Chapter Two
Carter
The ice bites my shoulder and seeps into every fiber of my arm.
The tub is half-full of water that might be closer to hot than cold, but it doesn’t matter.
Muscles ache, joints scream, and every movement feels like it takes twice the effort it used to.
Victory tastes sweet, but it doesn’t erase the body pounding from a game that should’ve been easier on a thirty-seven-year-old quarterback.
The locker room buzzes around me. Teammates yell, slap backs, laugh, some still hyped from the field while others limp toward showers.
Derek “Thunder” Johnson is sprawled on the bench, stretching, mumbling about the pizza he’s going to demolish.
Marcus “Maverick” Williams is trying to talk Tank into a wager on who can drink the most chocolate milk before lights out.
I settle back into the bath, letting the cold numb me just enough.
Shoulder wrapped in an ice pack. Neck stiff.
Quads sore. Every ache reminds me I’m not twenty-five anymore.
Not even thirty. This is probably my last year.
The thought hits harder than any tackle, the end of a career that’s defined me longer than anything else ever has.
Coach Fitzgerald claps a hand on my shoulder. “Good work tonight, Storm. Couldn’t ask for more.”
“Thanks, Coach.” Simple words.
He nods and moves on, checking on other players.
The team owner, Mark Davidson, leans against the locker room wall. “Still got it, Carter. Don’t let this year end like a fluke.”
“Not planning to,” I mutter, though the ache in my knees says otherwise.
The locker room hum fades a bit as I close my eyes.
Satisfaction is there, yes. Winning feels good.
But the body betrays me. Every movement reminds me I’ve pushed too hard, too long.
A quiet sadness sneaks in behind the adrenaline.
Games, wins, plays—they’re all finite. Every season closer to the last.
“Storm, you coming out tonight?” Derek’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
I open one eye. “Out where?”
“A club. Celebrate the win. You know… unwind a little.”
My first instinct is to say no. Ice, aches, the thought of people screaming at me, flashing lights, loud music—it all feels wrong. But there’s something about the way Derek grins, that dare in his eyes… maybe a night out on the town is what I need.
“Fine,” I say, against better judgment. “I’ll come.”
Later, the club is a blur. Lights, noise, music pounding like a heartbeat.
I stick to the edge, hands mostly in my pockets, surveying rather than participating.
My body isn’t young anymore; it doesn’t crave chaos.
It craves quiet. But Derek is already buying rounds, and I follow, a reluctant participant.
And then she shows up. One of the dancers, all glitter and curves, and eyes that think they can see straight into me. She flutters over, lips curved in a practiced, predatory smile.
“I know who you are, Carter Storm,” she purrs.
I shake my head, polite but firm. “Not interested.”
Her smile falters, then sharpens. “You’ll change your mind. I always get what I want.”
A laugh escapes her, a little too loud, and she steps closer, hips swaying in that practiced rhythm meant to unbalance. I hold my ground, hands up subtly, keeping her at arm’s length.
“You don’t get it, Carter,” she purrs, trying to lean closer.
Before I can respond, Derek swoops in like he’s part quarterback, part bodyguard. He wraps an arm around her waist lightly but firmly. “Relax, sweetheart. He’s solo for the night. I’m more than happy to keep you company.”
Her eyes narrow. “No. I don’t—”
She shoves Derek, forcing him back, and stumbles into me. I catch her, stepping back instinctively. She presses closer, but I shake my head sharply. “No.”
A security guard appears beside us, arms crossed. “No touching the dancers,” he says firmly, voice like a hammer.
“I wouldn’t touch her if my dick was double-wrapped in steel. I’m not interested,” I add, calm but pointed, letting my words hang in the air.
Her eyes flare. “You—” She screams in rage, shoving me with hands out, trying to hurt me.
And just like that, the room explodes. She lunges at me. Derek stumbles back, the guard moves to intercept, but in the chaos, the stripper slaps Derek across the chest. The guard swings, and connects with Derek’s shoulder—hard, sending him sprawling slightly.
I step in , hands up, ready to protect my teammate. “Back off! Leave him alone!”
The club noise drowns out the pounding of my own heart. Every muscle is coiled, ready for the moment to escalate. And it does.
Fists fly. Chaos erupts. Drinks spill. The cops are called.
This is not my style. Not my life. But apparently tonight… that doesn’t matter.
Handcuffs. Flashing lights. The all-American clean-cut quarterback, arrested. Everything feels surreal, disconnected from the field, from ice baths, from strategy and plays.
In the back of the squad car, my anger burns hot. This is not how the night was supposed to go. Derek slides in beside me, his right eye already swelling.
“Sorry, Carter. I know you don’t party like the rest of us,” he mutters.
“She was trouble.”
Derek laughs. “Yep. My favorite kind.”
The door swings open, and a police officer grabs Derek by the arm. “The lady over there said you had nothing to do with what happened inside. They’re only pointing at Carter Storm.”
“Not true,” Derek protests.
The officer shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. The only one they’re accusing is Storm. You’re free to go.”
“This is bullshit!” Derek hisses.
“Derek—” I start.
“That whore started it,” he spits. “Everyone knows Carter Storm is a fucking angel. Clean-cut as they come, and she was looking for a payday.”
“Derek!”
“What?” he yells, turning to face me.
“Take the win. Get out. Go home,” I tell him.
“No fucking way, man,” he shakes his head.
“One more strike and they could dissolve your contract. Use your head.”
He bites his lip and shakes his head again, stubborn as ever.
“I’ll be fine. Trust me.”
I’ve never been in a situation like this, and there’s no roadmap for how Coach or the owner, Mark, will react. But compared to Derek? I’m practically a monk.
Derek searches my face, puffs out his cheeks and steps out of the squad car. “Want me to call Coach or Mark?”
“Is that who you call when you’ve fucked up?” I ask.
Derek shakes his head. “Nope, I call Olivia and she calls the teams lawyer and then they both come to get me.”
“I guess I’ll do that then.”
Derek whistles. “She is sure going to be surprised.”
“That’ll make two of us.”
My fingers hover over the keypad before dialing the number I know will help. Olivia Rivers, the team’s Public Relations Specialist.
The phone rings. Two… three…
“Olivia Rivers,” she answers, clipped and cautious.
“Olivia, it’s Carter.”
A pause. Confusion creeps in through the line.
“Why are you calling me this late?” she asks, tone sharp.
“You know who I am, don’t you?”
“I do… but you’ve never called me before.”
Olivia. Pretty. Very pretty, the kind of woman you notice without meaning to.
Before she joined the team, she was a model on the runways of Paris and Milan, and graced magazine covers across the country.
I’ve always assumed she was eye candy for Mark, our owner.
But nothing I’ve seen so far hints at anything romantic between them.
I sigh, the weight of the situation settling in. “I’ve been arrested.”
A laugh, sharp and incredulous. “Did Derek or one of the others put you up to this? Because if they did, it’s not funny—and it’s late.”
“No, ma’am. I’m at the Ninth Street Police Station.”
Her breath hitches. “Fuck. You’re serious?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s not ma’am, it’s Olivia. I’m on my way.”
Click. The line goes dead. I set the receiver down, leaning back against the wall.
“Mr. Storm?”
I glance at the officer behind me.
“Normally, you’d be in the cells,” he says, “but the police chief’s on his way. He’s a huge fan and told me to put you in our break room. Everyone’s eager to meet you.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Thanks, officer. I appreciate that.”
“I saw your game tonight,” he says, shaking his head. “Man, you did good. That last kick—nearly gave me a heart attack.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Me too.”