Chapter Eleven Olivia
Chapter Eleven
Olivia
Seventeen missed calls wait for me in the dim glow of my phone. Sleep slips away in an instant. Fear settles in its place.
My phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up the dark bedroom. I squint at the brightness, heart already racing.
Mark Davidson - 6 missed calls
Ralph - 3 missed calls
Unknown Number - 8 missed calls
And a string of texts that make my stomach drop:
Mark: Call me. NOW.
Mark: Olivia, this is urgent.
Mark: We have a situation.
I sit up, fumbling for the lamp. It’s four in the morning. Nothing good happens at four in the morning.
My fingers shake as I call Mark back.
He answers on the first ring. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Sleeping. Mark, what’s—”
“Check your email. Now.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, opening my email app with trembling fingers. The first message is from Mark, subject line: URGENT - PHOTO LEAK.
I click it.
The email contains a single attachment. A photo.
And when I open it, the world tilts.
It’s me and Carter in the parking garage. His hands on my face. My hands in his shirt. Kissing. The angle’s from above, probably security camera footage, and it’s grainy, but there’s no mistaking what’s happening.
No mistaking who we are.
“Olivia?” Mark’s voice cuts through the static in my head. “You still there?”
“I—” My voice cracks. “How did this—”
“I don’t know. But it’s about to go public. I’ve got our legal team trying to contain it, but someone leaked it to Sports Daily. They’re running it in three hours.”
Three hours.
Three hours until my career implodes. Until Carter’s reputation is dragged through the mud. Until everything we tried to keep hidden is splashed across every sports network in the country.
“Mark, I can explain—”
“Save it.” His voice is cold, professional. The warmth I’m used to is completely gone. “Be in my office at seven. Bring Carter. And Olivia? You better have a damn good explanation.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the photo. At the proof of everything I tried so hard to deny.
We were careful.
Except we weren’t. Not careful enough.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Carter.
Carter: I know. Mark called me too. I’m sorry.
Me: Don’t. Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.
Carter: It’s both our faults. Meet me before we go to Mark’s? I don’t want to face this alone.
I close my eyes, tears burning behind my lids.
Me: My place. 6:30.
Carter: See you then.
I don’t go back to sleep. How can I? Instead, I sit in bed, replaying every moment since that first night at the police station. Every choice. Every risk. Every time I told myself we could keep this professional.
Every time I lied.
By the time six-thirty rolls around, I’ve showered, dressed in my most severe professional suit, and made coffee strong enough to strip paint. The knock on my door comes exactly on time.
Carter stands in the doorway, looking as wrecked as I feel. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair disheveled. T-shirt and jeans thrown on like an afterthought.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
He steps inside, and the door closes behind him with a finality that makes my chest ache. For a moment, we just look at each other. Then I’m in his arms, and he’s holding me so tight I can barely breathe, and I don’t care.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Stop saying that.”
“I mean it. This is my fault. I pushed. I should’ve—”
“Carter.” I pull back, looking up at him. “I kissed you first, remember? This is on both of us.”
“But I—”
“No.” My voice is firm. “We both made this choice. We both knew the risks. And we both have to face the consequences.”
His jaw tightens. “I won’t let them crucify you for this.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“Like hell.” He cups my face, his touch gentle despite the steel in his voice. “We’re in this together. Whatever Mark says, whatever the media says, we face it together.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But the rational part of my brain, the part that’s kept me alive in this industry, knows better.
“Carter, you don’t understand. When this breaks, they’re going to tear me apart. They’re going to say I slept my way into this job. That I manipulated you. That I’m some gold-digging—”
“Stop.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “I won’t let them.”
“You can’t stop them.”
“Watch me.”
The certainty in his eyes almost makes me believe it’s possible. Almost.
“We should go,” I say, pulling away. “We’re going to be late.”
He nods, but his hand finds mine, fingers lacing through. “Together?”
I squeeze his hand. “Together.”
Mark’s office feels like a courtroom.
He sits behind his massive desk, Ralph beside him, both wearing expressions that could freeze hell. Two chairs are positioned directly across from them, exactly far enough apart that Carter and I can’t touch.
Deliberate.
“Sit,” Mark says.
We do.
For a long moment, no one speaks. Mark just stares at us, his disappointment so palpable it feels like a physical weight.
Finally, Ralph breaks the silence. “We have a problem.”
“We know,” I say. “We saw the photo.”
“Photos. Plural.” Ralph slides a folder across the desk. “There are three. All from the parking garage. All from different angles.”
Carter opens the folder. I lean in, and my stomach drops further.
The first photo is the one Mark sent. The second shows us embracing after the kiss, my face buried in his chest. The third is us holding each other, foreheads touching, tears visible on my cheeks.
They’re damning. All of them.
“How did these get out?” Carter asks, voice tight.
“Security footage,” Ralph says. “Someone with access to the stadium’s system pulled them and sold them to Sports Daily. We’re investigating, but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is damage control.”
“Damage control,” I repeat, my voice hollow.
Mark leans forward, hands clasped on his desk. “Olivia, I trusted you. I put you in charge of Carter’s image, and you—” He stops, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea what this looks like? The optics?”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His voice rises. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like my PR specialist seduced one of my star players while she was supposed to be managing his public image. It looks like a massive conflict of interest. It looks like—”
“Like she did her job,” Carter interrupts, his voice hard. “Olivia saved my ass when that stripper tried to ruin me. She’s been nothing but professional, and this—” He gestures to the photos. “This happened because I pursued her. Not the other way around.”
Mark’s gaze swings to him. “You’re not helping your case, Storm.”
“I don’t care about my case. I care about hers.” Carter’s hand moves toward mine, then stops, as if remembering where we are. “Olivia doesn’t deserve to be punished for this. If you need someone to blame, blame me.”
“Oh, I do blame you,” Mark says. “Both of you. You’re adults. You knew the rules. And you broke them anyway.”
“Because we—” Carter starts, then stops.
“Because you what?” Ralph prompts. “Because you couldn’t help yourselves? Because the attraction was too strong? Because you thought you could keep it secret?”
Silence.
Ralph sighs. “Look, I understand that these things happen. But when they happen, they have consequences. And right now, those consequences are about to cost this team millions in sponsorships if we don’t get ahead of the narrative.”
“What do you want us to do?” I ask quietly.
Mark and Ralph exchange a look. Then Mark says, “We release a statement. Official. Professional. It acknowledges the relationship, frames it as something that developed naturally over time, and emphasizes that it in no way compromised Olivia’s ability to do her job.”
“Will that work?” Carter asks.
“It’s our best shot.” Ralph taps the folder. “The alternative is letting Sports Daily control the narrative. And trust me, their version is much uglier.”
I can imagine.
“There’s more,” Mark says, his voice gentler now. “Olivia, you’re off Carter’s detail. Effective immediately.”
My chest tightens. “Mark—”
“Non-negotiable. I’m assigning someone else to shadow him for the rest of the season. You’ll be handling other players, other events. You and Carter need distance. Publicly visible distance.”
“For how long?” Carter asks.
“Until the heat dies down. Could be weeks. Could be months.” Mark’s gaze softens slightly. “Look, I’m not trying to punish you. But optics matter. And right now, the optics of you two working closely together are terrible.”
“What about privately?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Mark’s eyebrows rise. “Privately?”
“Are you saying we can’t see each other? At all?”
Ralph and Mark exchange another look. Then Ralph says carefully, “We can’t control what you do in your personal time. But we strongly advise discretion. No public appearances together. No social media. No anything that could fuel more speculation.”
“So, we have to hide,” Carter says flatly.
“You have to be smart,” Mark corrects. “The media’s going to be watching. Waiting for you to slip up. If you care about each other, if this is real, then you’ll do what’s necessary to protect both your careers.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
“Is that all?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mark nods. “For now. We’ll release the statement at noon. I expect both of you to stay off social media. Don’t comment. Don’t react. Let the PR team handle it.”
“Understood.”
We stand. Carter’s hand brushes mine, so quick and light I almost miss it. But it’s there, a promise, a reminder, a lifeline.
As we walk out of Mark’s office, the weight of everything crashes over me.
We’re together. Officially. Out in the open.
And it might just cost us everything.
The statement goes live at noon.
I watch it from my apartment, phone in hand, as the notifications start rolling in.
OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM THE DAKOTA DRAGONS:
‘The Dakota Dragons organization acknowledges that Carter Storm and Olivia Rivers have developed a personal relationship over recent weeks. This relationship in no way compromised Ms. Rivers’ professional responsibilities or Mr. Storm’s conduct.
Both remain valued members of the Dragons family.
We ask that their privacy be respected as they navigate this personal matter. ’
It’s sterile. Professional. Exactly what it needs to be.
And the internet loses its mind anyway.
Twitter explodes. Reddit threads multiply. Sports blogs dissect every word. Photos of me from my modeling days resurface—some flattering, some not. Old interviews get dug up and analyzed for hidden meaning.
And the comments. God, the comments.
“Of course she slept her way to the top.”
“Gold digger alert.”
“Poor Carter. He’s being used.”
“She’s way too young for him. This won’t last.”
“Bet she got pregnant to trap him.”
Each one is a knife, sharp and vicious. I tell myself not to read them. I tell myself they don’t matter.
But they do. They matter because they confirm every fear I’ve had since the moment I realized I was falling for Carter.
My phone buzzes. Carter.
Carter: Don’t read the comments.
Me: Too late.
Carter: Olivia, they are trolls.
Me: I’m fine. Really.
Carter: You’re not. I can tell. Can I come over?
I want to say yes. Want to fall into his arms and let him tell me everything will be okay. But Mark’s words echo in my head: You need distance. Publicly visible distance.
Me: Not a good idea. Mark said we need distance.
Carter: Fuck what Mark said. I’m coming over.
Me: Carter, we can’t. Not yet. We have to let this blow over.
Carter: And you’re just going to sit there alone while the internet tears you apart?
Me: It’s what I signed up for.
Carter: No, it’s not. You signed up to manage PR, not to be crucified for having feelings.
Tears blur my vision. I wipe them away angrily.
Me: Please. Just give me some space. I need to think.
A long pause. Then:
Carter: Okay. But I’m here if you need me. Always.
Me: I know.
I set the phone down and curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket around myself.
My home is too quiet. Too empty. Too full of everything I’m trying not to feel.
I kissed Carter Storm in a parking garage.
I fell for him despite every rule I set for myself.
And now I’m paying the price.
But as I sit there, replaying that kiss in my head, the way his hands felt on my face, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered, I realize something.
I don’t regret it.
Not the kiss. Not the feelings. Not any of it.
Even knowing what it would cost, I’d do it all over again.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.