“You are,” I say fiercely. “You’re so much more than football, Carter. You’re the guy who makes sick kids feel like heroes. Who checks on his teammates. Who stands in the dark during a storm and gives me the choice to walk away, even when you don’t want to.”
His eyes glisten, just slightly, and he looks down at our joined hands. “So, what do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not very reassuring, Rivers.”
A laugh escapes me, shaky but real. “I’m fresh out of reassuring tonight, Storm.”
The waiter returns with our food, and we’re forced to let go of each other. But the connection doesn’t break. It hangs there between us, invisible but undeniable, through every bite of pasta, every shared smile, every story exchanged.
By the time the check comes, I’ve learned that Carter’s favorite movie isThe Shawshank Redemption, that he can’t cook to save his life, and that he once accidentally adopted a stray dog that turned out to belong to his neighbor.
He’s learned that I’m terrified of spiders, that I wanted to be a journalist before modeling, and that I cry during every Pixar movie without fail.
We’re laughing about something—I can’t even remember what—when my phone buzzes.
A text from Mark.
Mark:Social media’s quiet. Nice work keeping things professional. See you tomorrow.
Guilt crashes over me like a wave.
Carter must see it on my face because his smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
“Mark. He just congratulated me on keeping things professional.”
The irony isn’t lost on either of us.
Carter reaches for his wallet, pulling out cash for the bill. “We should probably go.”
“Yeah.”
We walk out into the cool night air, and for a moment, neither of us moves toward our cars. We just stand there in the parking lot, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down.
“Olivia,” Carter says softly.
“I know.”
“We need to figure this out.”
“I know.”
He steps closer, and my breath catches. But he doesn’t try to kiss me. He just reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle.
“I meant what I said in there. About wanting a chance.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But wanting something and it being smart are two different things.”
“When did you get so practical?”
“When I realized I’m falling for a man whose career could end mine.”
His hand cups my cheek, and I lean into it despite myself. “Then we’re careful. We’re smart. But we don’t walk away. Not yet.”
“Carter—”
“Please.” The word is barely audible. “Just… don’t walk away yet.”
