Chapter Seven #2
I pull out my phone, grateful for the distraction. “You’ve got a podcast interview on Thursday, local sports radio Friday morning, and the charity auction for the police widows and orphans fund is Saturday night.”
“The one where I’m being auctioned off for a date?”
“That’s the one.”
He grimaces. “Can we not do that?”
“Too late. You promised the police chief, remember? Besides, it’s for a good cause.”
“I know, but…” He trails off, fingers drumming against the table. “It feels weird. Being sold like cattle.”
“Welcome to being a public figure.” I set my phone down. “Think of it as another form of community outreach.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being bid on.”
The waiter appears, taking our drink orders. Carter asks for water, which surprises me. Most of the players I deal with would order beer, whiskey, something to take the edge off. But not him. Not tonight.
When the waiter leaves, I lean forward slightly. “You really hate the spotlight, don’t you?”
“I hate the performative parts,” he admits. “The press conferences, the interviews where they want sound bites instead of real answers. The charity stuff, the hospital visits—that’s different. That matters.”
“Why football, then? If you hate the attention?”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “I don’t hate all of it.
I love the game. The strategy, the execution, the way a perfect play feels when everyone’s in sync.
That moment when the ball leaves your hand and you know, you just know it’s going exactly where it needs to go.
” He looks up at me. “That’s pure. That’s real. ”
“And everything else?”
“Everything else is just noise.” He pauses. “Except this. This doesn’t feel like noise.”
My breath catches. “Carter—”
“I know. Professional boundaries. Mark’s orders. You’re here to keep me out of trouble.” His voice drops lower. “But sitting here with you, talking like this? This is the first time in days I’ve felt like I can breathe.”
The waiter returns with our drinks, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.
We order food—pasta for me, steak for him—and fall into an easier rhythm, talking about everything and nothing.
The upcoming season. His concerns about his knee.
My worst PR disasters (not including him, I tease).
The way his hometown makes the best apple pie in North Dakota.
Time slips away. One hour becomes two. The restaurant empties around us, but neither of us moves to leave.
“Can I ask you something?” Carter says, spinning his water glass between his palms.
“Depends on the question.”
“Why PR? You said you used to model. That’s a hell of a career change.”
I smile, remembering that early morning conversation at his house. “I got tired of being looked at. I wanted to be listened to.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Modeling taught me how people see what they want to see. PR taught me how to shape what they see. It’s control, in a way.”
“You like being in control.”
“Don’t you?”
“On the field, yeah. Off it?” He shakes his head. “I’m learning that some things can’t be controlled. Injuries. Age. Scandals started by dancers who want a payday.” His eyes find mine. “Chemistry.”
My pulse kicks. “Carter.”
“What?” He leans back, all innocence, but there’s heat in his gaze that’s anything but innocent. “I’m just making an observation.”
“A dangerous one.”
“Yeah.” His voice roughens. “It is.”
The check arrives, saving me from having to respond. Carter doesn’t even look at it, just slides his card to the waiter. We stand, gathering our things, and walk out into the night.
The parking lot is dimly lit, shadows pooling between the few remaining cars. Mine is closest, and we stop beside it. I fish my keys from my purse, hyperaware of how close he’s standing.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say. “And for being good at the hospital. Those kids will remember today for the rest of their lives.”
“Thanks for coming.” He steps closer, and suddenly there’s barely any space between us. “And for not running when I asked.”
“I should have.”
“But you didn’t.”
No, I didn’t. And standing here now, with the night air cool against my heated skin and his eyes dark with something that makes my stomach flip, I’m not entirely sure why.
A puddle sits between me and my driver’s side door, courtesy of the afternoon rain. I start to step around it when Carter’s hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding me to the side.
The touch is casual. Protective. It shouldn’t send electricity racing up my spine. Shouldn’t make my breath hitch. Shouldn’t make me want to lean into him and see what happens next.
But it does. All of it.
I pull away, maybe too quickly, fumbling with my keys. “I’ll, um, see you tomorrow. Practice at two, right?”
“Right.” His voice is rough, strained. “Drive safe, Olivia.”
I slide into my car, hands trembling slightly as I start the engine. He doesn’t move, just stands there in the parking lot, hands in his pockets, watching me like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
I pull away, checking my rearview mirror once, twice, three times. He’s still standing there, a silhouette in the dim light, until I turn the corner and he disappears from view.
My apartment greets me with blessed silence. I drop my purse on the counter, kick off my sandshoes, and head straight for the bedroom.
The closet stares back at me, innocent and damning all at once.
It’s just a work dinner, I’d told myself earlier. Professional. Nothing more.
But I’d spent twenty minutes choosing what to wear. Twenty minutes deliberating between the black jeans and the dark jeans. The fitted t-shirt versus the slightly looser one. Casual, but not too casual. Professional, but not too buttoned-up.
And then I’d added earrings. Just small ones. Gold hoops that caught the light.
For a work dinner.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, head in my hands.
I’m lying to myself, and I know it.
The way my heart had raced when he touched my back. The way I’d leaned into that touch, just for a second, before catching myself. The way his voice had dropped when he said chemistry, like the word itself was a confession.
My phone buzzes. A text.
Carter: Made it home. Thanks again for tonight.
I stare at the message, cursor blinking in the reply box.
It was just dinner, I type, then delete it.
See you tomorrow, I try next. Delete.
Finally, I settle on: Anytime. Sleep well.
His response is immediate.
Carter: You too. Dream of dragons.
I smile despite myself, setting the phone on my nightstand.
But when I lie back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling, I know sleep won’t come easy. Because I’m already thinking about tomorrow. About seeing him again. About the way he makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
And the scariest part?
I’m not sure I want to step back from the edge.
I want to see what happens if I jump.