4 damage control
I don't usually check my phone before school.
There's a system to mornings—get up, get ready, get out, don't waste time on things that don't matter. It keeps everything simple, predictable, and quiet in a way that works.
Today breaks that system before I even sit up.
My phone lights up again on my nightstand, vibrating just enough to make ignoring it impossible. Notifications stack across the screen faster than I can read them—messages, tags, missed calls, names I recognize and a lot I don't.
I stare at it for a second, already knowing what I'm going to see. Still, I pick it up.
The video is everywhere.
Not just one version—every version. Different angles, edits, slow-motion clips with dramatic music like this was planned instead of something that happened in the span of five seconds. Every caption turns it into something bigger, something with a story attached to it.
And I'm in all of them.
"Great," I mutter, dragging a hand over my face.
A message from Declan comes through before I can even scroll.
I don't respond.
I sit up straighter. That's not what happened.
The video loads before I can stop it.
I watch it for exactly three seconds before locking my phone again.
I toss my phone onto the bed and get up before he can send anything else. There's no version of this morning where I get ahead of it. It's already out, already moving, already turning into something I didn't sign up for.
By the time I get downstairs, my parents have seen it.
Of course they have.
Mom is standing at the counter with her phone in her hand, expression caught somewhere between amused and trying not to show it. Dad sits at the table like he's reviewing game footage instead of watching his son's life turn into content.
"That's you," he says, glancing up.
"I'm aware."
Mom sets her phone down, studying me. "Do you know her?"
"No."
The answer comes too fast to sound convincing, even though it's true.
She raises an eyebrow. "You don't usually let strangers get that close."
"I didn't let her," I reply. "It just happened."
Dad leans back slightly, considering that. "Looked pretty intentional."
"It wasn't."
Mom's mouth curves just enough to be noticeable. "Well, intentional or not, it's getting attention."
"I noticed."
She crosses her arms. "Your coach called."
That tracks.
"Practice early," she adds. "He wants to talk to you before school."
I nod once. "Yeah. That makes sense."
Dad taps his fingers lightly against the table. "Handle it the right way."
"I will."
Even if I'm still figuring out what that actually means.
?
The locker room is louder than usual.
Not the normal kind of loud—music, talking, the steady rhythm of guys getting ready—but something sharper, more focused. Conversations cut off when I walk in, then start up again a second later like nothing happened.
It lasts about three seconds.
"Hey," someone calls out. "Penalty box legend."
I drop my bag onto the bench. "Don't."
Declan appears next to me like he's been waiting for his moment. "You're trending."
"I don't care."
"You should. There are edits."
"I'm not watching them."
"You already did."
"That was yesterday."
He leans against the locker, completely at ease. "So what's the plan?"
"There is no plan."
"That's not a plan."
"I didn't ask for one."
"You need one," he says, like it's obvious.
Before I can respond, Coach walks in.
Everything shifts instantly.
"Jackson," he says, not raising his voice but not needing to. "Office."
I grab my stick and follow him out without arguing.
His office is quiet, controlled, everything in it placed with purpose. He doesn't sit, which is never a good sign.
"You want to explain what happened last night?" he asks.
"It was nothing," I say. "A fan got carried away."
His expression doesn't change. "That's your version."
"It's the only version."
He watches me for a moment, weighing that. "You know why this is a problem?"
"Because it's distracting."
"Because it's everywhere," he corrects. "And now it's attached to you, which means it's attached to the team."
I nod slightly. "It won't happen again."
"That's not the point," he says. "The point is what happens next."
I wait.
"People think there's something there," he continues.
"There isn't."
"That's not what it looks like."
"I can't control that."
"No," he agrees. "But you can control how it's handled."
There's a pause where I know he expects more, but I don't have anything better to give him.
Finally, he exhales. "Find out who she is."
I frown. "Why?"
"Because right now, she's part of the story whether you like it or not," he says. "And if you don't get ahead of it, it keeps growing."
"That sounds dramatic."
"That sounds realistic."
I don't argue.
"Keep it contained," he adds. "No more surprises."
"Got it."
"Good."
Conversation over.
?
Practice doesn't fix anything.
If anything, it makes it worse. Every comment, every joke, every look that lingers a second too long—it all adds up until the entire thing feels louder than it actually is.
Declan falls into step beside me as we head out. "So," he says, stretching his arms overhead, "we tracking her down or what?"
"I don't need to track her down."
"You kind of do," he replies. "Coach literally told you to."
"I'll figure it out."
"You don't even know her name."
I don't answer that.
Declan glances at me, then smirks. "I do."
I stop walking. "What?"
"Riley texted me," he says, like this isn't important information he should've led with.
That clicks faster than I want it to.
"Of course she did."
"She knows the girl," he continues. "They're friends."
I run a hand through my hair, already putting it together. Riley doesn't just know random people. If she's saying that, it means this isn't as random as I thought.
"She goes here?" I ask.
"No," Declan says. "Other school. Riley knows her."
That makes more sense.
A different school explains the jersey, the attitude, the complete lack of hesitation. No built-in reason to care about how any of this looks here.
I nod once. "So Riley can get me to her."
Declan's grin sharpens. "Oh, this just got interesting."
"It's not interesting."
"It is for me."
We step out into the parking lot, heat already rising off the pavement even though it's still early. Phoenix doesn't do subtle, especially not in the morning.
I unlock my car and toss my bag into the backseat.
Declan leans against the door, arms crossed. "So what's the move when you see her again?"
I pause, hand resting on the handle.
For a second, I picture her exactly where I left her—sitting there like she belonged, wearing my name like it didn't mean anything, looking at me like none of this was a big deal.
Like I wasn't a big deal.
Then I think about the video. The way it looked.
The way it didn't look like nothing.
"I don't know," I admit.
Declan raises his eyebrows. "That's new."
"Don't get used to it."
He pushes off the car, still smiling. "Let me know when you figure it out. I want front row seats."
"Yeah," I say, sliding into the driver's seat. "I'm sure you do."
As the engine starts, my phone buzzes again.
Another notification. Another tag. Another reminder that this isn't going away.
And if I'm going to deal with it—
I'm going to have to find her first.