Chapter Four
Carter
The address rolls off my tongue, and Olivia taps it into her phone, thumbs moving fast, all business.
She’s the woman every player both fears and secretly wants to impress.
I’ve seen her in meetings, cool as ice while the rest of us sweat.
But up close, at four in the damn morning with her hair tied back and eyes blazing, she’s something else entirely.
I pull open the passenger door and slide in.
Her car smells faintly like coffee and citrus shampoo.
Clean. Sharp. Professional. The kind of scent that says she’s got her life together while mine’s threatening to come apart at the seams.
She doesn’t speak at first. Just drives. City lights smear past the windshield in streaks of gold and white. I glance her way once, twice. She’s gripping the wheel tight enough her knuckles are white.
“Want to tell me what happened?” she asks finally, voice low, calm in that practiced PR tone.
“Not really.”
“Too bad.”
I blow out a breath. “We were at Luxe. A few of the guys, couple of shots, nothing crazy. This woman comes up to me.”
“Woman or stripper?”
Annoyed at her tone, I say, “Fine, stripper. I try to let her down gently. Derek steps in to diffuse her advances. Next thing I know, the bouncer is in my face, and suddenly she’s claiming I grabbed her.”
Olivia’s head tilts slightly, eyes flicking to me before returning to the road. “Did you?”
“No.” My answer’s sharp, immediate. “She stumbled trying to get away from Derek, I caught her before she hit the floor. That’s when she tried to hit me but got Derek instead and then the bouncer hit Derek and I stepped in.
That’s it. But the guy called the cops, and next thing I know I’m in a holding room with a rookie telling me I’m lucky they didn’t test my blood alcohol. ”
“Were you drunk?”
“No. I’m not stupid.”
Silence stretches between us again. Outside, the streets thin out, houses replacing bars, dark porches replacing neon.
Finally, she exhales through her nose. “You’re supposed to be the face of the team, Carter. You can’t afford this kind of attention. Next time, walk away.”
“Yeah, I’ll remember that next time someone accuses me of being a creep.”
Her glare could peel paint. “Don’t get defensive. I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
She laughs softly, a sound that’s more exhaustion than amusement. “Everyone says that right before their career goes down the drain.”
That one stings. I stare out the window, jaw tight. “You think I’m like the others?”
She shrugs. “I think you’re human. And humans screw up. But if you want to keep that golden boy image, we need to get ahead of this before someone posts the wrong version online.”
My chest tightens. I hate this part—the spin, the whispers, the assumption that fame means guilt. “You really think people care that much?”
Her mouth twitches. “About you? Absolutely. You’re clickbait with a pulse.”
Groaning, I scrub a hand over my face. “Great.”
She pulls up in front of the gates to my home, headlights washing over the steel and stone. The place sits back from the road, fenced in and private, the kind of property meant to keep the world out.
“I’ll handle the press release. You keep your head down and stay sober for at least twenty-four hours.”
Reaching for the door handle, I glance her way and pause. “You always this bossy?”
Olivia smirks. “Only when the job requires it.”
I should let her go. Should thank her, walk through those gates, and forget tonight ever happened. But something about her tone, it’s dry, teasing, alive and it hooks me.
“Coffee?” I offer. “For your trouble.”
Her lashes lower, studying me for a beat before she sighs. “One cup. Black.”
And just like that, Olivia Rivers drives through the gates and steps into the fortress I call home and into the mess I call my life.
“Nice place,” Olivia says as she steps into the foyer, eyes sweeping over the high ceilings, the chandelier, and the marble floors.
“It’s paid for and it’s home,” I reply, tossing my keys into the bowl by the door.
She lets out a low whistle. “You make it sound so… humble.”
“Yeah, well, the press already calls it ‘The Storm Fortress.’ Thought I’d try to balance the ego out a little.”
That earns me a faint smile, it’s quick, and gone before I can decide if I imagined it. Her gaze drifts to the photos on the wall: framed shots of the team, my parents, a few charity events. Nothing personal beyond that. Nothing I’d miss if it all burned down tomorrow.
“You live here alone?” she asks, trailing a finger along the edge of a table.
“Mostly. Housekeeper comes twice a week. Yard crew keeps the lawn looking like a golf course. Other than that, yeah.”
She hums in response, walking toward the open-plan living area. The motion sensors kick the lights on, revealing soft leather couches, dark wood, and a view of the pool through floor-to-ceiling glass.
“Kitchen’s through there,” I say, gesturing toward the back. “Coffee machine’s state-of-the-art. You can actually talk to it.”
She snorts. “So, you can’t keep out of trouble but your espresso maker’s got an AI assistant. Makes sense.”
I chuckle under my breath, rubbing the back of my neck. “You take sarcasm with sugar or straight up?”
“Straight up.”
The smell of fresh coffee fills the silence that settles between us. Olivia perches on one of the stools at the island, elbows resting on the counter, watching me like she’s trying to read more than what I’m saying.
“You don’t seem like the type to end up in handcuffs,” she says finally.
“Guess tonight was full of surprises.” I hand her the mug, our fingers brushing.
Olivia takes a sip, eyes on mine. “You’ve got a lot riding on your image, Storm. If you slip, the sponsors will start circling like sharks and drop you.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning back against the counter. “But sometimes it feels like no matter how perfect you play, on or off the field, someone’s always waiting for you to fall.”
Olivia studies me for a moment longer, then says quietly, “Then don’t give them the satisfaction.”
Her words hit harder than I expect. And for the first time tonight, I’m not sure if she’s here to fix my reputation or to remind me I still have something worth saving.
Her words hang in the air, heavier than they should be. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Easy to say when it’s not your name trending for all the wrong reasons. Still, there’s something in the way she says it, like she actually means it and that gets under my skin.
“I don’t even know why I care so much,” I admit before I can stop myself. “Half the time I hate the spotlight. The other half, I can’t breathe without it. I’m thirty-seven at the end of this season my contract is up and I’m not sure they’re going to keep me or put me out to pasture.”
Olivia’s expression softens, just a fraction. “It’s not the spotlight you hate. It’s what happens when it comes a little to close to you. As for your contract, that’s not in my wheelhouse.”
“Yeah.” I stare into my mug, watching the coffee ripple. “You ever feel like everyone’s waiting for you to screw up, just so they can say they were right about you all along?”
She nods, slow and understanding. “All the time.”
That catches me off guard. “Really? You? You’re bulletproof, Rivers.”
Her smile is small, almost sad. “Trust me, I’ve had to learn to fake it.
Comes with the job. Most think I’m arm candy for Mark Davidson.
I’m twenty-seven and at the end of my modeling career, a photographer told me I was too old for the shoot.
I was twenty-five.” Olivia smiles down at her coffee.
“It was then I decided I needed to find another way to earn money and feel fulfilled.”
I study her across the counter. For the first time tonight, she’s not the PR machine or the woman sent to mop up my mess. She’s just Olivia, tired, honest, and a little too real for four in the morning.
“You’re good at it,” I say quietly. “Faking it.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Compliment or insult?”
“Little of both.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, and damn if that doesn’t make something in my chest tighten. She looks down again, fiddling with her mug. I want to say something else, but words feel clumsy.
“Anyway,” she murmurs, “I should probably go. You’ve had a long night.”
“Stay,” I say before thinking, the word rougher than I intend. Her head snaps up, eyes wide, surprise flickering there before she hides it behind that professional mask.
“Carter—”
“I didn’t mean—” I drag a hand through my hair. “I just meant, it’s late. Roads are quiet, and you’ve been running damage control for hours. You could crash in one of the guest rooms.”
Her gaze searches mine, as if trying to figure out whether I’m being genuine or just another guy making a move. I hold it, let her see I’m not either of those things right now.
After a beat, she exhales. “I could use a few hours sleep.”
“Sure.”
Olivia stands, brushing past me to set her empty mug in the sink, and the faintest trace of her perfume lingers in the air, it’s clean, subtle, and very distracting.
“Ahh, bedroom is down the hall, first room on the right.”
“Goodnight, Storm,” she says softly.
“Goodnight, Rivers.”
When her footsteps fade up the hall, I stare into the dark space she leaves behind, wondering why the quiet suddenly feels heavier and why the one person sent to protect my career might be the only one capable of breaking through the armor I’ve built around it.
Hours later, I roll over and glance at the clock—twelve seventeen.
Dragging myself out of bed, I plant my feet on the floor and wander into the bathroom. A quick shower, then I head downstairs.
The guest room door’s open, but Olivia’s gone.
Disappointment hits harder than it should. I move toward the kitchen, hoping she’s there, but the room’s empty except for a note left on the counter.
Thanks for the bed.
Don’t talk to the press.
I’ll ring you if there’s a problem.
—Olivia
Short. Direct. All business.
Exactly like the woman herself.
I stare at the note for a long moment before folding it and sliding it into my pocket. No idea why I do this, it’s not sentimental, but it feels wrong to just throw it away.
Coffee first. Always coffee.
The machine hums to life, and I lean against the counter, listening to the familiar sound of water heating, grinding, dripping. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock. The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts get loud.
Sitting down with my mug, I grab my phone, check messages, missed calls, and texts.
Great.
I hit speaker and let the first one play while I take a sip.
“Mr. Storm, this is Katie with Channel Eight News. We’d love to get your side of the story regarding the allegations made early this morning—”
Delete.
Next one.
“Hey Carter, it’s The Blitz Podcast. We’re hoping you can clear the air for your fans. Give us a callback—”
Delete.
Another, from an unfamiliar number.
“You can’t hide forever, Storm! We all saw the video—”
I stab the delete button harder than necessary. My jaw tightens. Video?
The next message is Ralph.
“Carter, it’s Ralph. The station’s keeping the footage under wraps for now, but I don’t know how long that’ll last. Olivia’s working on the official statement, so keep your mouth shut and stay off social media. Call me if anything else comes up.”
At least Ralph still sounds calm, which means things aren’t burning down yet.
The last message makes my stomach drop. Mark Davidson. Owner of the Dakota Dragons.
“Carter. I don’t know what the hell happened last night, but it better not cost this team a sponsor. You’ve got twenty-four hours to fix it. Olivia’s your point of contact. Handle it, Storm. Don’t make me regret backing you.”
The line clicks dead.
Dropping my head into my hands, I groan. One night. That’s all it takes. One stupid night to make the world forget a decade of spotless headlines.
The coffee’s gone cold, but I drink it anyway. My phone buzzes again—another missed call from a reporter and I silence it.
Across the counter, the empty mug Olivia used still sits in the sink. For a second, I picture her there again, smirking, steadying me with that quiet confidence she hides behind all the professionalism.
I shake it off. I’ve got bigger problems than a PR rep who gets under my skin.
Still, as I head for the gym downstairs, her voice echoes in my head.
Then don’t give them the satisfaction.