home gym is incredible, but I hope the trainers don’t think I’m slacking.
When she gets home, her somber eyes tell me she’s not excited to hang out, which sucks. “Do I have time to change?” she asks.
“You look great in what you’re wearing, but yeah, there’s time if you want to freshen up.” As she passes me, I grab her hand. “Hey. Thank you again. I’m serious about that gift being one of the nicest, most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me.”
That gets me a small smile. “That treadmill isn’t brand-new, but it’s barely been used, so I thought you might get some mileage out of it.” She looks down. Shrugs. “I just wanted to thank you for the groceries and thoughtful things you’ve done for me since you moved in.”
She looks so shy and uncertain. I pull her into a hug and kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mags. You’re awesome.”
When she comes back down the stairs an hour later, she looks so fucking sexy, my tongue almost rolls out of my body. “Damn. Hot mama.” She’s wearing some little wraparound dress that hugs her curves, which have gotten curvier since the wedding.
Adorably, she blushes. “I figure I should take advantage of dressing up before I don’t fit in my clothes anymore. I’m already pushing the limits of decency in this outfit.” She tugs the fabric at her gorgeous cleavage.
“Don’t feel the need to cover up on my account,” I tease.
She rolls her eyes but laughs.
Thankfully, we don’t run into Amelia on our way out.
“Do you still love Italian?” I start my truck and roll down the window. My old Chevy doesn’t have air conditioning, but it’s a mild evening.
“I do, yeah.”
We drive through town, which is quiet since it’s June. I keep glancing at Maggie, enjoying how she looks in my truck. I’d love nothing more than to scoot her across the bench seat and into my lap.
Lorenzo’s is small but quaint. Low lighting and candles and those little twinkle lights set the mood for a romantic dinner.
After we order our meals, she frowns. “I feel like everything lately is all about me. How I’m feeling and whether I’m hungry or nauseous. I don’t want this—us, whatever we are—to be one-sided. So let me ask, how is your knee? Is rehab going well? How are you feeling about training camp?”
“My knee is feeling great.”
“Is that the answer you give your coaches, or is that the truth?”
I chuckle. I like the no-holds-barred version of Maggie. “It feels tight sometimes. I’m not a hundred percent yet, but I’ve been working my ass off to be in the best shape I can be given the circumstances. In truth, I’m apprehensive about camp because if I move wrong, I can undo everything, and my season, along with any hope I have of making the pros, will be over. I probably won’t get a full medical release until the fall, but I want to do my best in the meanwhile and show my coaches they should have faith in me. It’s definitely stressful. Shit can all go sideways in a flash.”
“It can’t help that you’re getting a new coach. Ben really liked Nicholson.”
“Nix was a good guy, for sure. Better than that ass we had before him. Fingers crossed we get someone awesome.”
She crosses her fingers and gives me a sweet smile.
“How’s work going? Have they given you any fun projects?” I ask as I dig into my meatball sub.
“I’m still serving coffee I can’t drink and filing, so no.” She shrugs and takes a small bite of her chicken piccata. “It’s fine. As long as they pay me, I don’t care what they have me do. I can still build my portfolio with side gigs.”
“Do you get a lot of freelance projects?” My sister’s wedding invitations were beautiful, so I know Maggie does great work.