Page 24 of Fumbling Forward
The next morning arrives too quickly and not quickly enough.
I wake up at six, having slept maybe three hours total. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that office, back in the dark with Carter’s hand on my waist and his voice rough with want.
Coffee doesn’t help. Neither does a shower. By the time I’m dressed and heading to the office, my nerves are strung tight enough to snap.
My phone buzzes as I’m pulling into the parking garage.
Carter:Morning. Still on for tonight?
Yes. Where?
Carter:There’s a place on the north side. Quiet. Good food. I’ll text you the address.
Okay.
I stare at the single word, wishing I could inject it with some of the professionalism that’s supposed to define our relationship. But it’s gone, burned away in a power outage and a moment of weakness.
The office is already buzzing when I walk in. Mark’s assistant waves me down before I even reach my desk.
“Mark wants to see you.”
My stomach drops. “Now?”
“Five minutes ago.”
Great.
I detour to Mark’s office, knocking once before pushing the door open. He’s on the phone, but he waves me in, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
“—no, I understand. Yes. We’ll have a statement ready by end of day. Thank you.” He hangs up and fixes me with a look that’s equal parts exhausted and exasperated. “We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where one of our players was seen leaving the stadium last night during a storm with our PR specialist, and now there’s speculation on social media.”
Ice floods my veins. “What?”
Mark turns his monitor toward me. On the screen is a blurry photo—clearly taken from a distance—showing two figures walking through the rain toward the parking lot. The caption reads:Carter Storm and mystery woman leaving practice late. New romance?
My breath catches. “That’s not—we weren’t—”
“I know.” Mark’s voice is firm but not unkind. “I know what this looks like, Olivia. But I also know you. You wouldn’t cross that line.”
The guilt twists, sharp and immediate. Because he’s wrong. Iwouldcross that line. I almost did.
“It was just rain,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “We were reviewing talking points for his interview today, the power went out, and we waited for the storm to pass. That’s all.”
Mark studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Good. That’s the story. I’ll have social media put out a statement clarifying that you’re shadowing Carter per my request for the next month. Professional relationship. Team business.”
“Right. Team business.”
“Olivia.” He leans forward, elbows on his desk. “I’m trusting you with this. Carter’s image is critical right now. Sponsors are watching. The league is watching. One misstep, and everything we’ve built, everythinghe’sbuilt, could come crashing down.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” His gaze sharpens. “Because if there’sanychance that this is becoming more than professional, I need to know now. I’ll assign someone else. No judgment.”
The offer sits there, tempting and terrifying all at once. I could walk away. Pass Carter off to another handler, put distance between us, save us both from whatever this is turning into.
