Chapter Two
TWO MONTHS LATER
EVANGELINE
It’s that weird time of year on the East Coast where the weather can’t decide if it should hold on to summer or tease us with crisp fall air.
Either way, it feels like perfect weather to kick off a new season of football.
I pull my headset tighter over my ears, check the battery pack clipped to the waistband of my jeans, and pull the notebook and pen from my back pocket, ready for the game to start.
I know I’ll see Aston. Front and center. We’re covering the Titans game tonight, and of course, he’s one of the key players on the defense.
Two months.
Sixty days since I woke up in an empty bed on the Grant property at Alie and Liam’s wedding, the sheets cold on his side, the faint smell of his woodsy cologne the only proof that the entire night hadn’t been an alcohol-induced hallucination.
Aston Griffith snuck out on me like a coward, leaving me with a roaring hangover, no panties, and a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of work hours could quite scrub away.
But tonight, my hurt feelings have to wait. Tonight, I’m the field producer for the game, and I have a live multimillion-dollar show to help run.
“Eva, we’re three minutes out from the pregame toss.” The director’s voice crackles through my headset from the production truck parked outside the stadium. “Is Sam ready to roll?”
I look over at Samantha Easton, who’s currently checking her reflection in the lens of our primary sideline camera.
She is thirty-eight, possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of football, and wears high heels on the turf with a level of confidence that defies the laws of physics.
She’s easily the most popular field reporter on television and the best asset I have.
“Sam,” I call out, stepping over a thick bundle of camera cables. “Truck says three minutes. Drop the lip gloss.”
Sam twists the stick from her lip gloss back into the tube with a sigh, turning her perfectly styled hair toward me. “Listen, Carrington, if I’m going to stand in this indecisive weather, my lips need to look hydrated on camera. It’s in my contract.”
“In your contract, my ass,” I shoot back, a grin breaking through my professional mask.
Sam and I have become good friends in the short time we’ve worked together. We have great chemistry, and honestly, I’m not too proud to take tips from her. I have a tremendous amount of respect for her. She’s paved the way for a lot of female sports reporters on and off the field.
“Did you read the updated injury report from the trainers I emailed you?”
“Sure did. Pitz’s left ankle is completely fine, Vaughn’s shoulder is taped but no injury to report, and St. Clair looks like he’s been fed a steady diet of raw meat and pure malice,” she says, her eyes flashing with that sharp veteran intelligence that makes her a legend.
She leans in slightly, lowers her voice beneath the roar of the stadium crowd, and covers her microphone with her hand.
“Speaking of the defensive line … Griffith has been staring at you since they walked out for warm-ups.”
My stomach flips. I’ve been trying not to look for him. I forced my eyes to stay glued to the crew, refusing to watch the tunnel.
“I don’t really care about what he’s staring at, Sam. I care about your audio level.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t think I didn’t see you hanging out with him and that whole group from Walker at Alie and Liam’s wedding,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with sharp, older-sister-like curiosity.
Sam was also at the wedding because she knows the Grant family, but I didn’t really spend time with her there.
“I slipped out before it got too late, but from what I saw, I’d say you threw him off his game.”
“Aston Griffith doesn’t get thrown off,” I say, my tone crisp, well aware she’s wearing a live mic and everyone in the control room can possibly hear our conversation even though she covered her mic. I point a finger in the air. “We’re live in five, four, three…”
Sam’s face instantly shifts into her famous smile, the microphone rising to her lips as the red light on our primary camera flares to life.
“Welcome to the opening game of the season between the New York Titans and the Columbus Bulls,” Sam announces, her voice carrying that perfect, smooth cadence that millions of sports fans recognize instantly.
“I’m standing here on the sidelines, where the energy is absolutely electric.
All eyes are on the newly minted offensive duo of quarterback Liam Pitz and wide receiver Brody Vaughn, but the real story might just be the defensive game, led by none other than the powerhouses Wyatt St. Clair and Aston Griffith. ”
I tune out her voice, focusing instead on the monitors strapped to the mobile cart as we go to a taped montage we produced this afternoon.
Aston is one of the main features, and even though I produced it, I’m in awe of every clip of him moving about the field.
Most girls have a one-night stand and never have to see the guy again.
Me? I get to spend countless hours sifting through sports footage and write an emotionally driven script about his athletic prowess and home-grown magnetism. Lucky me.
At the end of the piece, Sam turns back to the center of the field, where the pregame toss is happening. The game starts fast, followed by a blur of whistles, the crunch of pads, and the sensory overload of eighty thousand people screaming at the top of their lungs.
From a production standpoint, it’s beautiful chaos, and the game moves quickly.
As a field producer, I stay on the sidelines with Sam while a team runs the show from the control room.
We’re in the second quarter, and Liam is proving exactly why he’s one of the best in the league.
His offensive line collapses around him, a massive defensive tackle breaking through the pocket like a freight train.
But Pitz doesn’t panic. He skirts out of the pocket with cool, calculated composure, hitches his shoulder, and launches a high-arching spiral fifty yards down the seam.
“Vaughn got a step!” I hear the director call out in my earpiece. “Camera three, track him! Track him!”
Brody Vaughn sprints to get under the ball, two defensive backs on his tail. With a diving leap, he reaches out and snatches the ball out of the air and rolls into the end zone.
The fans go wild.
“Beautiful!” I shout and then listen for my instructions from the control room. “They’re gonna do a replay on Vaughn in the air. Sam, get ready for a quick sideline hit on the offensive adjustment.”
“On it,” Sam replies, and our camera operator is ready to go in moments.
When the lights on his camera turn green, Sam gives the replay for home viewers while Liam celebrates on the bench.
We reach halftime with the Titans up by seven.
The second half of the game belongs entirely to the defense, specifically to one player I’ve been actively trying to avoid looking at all night when he’s not on the field.
Aston and Saint are an absolute nightmare on the edge.
Saint is playing like a man possessed, clogging up the running lanes and demanding a double team on every single snap.
His gameplay leaves Aston isolated on the outside, against a rookie offensive tackle who looks like he wants to be anywhere else on earth rather than facing off against Aston.
The Bulls are third and four heading into the fourth quarter, trying to run a play-action pass to freeze the linebackers.
But Aston doesn’t bite.
He jumps the snap count with an explosive first step, his hands slapping the rookie tackle’s chest with enough force that we can hear it on the sideline.
He clears the block in a fraction of a second, his massive frame bending around the edge with terrifying speed.
The quarterback doesn’t even have time to set his feet before Aston levels him from the blind side, driving him straight into the turf.
The ball pops loose.
“Fumble!” the director yells. “Ball is live!”
Saint, who’s already pushed his blocker back three yards, lunges forward with the agility of a guy half his size, smothering the ball beneath him.
The stadium is literally shaking. Aston jumps up from the ground, his chest heaving, and immediately hammers his helmet against Saint’s shoulder pad in celebration.
He turns toward the stands, flexing his arms, his face illuminated by adrenaline and sweat.
His eyes scan the crew, bypassing the cheerleaders, and then the bench, until they land directly on me.
Even through the visor on his helmet, from forty yards away, the heat of his gaze hits me like a physical blow. I don’t look away. I keep my face an emotionless mask of a professional field producer, making a time stamp on my digital log.
Great play, Fifty-Four. Now get off my field.
The final whistle blows ten minutes later, a hard-fought victory secured by a final defensive stand. The chaos of the postgame field instantly descends—security, reporters, camera crews, and players swirling into a massive, disorganized sea of bodies.
I tap Sam on the shoulder, leaning in close so she can hear me over the music blasting through the stadium’s speakers. “They want an interview with the D-line. Grab Griffith for a quick postgame hit.”
Sam’s eyes dance with amusement. “Oh, you mean the hero of the game? Any specific direction for the interview, Carrington?”
“Ask him about the third-quarter adjustment,” I say, my mouth twitching into a smile. “And, Sam? Ask him about his endurance. He looked a little slow off the line in the first half.”
Sam laughs and shoots me a wink, sliding in her earpiece as she strides out to the middle of the turf, flagging down Aston as he walks toward the tunnel.