Chapter Five
Olivia
The video loops again.
Same grainy footage. Same lousy angle. Same knot in my stomach.
For the third time this morning, I hit play.
The screen flickers, and The Luxe strip club fills the monitor with flashing lights, bodies moving, the dull thump of bass bleeding through the speakers.
Carter Storm stands near the bar, jaw tight, drink untouched in his hand.
A woman, one of the dancers, judging by her outfit laughs, touches his arm, leans in too close.
He says something, she stumbles, and that’s when it happens.
He catches her. One hand to her waist, one to her arm. Not grabbing. Steadying.
My pulse ticks faster, not from shock this time, but relief. It’s the third time I’ve watched, and every single time I see the same damn thing: Carter didn’t do a thing wrong.
Then the bouncer storms in from the edge of the frame. He shoves Carter. The woman, God, I wish I had her name, turns, lifts her hand, and swings. She misses Carter and slaps Derek hard enough that even through the bad audio, I hear it.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t hit back. Just raises his hands and takes a step back, mouth moving, calm and controlled. It’s then all hell breaks loose.
I pause the video, rubbing at the ache building behind my eyes.
This is what people don’t see. The truth, buried under a headline that writes itself. Quarterback Storm in Strip Club Altercation. It’s too easy. Too clickable. No one cares what really happened, they just want the story that sells.
The door opens behind me. Ralph.
“You’ve been at it since eight,” he says, setting a coffee on my desk. “Tell me something good.”
“He didn’t do it.” My voice comes out flat but certain. “She fell. He caught her. Bouncer overreacted, she panicked, and tried to slap Carter and got Derek. That’s all.”
Ralph grunts, leaning closer to peer at the frozen frame. “Hell of a night for a guy who doesn’t party.”
“Tell me about it.”
I rewind again, watching Carter’s expression frame by frame. No arrogance. No aggression. Just surprise. He looks… tired. Not the golden boy on a Wheaties box. Just a man trying to stop a bad night from getting worse.
Ralph sips his coffee. “Storm knows about the footage. I told him.”
“Thanks. Did you pay them for it?” I glance at my phone on the desk. “I need to make sure this footage doesn’t leak.”
He nods and heads for the door. “I did, but you know how these things go. You’ve got two hours before Mark starts breathing down your neck.”
“Two hours,” I repeat, though my focus stays on the screen.
When the door shuts, I let out a slow breath and lean back in my chair. For a guy I barely know, Carter’s gotten under my skin more than I like to admit. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent my career cleaning up messes that were exactly what they looked like — and this time, it isn’t.
This time, he’s innocent.
And if I have to torch every headline in the city to prove it, I will.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I build the framework of the statement. The cursor blinks, impatient. Every word I type has to walk that fine line between truth and damage control.
PRESS RELEASE – STATEMENT FROM THE DAKOTA DRAGONS
The Dakota Dragons organization is aware of an incident involving quarterback Carter Storm at a downtown establishment late last night.
After reviewing verified footage, we can confirm that Mr. Storm was not the instigator of the altercation in question.
The matter has been resolved with full cooperation from local authorities.
The organization stands by Mr. Storm and remains focused on the upcoming season.
I read it back twice. It’s calm, neutral, controlled, everything I’m supposed to be.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about the way Carter steadied that woman, the confusion on his face when she tried to hit him. Not anger. Just disbelief.
I hit Save, then Send to Legal. Ralph can add his notes before it goes out.
The door crashes open before I can reach for my coffee.
“Olivia!”
Mark Davidson’s voice booms through the office like a warning shot. He strides in, jacket half off, phone in hand, the color high in his cheeks.
“Good morning, Mark,” I say, keeping my tone professional.
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me. Every sports network in the country is calling. Half of them want a statement, the other half already have one. I’ve got sponsors panicking, and you’re sitting here typing like it’s a Sunday crossword!”
“Because I’m doing my job,” I answer evenly. “And if you give me ten minutes, I can have the official statement out and the rumor mill buried before lunch.”
He slams his phone onto my desk. “Ten minutes ago, this team was trending for all the wrong reasons. I want this gone, Olivia. Vanished.”
“It will be.” I meet his gaze without blinking. “Carter didn’t touch her, Mark. We have the footage. Ralph bought it, and it’s secure.”
He blinks, some of the fury draining from his face. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Mark exhales through his nose, the fight slowly leaving him. “Fine. Fix it. And get him back in front of a camera smiling before tonight’s coverage. The sponsors love his ‘wholesome hero’ routine. Use it.”
He storms out as fast as he arrived, leaving the faint smell of expensive cologne and stress in his wake.
I sink back into my chair, counting to five before reaching for my phone.
Carter answers on the second ring. “Rivers.”
“You sound awake,” I say.
“Barely. Been dodging reporters all morning.”
“I figured.” I swivel in my chair, staring at the paused frame on my monitor, the moment his hand catches the dancer’s arm. “I saw the footage. You’re in the clear.”
A beat of silence, then a quiet, “You’re sure?”
“I’ve watched it three times, Carter. You didn’t do a thing wrong. I’m about to release a statement clearing it up.”
He exhales, the relief obvious even through the phone. “Thanks, Olivia. Really.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, half-smiling. “You’re still the headline, and Mark wants you smiling for the cameras by tonight. Think you can handle that?”
His chuckle is low and rough. “Guess that depends on whether you’re coming with me.”
“Nice try, Storm. I’m a PR manager, not a babysitter.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, and I can practically hear the smirk.
I hang up before he can say anything else, but it’s too late, there’s a grin tugging at my lips.
Damn him.