Chapter Seven
Olivia
Three days have passed since I’ve seen Carter, but my phone hasn’t gone quiet.
GIFs, emojis, and funny texts have been coming in a few times a day.
Even now, as I try to finish an email, my screen flashes with another one.
He’s thanked me at least five times, and somehow, it feels like he’s inching past the professional barrier I always try to keep between me and the players.
There’s a light tap on my door.
“Come in.”
Mark Davidson, the team’s owner, steps inside. “Hey, Olivia.”
“Hello, Mark. What brings you down from the top floor?”
He smiles, that easy kind of grin that usually means bad news wrapped in flattery. “Carter Storm.” Mark takes the chair across from me.
“Why? He’s getting good press.”
Mark’s smile fades into a frown. “He’s definitely improved his media presence, but for the next month, I’d appreciate it if you shadowed him.
The way you coached him through that press conference was pure genius.
” He pauses, searching for the right words.
“I want you nearby in case there are any… mistakes we can help him steer clear of.”
Shaking my head, I lean back in my chair. “No. It’s one thing to step in when they screw up, it’s another to spend a month shadowing them. I keep professional boundaries for a reason. I don’t want the other players getting the wrong idea.”
Mark stands, smoothing his tie like he’s already decided. “I insist. Good PR is good for business. You know that.”
I draw in a steadying breath. “A month is too long.”
“How about we see how this goes?” Mark winks, then heads for the door.
When it closes behind him, I stare at the handle for a beat, already feeling the weight of what I just agreed to, without actually saying yes.
My phone beeps again, and it’s a picture of a dragon in chains. Shaking my head, I call Carter.
“I knew my constant barrage of messages would weaken you eventually,” says Carter as he answers the call.
Laughing, I say, “This isn’t what you think.”
“It’s not?”
“No. Your boss and mine insists I keep you company for the next little while in case you hit any bumps in the road.”
Carter chuckles. “Trust me, no more strip clubs with the boys. In fact, no more bars with them ever. So there’s no need for you to follow me around.”
“If I could persuade Mark, I would, but you’re stuck with me.”
“Well, in that case. I’m scheduled to go to a hospital this afternoon to meet up with kids who are sick. Do you want me to pick you up?”
“It sounds far too much like a date if you do that. I’ll meet you there.”
He laughs again. “It’s at two this afternoon at the Twin Rivers Memorial Hospital. See you then.”
“See you then.” My stomach flips at the thought of seeing him again.
Walking into the hospital, I head for the information desk and ask where Carter will be seeing the children. I’m directed to the elevators and the fifth floor.
When the doors open, laughter greets me.
It’s bright and unguarded, the kind that fills every corner of a room.
I follow the sound, and that’s where I find Carter Storm, surrounded by children, tossing each of them a football.
Every catch earns a cheer, every grin he gives feels genuine.
He stops at each bed and signs the ball like it’s the most important autograph he’s ever given.
“Who’s your favorite player in the league?” Carter asks a boy in a wheelchair.
The boy smiles shyly. “Christian Morales.”
Carter kneels, tilting his head as if deep in thought before saying, “I don’t think he’s in the Dakota Dragons.”
The boy shakes his head, whispering, “Go the Chicago Engines.”
Carter presses a hand to his chest, faking injury, and the room erupts with giggles. The sound hits me square in the chest. He’s not just going through the motions—he’s present. Patient. Kind.
“Are there no Dakota Dragons fans here? Am I in enemy territory?”
A girl in a nearby bed raises her hand. “I like number fifty-five.”
“You like Tank? What about me?” Carter teases, moving closer to her, signing her ball.
“You’re okay,” she says, “but Tank is my favorite.”
He laughs and shakes his head, and that’s when he spots me. His smile widens. “This lady here is Olivia. Everyone say hello to her.”
As though they were in a classroom, they chorus, “Hello, Olivia.”
Smiling broadly, I wave. “Hello. Are you all enjoying your time with Carter Storm?”
Some say yes, others nod, and one spirited boy pipes up, “He’s not as good as Madden Marx.”
“Ahh, he plays for the Daytona Devils. He’s not a Dakota Dragons player!” I say, pretending to defend Carter.
Carter laughs. “They’re all traitors.” Then he winks at the little girl beside him. “Except you.”
My heart does this ridiculous flip. Watching him like this—no cameras, no ego, no show—just a man connecting with sick kids as if they’re the only people in the world…
it’s disarming. The cocky athlete I met at the press conference isn’t the same man in front of me now.
This one has depth. Compassion. Heart. And that realization might just be more dangerous than any scandal he could cause.
Carter finishes with the last child, a boy with wide eyes who clutches his signed football like it’s treasure. “You keep working hard, buddy. Maybe one day I’ll see you on the field.”
The boy’s grin stretches ear to ear. “Really?”
“Really.” Carter ruffles his hair, then stands, his knees protesting slightly. He catches me watching and his smile shifts, less performative, more real.
A nurse approaches, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Storm, thank you so much for coming. The kids have been looking forward to this all week.”
“My pleasure,” he says, and I believe him. “Anytime you need me, just call.”
As we walk toward the elevator, a little girl in a wheelchair rolls up beside us, her mother pushing. “Mr. Storm! Wait!”
Carter stops immediately, crouching to her level. “What’s up, champ?”
She glances at me, then back at him, and in a stage whisper that carries down the entire hallway, asks, “Is she your girlfriend?”
My face flames. Carter’s eyes widen for a split second before he laughs, low and genuine. “This is Olivia. She’s… she works with the team.”
“She’s pretty,” the girl announces, matter-of-fact.
“Yeah,” Carter says, still looking at me. “She is.”
The mother apologizes, mortified, but Carter waves her off, signing another football for the girl before we finally make it to the elevator.
The doors close. Silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
“That was smooth,” I say, pressing the button for the ground floor.
“What was?”
“’She works with the team.’” I mimic his voice, teasing.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. “What should I have said? ‘This is the woman who saved my ass from a scandal and now has to babysit me for a month’?”
“Accurate.”
“Cold.”
The elevator dings. We step out into the lobby, the fluorescent lights harsh after the softer glow of the children’s ward. Outside, the late afternoon sun slants through the glass doors, turning everything golden.
We walk side by side toward the parking lot. Neither of us speaks. My car’s parked on the opposite side from his truck, but somehow we end up walking the long way, extending the moment.
“You’re good with them,” I say finally. “The kids.”
He shrugs. “They’re easy. They don’t care about stats or sponsorships. They just want to feel like they matter.”
“You made them feel like they matter.”
Carter stops walking. I take two more steps before I realize he’s not beside me anymore. I turn back.
He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, the sun behind him creating a halo effect that’s almost unfair. “Why does that surprise you?”
“It doesn’t,” I admit. “Not anymore.”
His eyes search mine, looking for something. I’m not sure what. “You had me pegged as all ego and no heart, didn’t you?”
“At first, maybe.”
“And now?”
Now I’m in trouble. The thought slams into me, unbidden and unwelcome. I clear my throat. “Now I think you’re more complicated than you let on.”
“Is that your professional assessment, Ms. Rivers?”
“It’s my personal one, Mr. Storm.”
The air shifts. His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second, before dragging back up. Heat unfurls low in my belly, dangerous and distracting.
A car horn blares somewhere in the distance, breaking the spell. I step back, creating distance that feels both necessary and wrong.
“I should go,” I say. “I need to write up the appearance report for Mark.”
“Right. Work.” His jaw tightens slightly. “Hey, Olivia?”
I pause, half-turned away. “Yeah?”
“You hungry?”
My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl, betraying me. His grin is instant, triumphant. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Carter—”
“Just dinner. To discuss my… what did Mark call it? Media schedule?” He’s using that tone again, the one that walks the line between professional and something else entirely. “You’ve got to eat anyway, right? Might as well kill two birds.”
I should say no. Every professional instinct I have is screaming at me to say no. But standing here in the parking lot, watching the way the sunlight catches in his dark hair, remembering the gentle way he spoke to those kids, the genuine laugh when that little girl asked if I was his girlfriend…
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But somewhere quiet. And you’re buying.”
His smile could light up a stadium. “Deal.”
The restaurant he chooses is Italian, tucked into a corner downtown where the press doesn’t usually lurk. It’s intimate without being romantic, or at least that’s what I tell myself as the hostess leads us to a booth in the back.
Carter slides in across from me, and even though there’s a table between us, it feels too close. Too easy.
“So,” he says, opening his menu without looking at it. “What’s my media schedule looking like?”