I walk down the media barrier, my headset wire tucked neatly behind my ear as I check the camera positions, my feet already hurting in these heels.
“Camera two, push in tighter on the arrival gate,” I hear the director call out in my ear to the camera operators.
My eyes track the black SUVs as they begin to drop off the first wave of athletic royalty.
“We’re losing the window on the step-and-repeat banner, and I don’t want the network logo washed out by the glare.”
“Copy that. Adjusting now,” the operator rumbles back.
A massive black Cadillac Escalade pulls up to the main drop-off point, its tinted doors swinging open. The crowd in the bleachers erupts into a high, frantic shriek.
I stop walking, my fingers tight on the clipboard.
A man steps out of the vehicle who has the same face as Aston.
Ace looks amazing in a custom-tailored emerald-green suit that catches the sun, almost as well as his blond hair does, his wide Texas grin flashing for the cameras before his feet even hit the carpet. He looks every inch the Offensive Player of the Year nominee, the superstar who loves to be in the spotlight. But as he turns to wave at the bleachers, he reaches back into the vehicle and offers his hand to a gorgeous blonde wearing a proud smile.
Alicia Griffith. Their mom.
My heart does a violent twist against my ribs. I stand behind camera two, completely invisible to the arrival line, my gaze locked onto Ace’s profile as he guides his mom forward with his hand on her back.
Every instinct in my body—the raw hunger for information that has been keeping me away since yesterday—screams at me to step over the velvet rope. To walk right up to Ace and ask him what the hell is going on with his brother.
I can see the faint tension on Ace’s jaw, beneath the polished grin. His posture is guarded as the photographers shout his name.
Don’t do it, Eva.
No, I won’t give Aston the satisfaction of knowing he’s managed to shake me. I won’t minimize my worth by making a spectacle of myself. Fuck him.
“Eva?” my new field producer’s voice crackles in my headset. “Ace Griffith is getting moved toward the main interview platform, but his mother is getting separated to the secondary line. Should we get security over to her?”
I look over at his mother, and she doesn’t look frazzled at all. Sure, her hand hasn’t left Ace’s, but she’s handling the chaos perfectly.
“You can send the talent coordinator from the west platform,” I instruct him. “Keep them together. Frame the shot for the network. They look great. Give them the VIP lane into the auditorium.”
“Coordinator is moving in now.”
I turn my back on the arrival gate, walking away from the brother who has the face of the man who’s breaking my heart. The show is going live in ten minutes, and the cameras don’t care about the empty space on my arm.
I have a job to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
ASTON
My house is relatively dark,except for the glare of my massive television screen above the fireplace, casting flickering shadows throughout the room.
I sit in the center of my couch, my fourth glass of bourbon held between my fingers. I haven’t moved from this spot for hours, other than to refill my glass.
On the screen, the NFL Honors broadcast is reaching its prime-time peak. The auditorium is a sea of glittering gold lights and beautiful people in expensive dresses and suits laughing at the hosts.
The camera cuts away from the stage, sweeping across the front row of nominees. And there he is, sitting next to our mom.
His arm is over the back of her seat, like he’s keeping her safe. She’s wearing a simple blue velvet dress she probably got in Dallas, her eyes shining with the kind of pure pride that only a mother can manage when her boy is on a short list for a major league honor.
A sickening wave of self-loathing hits me square in the gut, so violent it makes me want to puke.
He called me when he got my text, and I sat right here on this couch and let my twin brother down.
