Chapter Eighteen
EVA
The glass walls of the network headquarters don't just feel like a shield, they feel like a family ledger. Every glowing logo of Carrington Media is plastered across Sixth Avenue screens outside, a reminder of the shadow I walk in— and the man who cast it, Bruce Carrington.
I sit with my shoes off, curled up on the couch in my father’s office. On the screen in front of me, the digital layout for the weekend’s pregame broadcast is an intricate grid of network cues, but my fingers are curled tightly around my phone as I wait for my father to get here.
I take a deep breath, the crisp scent of Aston still faintly lingering on my shirt after he smothered me with hugs and kisses this morning before I left his house. The normalcy of being with him in his rustic home is a sharp contrast to the glitter and shine of my father’s office in Midtown.
My father walks in. “Eva.” His voice is smooth and measured and carries the authority of a man who commands thousands of people. But underneath the executive clip, there’s a subtle softness he reserves for me.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, laying my phone down next to me on the couch, a smile touching my lips.
He walks over to me and places a kiss on the top of my head, then sits in the leather chair next to me. “Pumpkin, I’m not complaining, but this is a surprise.”
I lean forward and drop my legs to the floor. “Well, I checked your assistant’s log and saw you had some free time today, so I figure I have about ten minutes before we get interrupted.”
A warm chuckle rings in the room. “I always have time for you, no matter what. You know that. I’m just about to get back to the analytical reports for the sports division.
Your broadcast pulled in a twelve share in the demographics.
That’s incredible, kid. I’m so proud of you.
But I’m sure that’s not why you’re here. So, tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I’m seeing someone,” I say, dropping the bomb fast. Because with him, despite the massive weight of his expectations, I can just be his daughter.
“It has been going on for a few months now, and it’s getting pretty serious.
I think we need to go public, Dad. I don’t want to feel like we can’t have a normal dating life, like go out of the house to eat or see a movie. ”
He props his elbows on the arms of his chair, folds his hands together, and rests his chin on them. Then a smirk appears.
“Aston Griffith,” he says. It’s not a question, nor is it an accusation.
Of course he knows.
“Please tell me you don’t have a tracker on my car or something.”
“Eva, I own the network that broadcasts his games,” he says, his tone relaxed, but also amused.
“You’ve also interviewed him multiple times this season.
Don’t get me wrong; the audience loves that kid, but I just had a feeling there was more to it.
And I might have looked up his contract metrics last month when I started to suspect he was more than just a player you wanted a story on.
I remember you dating his brother in college.
I know there’s a connection between you two.
” He drops his hands, laying them on his lap.
“He’s impressive, for sure. He’s a tier-one defensive anchor.
Solid cowboy-like brand, zero off-field liabilities, good family, and he’s signed through 2029. ”
“Dad—”
“But most importantly”—he holds up a finger, his voice shifting to a more protective but caring register—“I’ve watched the feeds, and I’ve seen you at the games, watching him.
You get a look on your face that I’ve never seen before.
You look … smitten. And God knows it takes a lot to impress my headstrong and independent daughter. ”
I let out a breath, a sarcastic laugh escaping my throat. “I mean, he’s all right, I guess,” I tease, tilting my head to the side. “If you like big Texas boys who look like they eat bricks for breakfast.”
“You’ll never have to worry about your safety, I suppose.” He smiles.
“Exactly. But he also manages to keep up with me, and he gets my humor, which is a miracle in itself.”
He shakes his head but smiles. “So, what is it you’re asking me, Eva?” my father asks, and I hear the pride and love in his voice. “You want my permission? You don’t need it. You’re an adult.”
“Well, not your permission exactly. I guess I just want to know how we should handle it with the media and anyone … who might have an issue with me dating an athlete for a team I cover.”
“Eva, I don’t care about a corporate handbook,” my father says softly.
“The ethics policies written by my lawyers are there to protect our assets. But you’re my daughter, my only child.
Your happiness is the only asset I actually care about.
If this Griffith boy is the one who keeps you smiling like that, then everyone else will have to adapt.
But if it makes you feel better, I’ll discuss it with PR and legal and make sure you won’t have any issues. ”
“Thank you, Dad,” I say and stand to give him a hug.
“Anything for you, Pumpkin.” He squeezes me for a beat, then releases me. “But,” he says, his sharp mind clicking into gear. “If you’re going public, we’re doing it on our terms. I’m not letting some sleazy tabloid photographer control the narrative.”
I sit back on the couch and cross my legs. “Right, I agree. I’d like to avoid as much gossip as possible.”
“Here’s what we can do. Based on your numbers for this football season, you’ve done an incredible job, and I gotta say, I’m really proud of you.
” He reaches over and sets his hand on top of mine, and I turn my palm and curl my fingers around his.
“So, I’m going to have you executive produce the NFL Honors Awards next week in San Francisco.
It’s a Carrington-distributed broadcast.”
“Dad. Are you serious?” I ask, stunned. This is a huge opportunity for me, but I know it’s not just because of my last name.
He’s not wrong. My numbers for this season were amazing, and I’m proud of my accomplishments but also of how hard my team worked.
“I saw it on the schedule, but to have this opportunity…just wow. Thank you, Dad.”
“You deserve it, kid. So you go to the awards and bring Aston with you. If the media is going to catch wind of you two and run with a story about my daughter and a star NFL defensive lineman, they’re going to do it using my camera's ratings. Walk with him, hand in hand, I dare the board of directors to say a damn word to me about it.”
I smile widely at the sheer protective power of his love, but it’s also on brand for him. “You’re telling me to turn my relationship into a prime-time exclusive? Spoken like a true media mogul.”
“No one dictates a Carrington’s life except a Carrington,” he says proudly. “Now go call the boy. Tell him I look forward to meeting him soon.” He stands and holds his hands out to me. “Now I love you, but let’s get back to work.”
I take his hands and let him pull me up from the couch, then I wrap my arms around him again, then kiss his cheek when I pull away. “Thank you, Dad. I love you the most.”
By eleven o’clock, I’m still sitting on the floor of my office, the blue wash of the city lights reflecting off the glass behind me. My phone buzzes, and I see a text from Aston. But instead of replying, I FaceTime him.
He answers, and his handsome face fills my screen. He’s propped up against his headboard at home, his hair messy, and his leather binder is resting on his lap. The second he sees my face, he smiles, and his eyes instantly lock onto mine.
“Honeybee,” he rumbles, his voice deep, rough and thick like he’s tired. “You still at the office?”
“Still here, but almost done for the night. Since it’s so late, I’ll just stay at my place tonight.” I sigh. “But I do have some news. I talked to my dad today,” I say, my tone laced with amusement.
Aston sits up fully, exposing more of his tattooed chest, his eyes curious. “And? What did he say?”
“Well, he said he likes your contract metrics and the fact that you don’t have behavioral problems off the field. You’re a solid brand asset. So congrats, you passed the background check.” A laugh bubbles out.
Aston blinks, then a low, deep rumble of laughter shakes his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “A brand asset, huh? Jesus. Your old man really is the king of media, isn’t he?”
“He is,” I smile, my voice softening as I look at him through the screen. “But Aston…he’s told me he’s watched us and said he sees how happy I am. He told me the board can adapt.”
A slow, tender look crosses his face, his blue eyes burning. “He said that?”
“He did,” I say quietly. “He loves me, Aston. He wants us to be happy. And he had an idea. I’ll be the executive producer of the red carpet at the NFL Honors next week, as you know…
and he told me I should take you with me.
You know, just a casual first public appearance together in front of millions of people. ”
His face stills.
The NFL Honors isn’t a private dinner at Liam’s house or a quiet weekend tucked away at his house. It’s one of the biggest stages in sports media, completely surrounded by a feeding frenzy of flashing bulbs, and entirely owned by my father.
“The NFL Honors,” Aston repeats. He doesn’t blink, his eyes locked on mine.
I can see a shift in his posture—the way his jaw tightens, his mind likely running through the inevitable chaos that would follow a move like this.
For a fraction of a second, a shadow of hesitation clouds his expression.
“Eva, that’s not just a public appearance. ”
I lean in closer to the screen, dropping my teasing banter. “I know. I want you to come with me though. Not as a brand asset, and not as a guest with credentials. I want you there as my boyfriend.”
He lets out a slow breath, running his palm over his head. The hesitation hangs in the air for one more beat. Then a slow smile cracks through, and the tension leaves his shoulders.
“You’re right,” he says, his eyes burning with an unyielding heat I can practically feel through the screen.
“If we’re doing this, we might as well go balls out,” he chuckles.
“I mean, I already told the guys and Alie and Presley today. But the NFL Honors will definitely make a statement. Let them turn the cameras on, Carrington. I’m all in. ”
“Okay then,” I say, relieved. “Boyfriend. Let’s go to LA.”
ASTON
My screen had barely gone dark before the phone started vibrating in my palm again. I hadn’t even had time to process the fact that Eva had just called me her boyfriend. My chest tight, my brain trying to map out the complexities we’d just agreed to.
I glance down at the caller ID, and the screen flashes with a name that makes my stomach drop straight through the mattress.
Ace.
I cover my face with my hands and rub my forehead with my fingers in an attempt to smooth out the stress that’s no doubt showing on my face. Then I hit accept.
“Acer,” I grumble.
“You in bed?” Ace’s voice bellows from the speaker, practically vibrating with the high-octane energy he always has. He’s not in bed, and the background behind him is the sleek, white interior of his kitchen in Florida. He’s pacing the room with a protein shaker in one hand.
“Uh, yeah. You can see I’m in bed.” I raise my brows.
“Old man,” he laughs. “Did you see the noms?”
“What are you talking about?” I say, my brow furrowing as I watch him bounce on the balls of his feet. “It’s almost midnight.”
“The NFL Honors committee just dropped the early ballot notifications to the franchise offices,” he says, a massive, unadulterated grin breaking across his face. He stops pacing, pointing a finger directly into his camera lens. “Offensive Player of the Year, Aston. I’m on the list.”
The words hit me like a blindside block.
My brain goes numb. The image of Eva’s green eyes, her smiling face telling me she wants me there as her boyfriend, clashes violently with the image of my twin brother standing on the exact same stage.
“Aston? Did you hear me?” Ace asks, his grin faltering just a fraction at my silence.
“Yeah,” I force the word out, my throat dry, my voice flat and hollow even to my own ears. “Congrats, brother. That’s … that’s huge.”
Ace’s eyebrows pull together as he stares at his screen. He sets the protein shaker down on his counter with a loud thud. “Congrats? That’s it? Dude, be excited for me. I just got nominated for the biggest individual hardware in sports, and you sound like you’re reading a weather report.”
“I’m excited,” I say, but the numbness is already spreading down my arms, my fingers curling tightly into the fabric of my sheets.
“Bullshit,” Ace counters, his tone dropping into that stubborn register we’ve used against each other since we were young. “Listen, Aston. I can’t do this without you. If I’m walking into that auditorium in San Francisco to take that trophy, you need to be there with me.”
Fuck.
The word echoes in the silence of my skull, loud. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My mind races through the logistics, and every single scenario ends in a total, catastrophic pile-up.
Yeah, I planned on telling my family before the awards because I didn’t want them to be shocked when they saw us on television together, but Ace being there too, didn’t cross my mind.
And I don’t know what the hell to do here.
If I show up with Ace, I’m the supportive twin, the good brother. But this thing with Eva and me … It’s big. And it would make a big statement not only to the network and audience, but also to my brother and my family, that we’re together.
I can’t do both. I can’t walk down the carpet with my twin brother and walk down the carpet with Eva without turning the entire event into a media circus that could possibly tear us both apart.
“Aston. What the fuck?” Ace snaps, his voice sharp, his confusion turning into genuine irritation. “You gotta be there. Your season is done, so it’s not like you even need to get clearance.”
He’s not wrong. We lost in the playoffs, and my season is over.
“Yeah,” I mumble, the words tasting like copper on my tongue.
I force my jaw to relax, trying to mimic the easy cadence he expects from me.
“Yeah, brother. I’m really happy for you.
It’s awesome. Just let me check to see what I can do. ”
Ace stares at me for three more seconds, his eyes searching my face, and I know he knows something isn’t right. “Okay, yeah, whatever. Check your schedule,” he mutters, though the excitement has lost some of its edge. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The line goes dead.
I let the phone slip from my fingers onto the mattress. My head drops back to the headboard, and I stare up at the cedar beams of my ceiling.
I should have told him as soon as I started seeing her. Hell, I should have told him after the first night we slept together at Liam’s wedding. But I didn’t, and I’ve put myself in an impossible spot.
What the fuck am I going to do?