Chapter Eight
EVA
The light in my loft always fades away beautifully, copper and violet filtering through the industrial windows before the glow of the city lights take over the skyline.
Tonight, I’m not looking at the sunset though.
I’m looking at a spreadsheet on one of my monitors, tracking a satellite truck routed for our upcoming trip to the West Coast. On my other monitor, a patchwork of unlinked audio stems from the week’s miked-up player reels is waiting for me.
My father left me three voicemails before four p.m. None of them were urgent.
It’s not out of malice but more like a family philosophy.
He’d started in this business holding a boom mic in the freezing mud, wrestling his way into the executive director’s chair through unyielding grit.
He loves me too much to let me be a legacy hire who can’t command a room.
He wants me to understand every aspect of the business, so when I take over the company someday, I’ll truly know the ins and outs of the operation.
But damn if his expectations don’t feel like a vise grip some days.
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose, where my blue-light-blocking glasses are digging in, and glance at the digital clock in the corner of my screen—seven fifteen p.m.
My eyes drift to the locked screen of my phone, resting beside my keyboard. No new alerts. Aston and I made plans yesterday morning, carving out a rare three-hour window in our hyper-regulated schedules. He promised he’d head over here after the team’s late afternoon practice.
Don’t order dinner, his text from earlier read. We’re going out. Somewhere quiet.
Whatever this thing is that we have going exists in the gaps between his practice and game schedules and my eighty-plus-hour workweeks.
But looking at the clock now, I realize he’s late.
Then a sudden, sharp knock breaks through the silence of my apartment.
I don’t blink. Nor do I check the peephole. My heart, which has been holding pretty steady, instantly shifts to a gallop. But when I pull the door open, all the stress of my day and the butterflies in my belly from thinking about Aston are swallowed by six feet two of denim and leather.
Aston stands in the corridor, his broad shoulders practically bracketing the doorframe.
His hair is slightly damp, and he’s not wearing his team gear.
No franchise logos, no athletic wear. Just a faded black thermal shirt that stretches across his chest, a worn-out pair of jeans that look like they’ve seen their fair share of Texas dirt, and his brown cowboy boots.
He looks rugged, massive, and entirely too real for a Friday night in Manhattan.
“You’re late, Griffith.” I smirk, leaning against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest.
“The tunnel was a parking lot,” he rumbles, his voice gravelly, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
He doesn’t step inside though. Instead, he reaches out, his callous hand catching the edge of my jaw, his thumb brushing slowly across my lower lip.
“And you’re still wearing your blue-light-blocking glasses. Which means you’re still working.”
“I’m finalizing the satellite routing,” I say, though my breath hitches as his fingers slide down the column of my neck, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. “I do have a job, Aston.”
“Not tonight you don’t.” He smiles, a flirty twitch to his lips. “Grab your coat. I’m getting you out of here for a bit.”
“Out?” I blink. “Maybe we could just order in. You know, in case someone sees us out together—”
“Eva, it’ll be fine,” he interrupts smoothly, his grip on my neck tightening just enough to pull me in closer until I can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne.
And because I can’t seem to say no to him, I change my clothes into something more restaurant-appropriate, and then I’m sliding into his truck ten minutes later.
The city blurs by, replaced by the electric presence of the man sitting next to me.
His large hands grip the wheel with the same effortless control he uses to blow past three-hundred-pound offensive linemen.
We get to the restaurant twenty minutes later, a subterranean cavern hidden behind an unmarked green door down a flight of concrete stairs.
The ceilings are low, braced by iron beams, and the light comes from flickering beeswax candles melting onto the brick walls.
It’s a haven for people who value obscurity, the absolute antithesis of the flashiness of Obsidian Court.
The hostess leads us to a booth in the back corner, shielded by a thick velvet curtain.
Aston slides in across from me, his size making the table look like a toy. He orders a bourbon and a glass of ice water for himself, and a vodka soda for me without asking.
“You remember what I like to drink?”
“I pay attention. I saw you drinking that at Obsidian Court. If you want something different, I can call him back over.”
“No, it’s great. Thank you,” I say, a slow smile curving my lips. He notices the little things, and damn it if it doesn’t make me fall a little.
His blue eyes lock onto mine with concern. “You look tired,” he says, his voice dropping to a serious tone.
“I’m not tired,” I lie, taking off my coat and draping it over the leather bench. “I’m focused. There’s a difference.”
“Hmm. Okay, if you say so,” he smiles, leaning his forearms on the table. “You don’t know how to turn off the engine until it throws a rod in the hood. You’ve been working hard all week.”
“I have to,” I say because it’s true. I’m a nepo baby. A woman who is receiving chances in an industry because her father owns the company. My position comes with its perks but also its responsibilities and the awareness that eyes are on me for all the wrong reasons.
My eyes search his face, and a sudden spike of anxiety hits me right in the chest when I think about us being out together. “Aston, I feel like we’re playing with fire here.”
“I know. Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind what people will think if they know I’m hanging out with my brother's ex-girlfriend, let alone the daughter of Bruce Carrington. People talk, and the whispers are loud. I know what they’ll say,” he says, his voice a commanding rumble that practically forces me to calm down.
“That’s why I made sure we’re safe here.
So for right now, it’s just you and me. Try to relax. ”
I let out a long, shaky breath, leaning back against the seat, my fingers threading through his. Here I am, worried about my career, when he also has his reasons to want to keep our relationship in the shadows. He understands in his own way.
The sheer comfort of his grip is intoxicating, helping me to push my paranoia to the back of my mind.
“Why are you doing this with me?” I whisper, looking at our joined hands. “It’s a risk. It could compromise your focus, or if the media sees us together and twists it—”
The waiter interrupts me, setting down our drinks on the table, and we place our orders.
“I’m risking it because I don’t want to stay away from you,” he says simply, the honesty in his voice almost terrifying. “And because I know what you’re dealing with out there. I see you on the sidelines. I see how hard you’re pushing yourself.”
A faint smile touches my lips before I lift my glass and take a slow sip, the vodka running through my veins almost immediately.
“You think you see it because you see me now,” I murmur. “But you don’t know the half of it. Everyone at the network thinks I walked into this role because of my last name. They don’t know all the hard work I’ve put in to just get to this place.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, completely locked in on me.
“I mean, it was just a few years ago that I was walking across a platform getting my degree,” I say, laughing.
“But they don’t know about all the grunt work I had to do.
I cleaned out camera trucks after the crews left them smelling like stale beer and hot dogs.
And I spent eighteen-hour days wrapping roll cards, fetching coffees for anchors who didn’t even care to know my name, and getting screamed at by local directors for simply just being there. ”
Aston doesn’t interrupt. He just sits quietly, his thumb tracing slow circles across the back of my hand, making me feel more seen under his gaze than I’ve ever felt anywhere else.
“My dad didn’t hand me a single shortcut,” I continue.
“And I love him for it, honestly. He told me from day one, ‘You want my chair, Eva? You learn every single bolt in the machine first.’ He wanted me to know how the audio engineers patched the field mics, how the technical directors switched the live feeds, and how the logistics captains routed satellites. He’s made me fight my way up the exact same ladder he climbed, step by step.
And right now, this season could be my final test. If I can deliver a flawless season, he may move me to a producer spot.
I would have my own crew, my own truck, and my own legacy. ”
“I’ve watched you work,” Aston says, his voice steady. “You’re smarter than anyone else in that stadium. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I’m not proving it to you,” I say firmly, my eyes locking onto him. “I’m proving it to myself, and to the room.”
“I get it,” he says sincerely.
“For now, though, I need to work hard and get the job done.” I take a sip of my drink, then smile to lighten the conversation. “But let's talk about your game this weekend.”
We talk about the game until our food arrives.
The waiter sets our plates of charred ribeye and roasted root vegetables in front of each of us, but neither of us looks at the food.
The intimacy of the dark corner we’re seated in feels like we’re on our own little island, completely cut off from the rest of the restaurant.
We start to eat our food, but I’m really only picking at mine, too distracted by the weight of our conversation.
“Are your parents going to make it to any of your games this season?” I ask.