I haul my duffel bag over my shoulder and step out of the passenger side, turning back to look at my brother through the open window. The lingering weight that had shadowed every single one of our conversations for the past six months is entirely gone, replaced by the easy, unspoken rhythm of two brothers.
"Don't make me fly down here to drag your ass north for avisit," I tell him, letting a familiar, teasing smirk settle on my face as I rest a hand on the door frame.
Ace chuckles, resting his forearm on the window track, his eyes clear and steady. "I promise I’ll come up. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you and make sure Texas stays in your heart too.”
I give him a nod, my chest tightening with a deep, quiet gratitude as I slap my hand twice against the side of his truck. "Texas forever, brother. See you soon, Ace."
"Safe flight," Ace replies, his smile widening as he shifts into gear. "Go get home to your girl."
Turning toward the stairs of the plane, I feel the warm sun on my back and a profound, unshakeable peace settling deep in my chest. My family is okay, and for the first time in my life, I feel like every single path I’ve taken has led me exactly where I want to be—straight home to Eva.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
TWO MONTHS LATER
EVA
The high,isolated glass of the master control room always feels like my personal sanctuary, but today it’s the staging ground for a minor tactical coup.
I sit back in my rolling chair, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, my eyes locked onto the glowing matrix of monitors on the wall. On monitor four, Aston is sitting in the hot seat of the primary interview studio across from Sam, looking imposing and entirely too confident in his crisp team polo. He’s rolling his shoulders, completely unaware that his twin brother has set a trap he has no chance of escaping.
My phone buzzes on the console right beside my clipboard. I pick it up, smiling at the text message that just popped up from his twin.
Ace: Please tell me he’s sitting there looking smug.
Eva: He’s rolling his shoulders like he owns the network. Initiating the script now. You should be live on your feed. Let me know if you have any issues, but we’ll get it on tape too.
Ace: Beautiful. Make him say the words, Carrington.
"Eva, the studio feed is secure," Stan, my technical director, chuckles from the desk beside me, glancing over at my phone screen. "Sam has the direct earpiece feed to your console. We are completely cleared to begin."
"Let's run it," I say, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across my face as I lean into my microphone. I press the talkback button, my voice ringing clearly into Sam's earpiece down on the floor. "You're a go in three, Sam. Let's start with the legacy angle."
Down on the studio floor, Sam adjusts her blazer, looks directly up at the control room glass, and gives me a subtle, sharp nod. Then she turns a brilliant, professional smile toward Aston.
"We’re here with All-Pro defensive lineman Aston Griffith in an exclusive interview," Sam's voice booms through our master audio track. "Aston, thank you for joining us today.
“Happy to be here, Sam.” Aston smiles politely.
“Aston, looking back at your developmental years, analysts often point to your explosive first step. If you had to identify the exact environment that forced you to develop that kind of quickness off the line, what would it be?"
Aston leans forward, resting his large forearms on his knees, his deep voice carrying that effortless, charismatic rumble. "Well, Sam, when you grow up sharing a house with five brothers, you have to be fast. If you're slow to the point of attack, you don't get the standard results. You learn to move, or you get left behind, or you get the hard chores.”
I hit the talkback button instantly. "Take him to the backyard, Sam."
"Fascinating," Sam picks up smoothly, not missing a beat. "And speaking of your family household—statistically, during those high-stakes backyard drills, when you were forced to match that explosive first step against an elite, multi-directional athlete like your twin brother, Ace ... who actually won the majority of those reps?"
Aston blinks. The confident smile on his face faltering for a fraction of a second. He clears his throat, shifting his massive frame slightly in his chair.
"Well ... Ace did come out of the womb three minutes earlier," Aston says, smiling, but his voice drops into a slightly defensive tone. "But if we're talking pure win percentage on the grass behind the house, his layout was tough to beat. He usually took the reps."
I chuckle, checking off the first box on my clipboard. I tap my mic again. "Perfect. Now let's hit him with the conditioning threshold."
Sam smiles warmly, leaning in. "Let's pivot to endurance. Your current defensive coordinator praises your high-motor consistency in the fourth quarter. But historically, if we look at the high school records in your hometown, someone in the Griffith family holds the absolute record for the three-mile shuttle and the vertical leap. For the fans at home, can you clarify who owns those athletic benchmarks?"
Aston’s eyes narrow slightly. He looks up toward the dark glass of the control booth, his gaze tracking exactly where I’m sitting. I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he realizes the invisible strings are being pulled.
"That would be Ace," Aston says, his voice dropping into a tighter, distinctly forced register. "He had a slightly different biometric layout, even for a twin. His vertical was ... elevated."
