The next message is Ralph.
“Carter, it’s Ralph. The station’s keeping the footage under wraps for now, but I don’t know how long that’ll last. Olivia’s working on the official statement, so keep your mouth shut and stay off social media. Call me if anything else comes up.”
At least Ralph still sounds calm, which means things aren’t burning down yet.
The last message makes my stomach drop. Mark Davidson. Owner of the Dakota Dragons.
“Carter. I don’t know what the hell happened last night, but it better not cost this team a sponsor. You’ve got twenty-four hours to fix it. Olivia’s your point of contact. Handle it, Storm. Don’t make me regret backing you.”
The line clicks dead.
Dropping my head into my hands, I groan. One night. That’s all it takes. One stupid night to make the world forget a decade of spotless headlines.
The coffee’s gone cold, but I drink it anyway. My phone buzzes again—another missed call from a reporter and I silence it.
Across the counter, the empty mug Olivia used still sits in the sink. For a second, I picture her there again, smirking, steadying me with that quiet confidence she hides behind all the professionalism.
I shake it off. I’ve got bigger problems than a PR rep who gets under my skin.
Still, as I head for the gym downstairs, her voice echoes in my head.
Then don’t give them the satisfaction.
Chapter Five
Olivia
The video loops again.
Same grainy footage. Same lousy angle. Same knot in my stomach.
For the third time this morning, I hit play.
The screen flickers, andThe Luxestrip club fills the monitor with flashing lights, bodies moving, the dull thump of bass bleeding through the speakers. Carter Storm stands near the bar, jaw tight, drink untouched in his hand. A woman, one of the dancers, judging by her outfit laughs, touches his arm, leans in too close. He says something, she stumbles, and that’s when it happens.
He catches her. One hand to her waist, one to her arm. Not grabbing. Steadying.
My pulse ticks faster, not from shock this time, but relief. It’s the third time I’ve watched, and every single time I see the same damn thing: Carter didn’t do a thing wrong.
Then the bouncer storms in from the edge of the frame. He shoves Carter. The woman, God, I wish I had her name, turns, lifts her hand, and swings. She misses Carter and slaps Derek hard enough that even through the bad audio, I hear it.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t hit back. Just raises his hands and takes a step back, mouth moving, calm and controlled. It’s then all hell breaks loose.
I pause the video, rubbing at the ache building behind my eyes.
This is what people don’t see. The truth, buried under a headline that writes itself.Quarterback Storm in Strip ClubAltercation.It’s too easy. Too clickable. No one cares what really happened, they just want the story that sells.
The door opens behind me. Ralph.
“You’ve been at it since eight,” he says, setting a coffee on my desk. “Tell me something good.”
“He didn’t do it.” My voice comes out flat but certain. “She fell. He caught her. Bouncer overreacted, she panicked, and tried to slap Carter and got Derek. That’s all.”
Ralph grunts, leaning closer to peer at the frozen frame. “Hell of a night for a guy who doesn’t party.”
“Tell me about it.”
I rewind again, watching Carter’s expression frame by frame. No arrogance. No aggression. Just surprise. He looks… tired. Not the golden boy on a Wheaties box. Just a man trying to stop a bad night from getting worse.
