Later, the club is a blur. Lights, noise, music pounding like a heartbeat. I stick to the edge, hands mostly in my pockets, surveying rather than participating. My body isn’t young anymore; it doesn’t crave chaos. It craves quiet. But Derek is already buying rounds, and I follow, a reluctant participant.
And then she shows up. One of the dancers, all glitter and curves, and eyes that think they can see straight into me. She flutters over, lips curved in a practiced, predatory smile.
“I know who you are, Carter Storm,” she purrs.
I shake my head, polite but firm. “Not interested.”
Her smile falters, then sharpens. “You’ll change your mind. I always get what I want.”
A laugh escapes her, a little too loud, and she steps closer, hips swaying in that practiced rhythm meant to unbalance. I hold my ground, hands up subtly, keeping her at arm’s length.
“You don’t get it, Carter,” she purrs, trying to lean closer.
Before I can respond, Derek swoops in like he’s part quarterback, part bodyguard. He wraps an arm around her waist lightly but firmly. “Relax, sweetheart. He’s solo for the night. I’m more than happy to keep you company.”
Her eyes narrow. “No. I don’t—”
She shoves Derek, forcing him back, and stumbles into me. I catch her, stepping back instinctively. She presses closer, but I shake my head sharply. “No.”
A security guard appears beside us, arms crossed. “No touching the dancers,” he says firmly, voice like a hammer.
“I wouldn’t touch her if my dick was double-wrapped in steel. I’m not interested,” I add, calm but pointed, letting my words hang in the air.
Her eyes flare. “You—” She screams in rage, shoving me with hands out, trying to hurt me.
And just like that, the room explodes. She lunges at me. Derek stumbles back, the guard moves to intercept, but in the chaos, the stripper slaps Derek across the chest. The guard swings, and connects with Derek’s shoulder—hard, sending him sprawling slightly.
I step in , hands up, ready to protect my teammate. “Back off! Leave him alone!”
The club noise drowns out the pounding of my own heart. Every muscle is coiled, ready for the moment to escalate. And it does.
Fists fly. Chaos erupts. Drinks spill. The cops are called.
This is not my style. Not my life. But apparently tonight… that doesn’t matter.
Handcuffs. Flashing lights. The all-American clean-cut quarterback, arrested. Everything feels surreal, disconnected from the field, from ice baths, from strategy and plays.
In the back of the squad car, my anger burns hot. This is not how the night was supposed to go. Derek slides in beside me, his right eye already swelling.
“Sorry, Carter. I know you don’t party like the rest of us,” he mutters.
“She was trouble.”
Derek laughs. “Yep. My favorite kind.”
The door swings open, and a police officer grabs Derek by the arm. “The lady over there said you had nothing to do with what happened inside. They’re only pointing at Carter Storm.”
“Not true,” Derek protests.
The officer shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. The only one they’re accusing is Storm. You’re free to go.”
“This is bullshit!” Derek hisses.
“Derek—” I start.
“That whore started it,” he spits. “Everyone knows Carter Storm is a fucking angel. Clean-cut as they come, and she was looking for a payday.”
“Derek!”
