“If I could persuade Mark, I would, but you’re stuck with me.”
“Well, in that case. I’m scheduled to go to a hospital this afternoon to meet up with kids who are sick. Do you want me to pick you up?”
“It sounds far too much like a date if you do that. I’ll meet you there.”
He laughs again. “It’s at two this afternoon at the Twin Rivers Memorial Hospital. See you then.”
“See you then.” My stomach flips at the thought of seeing him again.
Walking into the hospital, I head for the information desk and ask where Carter will be seeing the children. I’m directed to the elevators and the fifth floor.
When the doors open, laughter greets me. It’s bright and unguarded, the kind that fills every corner of a room. I follow the sound, and that’s where I find Carter Storm, surrounded by children, tossing each of them a football. Every catch earns a cheer, every grin he gives feels genuine. He stops at each bed and signs the ball like it’s the most important autograph he’s ever given.
“Who’s your favorite player in the league?” Carter asks a boy in a wheelchair.
The boy smiles shyly. “Christian Morales.”
Carter kneels, tilting his head as if deep in thought before saying, “I don’t think he’s in the Dakota Dragons.”
The boy shakes his head, whispering, “Go the Chicago Engines.”
Carter presses a hand to his chest, faking injury, and the room erupts with giggles. The sound hits me square in the chest. He’s not just going through the motions—he’spresent. Patient. Kind.
“Are there no Dakota Dragons fans here? Am I in enemy territory?”
A girl in a nearby bed raises her hand. “I like number fifty-five.”
“You like Tank? What about me?” Carter teases, moving closer to her, signing her ball.
“You’re okay,” she says, “but Tank is my favorite.”
He laughs and shakes his head, and that’s when he spots me. His smile widens. “This lady here is Olivia. Everyone say hello to her.”
As though they were in a classroom, they chorus, “Hello, Olivia.”
Smiling broadly, I wave. “Hello. Are you all enjoying your time with Carter Storm?”
Some say yes, others nod, and one spirited boy pipes up, “He’s not as good as Madden Marx.”
“Ahh, he plays for the Daytona Devils. He’s not a Dakota Dragons player!” I say, pretending to defend Carter.
Carter laughs. “They’re all traitors.” Then he winks at the little girl beside him. “Except you.”
My heart does this ridiculous flip. Watching him like this—no cameras, no ego, no show—just a man connecting with sick kids as if they’re the only people in the world… it’s disarming. The cocky athlete I met at the press conference isn’t the same man in front of me now. This one has depth. Compassion. Heart. And that realization might just be more dangerous than any scandal he could cause.
Carter finishes with the last child, a boy with wide eyes who clutches his signed football like it’s treasure. “You keep working hard, buddy. Maybe one day I’ll see you on the field.”
The boy’s grin stretches ear to ear. “Really?”
“Really.” Carter ruffles his hair, then stands, his knees protesting slightly. He catches me watching and his smile shifts, less performative, more real.
A nurse approaches, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Storm, thank you so much for coming. The kids have been looking forward to this all week.”
“My pleasure,” he says, and I believe him. “Anytime you need me, just call.”
As we walk toward the elevator, a little girl in a wheelchair rolls up beside us, her mother pushing. “Mr. Storm! Wait!”
Carter stops immediately, crouching to her level. “What’s up, champ?”
