I pause, half-turned away. “Yeah?”
“You hungry?”
My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl, betraying me. His grin is instant, triumphant. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Carter—”
“Just dinner. To discuss my… what did Mark call it? Media schedule?” He’s using that tone again, the one that walks the line between professional and something else entirely. “You’ve got to eat anyway, right? Might as well kill two birds.”
I should say no. Every professional instinct I have is screaming at me to say no. But standing here in the parking lot, watching the way the sunlight catches in his dark hair, remembering the gentle way he spoke to those kids, the genuine laugh when that little girl asked if I was his girlfriend…
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But somewhere quiet. And you’re buying.”
His smile could light up a stadium. “Deal.”
The restaurant he chooses is Italian, tucked into a corner downtown where the press doesn’t usually lurk. It’s intimate without being romantic, or at least that’s what I tell myself as the hostess leads us to a booth in the back.
Carter slides in across from me, and even though there’s a table between us, it feels too close. Too easy.
“So,” he says, opening his menu without looking at it. “What’s my media schedule looking like?”
I pull out my phone, grateful for the distraction. “You’ve got a podcast interview on Thursday, local sports radio Friday morning, and the charity auction for the police widows and orphans fund is Saturday night.”
“The one where I’m being auctioned off for a date?”
“That’s the one.”
He grimaces. “Can wenotdo that?”
“Too late. You promised the police chief, remember? Besides, it’s for a good cause.”
“I know, but…” He trails off, fingers drumming against the table. “It feels weird. Being sold like cattle.”
“Welcome to being a public figure.” I set my phone down. “Think of it as another form of community outreach.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being bid on.”
The waiter appears, taking our drink orders. Carter asks for water, which surprises me. Most of the players I deal with would order beer, whiskey, something to take the edge off. But not him. Not tonight.
When the waiter leaves, I lean forward slightly. “You really hate the spotlight, don’t you?”
“I hate the performative parts,” he admits. “The press conferences, the interviews where they want sound bites instead of real answers. The charity stuff, the hospital visits—that’s different. That matters.”
“Why football, then? If you hate the attention?”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “I don’t hate all of it. I love the game. The strategy, the execution, the way a perfect play feels when everyone’s in sync. That moment when the ball leaves your hand and you know, you justknowit’s going exactly where it needs to go.” He looks up at me. “That’s pure. That’s real.”
“And everything else?”
“Everything else is just noise.” He pauses. “Except this. This doesn’t feel like noise.”
My breath catches. “Carter—”
“I know. Professional boundaries. Mark’s orders. You’re here to keep me out of trouble.” His voice drops lower. “But sitting here with you, talking like this? This is the first time in days I’ve felt like I can breathe.”
The waiter returns with our drinks, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. We order food—pasta for me, steak forhim—and fall into an easier rhythm, talking about everything and nothing. The upcoming season. His concerns about his knee. My worst PR disasters (not including him, I tease). The way his hometown makes the best apple pie in North Dakota.
Time slips away. One hour becomes two. The restaurant empties around us, but neither of us moves to leave.
