Page 36 of Fumbling Forward
His jaw tightens. “I won’t let them crucify you for this.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“Like hell.” He cups my face, his touch gentle despite the steel in his voice. “We’re in this together. Whatever Mark says, whatever the media says, we face it together.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But the rational part of my brain, the part that’s kept me alive in this industry, knows better.
“Carter, you don’t understand. When this breaks, they’re going to tear me apart. They’re going to say I slept my way into this job. That I manipulated you. That I’m some gold-digging—”
“Stop.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “I won’t let them.”
“You can’t stop them.”
“Watch me.”
The certainty in his eyes almost makes me believe it’s possible. Almost.
“We should go,” I say, pulling away. “We’re going to be late.”
He nods, but his hand finds mine, fingers lacing through. “Together?”
I squeeze his hand. “Together.”
Mark’s office feels like a courtroom.
He sits behind his massive desk, Ralph beside him, both wearing expressions that could freeze hell. Two chairs are positioned directly across from them, exactly far enough apart that Carter and I can’t touch.
Deliberate.
“Sit,” Mark says.
We do.
For a long moment, no one speaks. Mark just stares at us, his disappointment so palpable it feels like a physical weight.
Finally, Ralph breaks the silence. “We have a problem.”
“We know,” I say. “We saw the photo.”
“Photos. Plural.” Ralph slides a folder across the desk. “There are three. All from the parking garage. All from different angles.”
Carter opens the folder. I lean in, and my stomach drops further.
The first photo is the one Mark sent. The second shows us embracing after the kiss, my face buried in his chest. The third is us holding each other, foreheads touching, tears visible on my cheeks.
They’re damning. All of them.
“How did these get out?” Carter asks, voice tight.
“Security footage,” Ralph says. “Someone with access to the stadium’s system pulled them and sold them toSports Daily. We’re investigating, but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is damage control.”
“Damage control,” I repeat, my voice hollow.
Mark leans forward, hands clasped on his desk. “Olivia, I trusted you. I put you in charge of Carter’s image, and you—” He stops, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea what this looks like? The optics?”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His voice rises. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like my PR specialist seduced one of my star players while she was supposed to be managing his public image. It looks like a massive conflict of interest. It looks like—”
