Eva: The production meeting went on long. My reception was shit. Oh, but I got your credential. It’s with the talent coordinator at the VIP gate. Which reminds me, you never sent me your flight number. Send it over when you can, and I’ll have a car come get you.
Aston: Just heading out to work out with Brody. I’ll text you when I get home later.
Eva: Okay, sounds good. Tell him I said hi.
Eva: I know it’s getting late there and I just tried calling you, but it went straight to voicemail again. Can you let me know about your flight? Sorry I missed you tonight.
Friday, 5:00 am EST
Aston: Sorry. I’ve had some things going on here. And I have some good and bad news. I’m not going to be able to get out to LA this weekend. An amazing sponsorship opportunity came up, and it’d be great for my brand. I’d be stupid not to take it.
Friday, 9 am PST
Eva: You can’t be serious.
I wait all day for a response.
Friday, 4 pm EST
Aston: I know it’s not ideal timing, but you know how this business works.
Eva: Aston. Seriously.
Friday, 9 pm EST
Aston: I’m really sorry, Eva. I know you’ll be great.
The timing of his texts isn’t coincidental. He’s texting me when he knows I’m working.
Friday, 8:34 pm PST
Eva: I truly cannot believe you.
He bailed on me.
A cold spark of anger that’s been lingering since I read the text that said he wasn’t coming twists in my chest, sharp enough to cut through the professional focus I’ve been using as a shield.
Sponsorship opportunity?I don’t buy it.
Aston is one of the biggest stars in the NFL. If companies want him, they'll wait a few hours to meet with him, and they’d be happy to see him getting media attention. Tonight is one of the biggest nights in football. No one skips it unless they have a good reason. So it makes me think he isn’t skipping out on the awards. He’s skipping out on me. The thought keeps circling my brain.
Maybe it’s the Carrington name, the cameras, the reality of standing on a red carpet as my boyfriend—maybe the weight of it all made him change his mind.
But the vague responses, the timing of his texts? The cowardice of letting the clock run out without having the balls to tell me he was backing out? That doesn’t match. It feels like … a betrayal. I don’t have emotional hang-ups. I don’t sit around crying into pillows when things go sideways. I get angry. And then I handle it. But right now, the problem is a six-foot-two linebacker who’s broken my heart. I put my career and my reputation on the line and risked coming clean with my dad for him. And now he’s a no-show for not only our relationship and standing together, but also for this big career opportunity for me, and he’s missing it.
“Eva?” my producer breaks through the static in my ears, his eyes wide as he looks over his shoulder at me. “Your father’s on the executive line. He wants to know if the VIP arrival feed is cleared for the Carrington Media board directors. He’s got three network sponsors in there who want to see the pre-show metrics before the broadcast hits the satellite.”
I take a slow, deep breath, letting the ice in my veins settle until my face is back in professional mode. I slip my phone back into my pocket without texting Aston again.
“Just tell him the feed is live,” I say, my voice entirely devoid of the shaking that’s threatening to tear my throat apart. “And tell him the carpet is secure. I’m doing my job, and the sponsors will get their metrics when the first commercial breaks.”
“You got it, Eva. Relaying now.”
I can’t wait for Aston to show up. I have a multi-million-dollar broadcast to run, a crew of eighty people depending on me and a name that doesn’t allow for personal mistakes. If Aston Griffith wants to hide in New Jersey like a pussy, I’ll let him rot there. But I’m walking onto that red carpet, and I’m going to finish the broadcast.
An hour later, I step out of the air-conditioned trailer and into the blinding hot glare of the California sun. The noise hits me instantly—a chaotic, deafening wall of the sound of screaming fans in the bleachers, the clack-clack-clack of two hundred or more cameras, and the thumping bass of the sound system.
I might no longer be a field producer, but it’s hard for me to not be part of the action. I love this part of the job and no matter how high up in the company I go, I always want to lead this way. With boots—or shall I say, heels—on the ground.
