Chapter 3 The Worst Possible Idea
T he worst ideas were never loud at first.
They did not kick down doors or announce themselves with sirens.
They arrived carefully.
Professionally.
With polished slides, calm voices, and people using words like strategy when what they really meant was disaster.
Lena learned that five minutes after the meeting ended, when Talia Morgan caught her outside the athletics conference room and said, “Walk with me.”
Nothing good ever started with walk with me.
Not in athletics.
Not in crisis management.
Not when Nico Reyes had just stormed out of a room looking like he would rather throw himself into traffic than become anyone’s rebranding project.
Lena tucked her laptop against her chest and followed Talia down the hallway.
Around them, the athletic building hummed with normal morning chaos.
Trainers moved between rooms with clipboards.
A basketball player laughed too loudly near the vending machines.
Someone’s sneakers squeaked against the polished floor.
Life kept moving.
That always felt rude during a crisis.
Talia pushed open the door to the media room, waited for Lena to step inside, then closed it behind them.
The room smelled like coffee, printer ink, and the faint plastic heat of ring lights. A Westbridge backdrop leaned against the far wall. Two tripods stood near the window. A whiteboard displayed Lena’s neat handwriting from last week’s content calendar.
MONDAY: Player spotlight.
TUESDAY: Doubles practice reel.
WEDNESDAY: Youth clinic teaser.
Simple things.
Safe things.
Before Nico Reyes became a headline with cheekbones.
Talia set her tablet on the desk and faced Lena. “I need you to be honest with me.”
Lena almost laughed.
People only asked for honesty when they were about to punish you for giving it.
“Okay,” she said.
“Could it work?”
Lena already knew what she meant.
That was the problem.
She had known from the second the idea entered the conference room and everyone looked at her without saying her name.
A relationship angle.
Someone trusted.
Someone wholesome.
Someone connected to the program.
Could it work?
Yes.
That was the terrible part.
Lena looked toward the window overlooking the practice courts. From here, she could see Court Three, empty now except for a basket of balls near the baseline. The morning sun made the white lines almost painfully bright.
“It could shift the conversation,” she said carefully.
Talia nodded once, like she had expected that answer. “How much?”
“If handled well?” Lena pressed her lips together. “A lot.”
“Explain.”
Lena hated how quickly her brain obeyed.
She could see the campaign already, and she hated herself a little for it.
“Nico’s current public image is isolated, angry, unpredictable,” she said. “People are reading him as a threat because the only emotional context they have is aggression. If he’s publicly connected to someone perceived as safe and stable, it complicates the narrative.”
Talia watched her closely. “Someone like you.”
Lena’s stomach tightened.
There it was.
Not implied.
Not floating around the room like smoke.
Said plainly.
Someone like you.
“I’m Coach Hart’s daughter,” Lena said.
“Exactly.”
“And I work with the program.”
“Unofficially.”
Lena gave her a look.
Talia sighed. “Semi-officially.”
“My father would lose his mind.”
“Your father already lost his mind. He’s just doing it quietly.”
Despite everything, Lena almost smiled.
Almost.
Then she remembered Nico’s face when Talia mentioned the idea. The disgust in his eyes. The way he had looked at Lena like she had personally placed him on a shelf and stuck a clearance sticker on his chest.
“He would never agree to it,” Lena said.
“Nico?”
“Obviously.”
Talia leaned one hip against the desk. “Nico may not have the luxury of refusing.”
Lena did not like that.
She did not like the truth of it either.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?” she asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“Talia.”
“I’m asking whether you would consider helping if the department decides this is the best path forward.”
Lena stared at her.
Helping.
Such a clean word.
It made everything sound noble.
As if pretending to date a player under her father’s authority would not turn her life into a campus bonfire.
As if people would not call her desperate, manipulative, privileged, unprofessional, na?ve, or worse.
As if her father would not look at her with that particular brand of disappointment that made her feel twelve years old and too loud in a room full of adults.
And Nico.
Nico would hate her.
He already might.
“This could destroy my credibility,” Lena said.
“It could also establish it.”
That landed.
Talia knew exactly where to press.
Lena looked down at the laptop in her arms. Her reflection stared back from the dark screen. Smooth hair. Soft makeup. Pretty cardigan. The kind of girl donors trusted with table assignments and Instagram captions.
Not crisis.
Not strategy.
Not pressure.
Just Coach Hart’s sweet daughter.
A useful smile in a tennis skirt.
“You think if this works, people will take me seriously?” Lena asked.
“I think if this works, no one will be able to pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Lena hated that her heart answered before her common sense did.
Because she wanted that.
Badly.
She wanted to be seen in the room before she was useful in it. She wanted her father to look at her once, just once, like she was not a little girl standing too close to grown-up business. She wanted someone to say, Lena handled that, and mean it.
But wanting was dangerous.
Wanting always asked for payment.
The door opened without a knock.
Nico Reyes stepped in.
Of course.
Because apparently the universe had decided subtlety was overrated.
He stopped when he saw them.
His gaze moved from Talia to Lena, then to the whiteboard, then back to Talia.
“No,” he said.
Talia blinked. “You don’t know what we’re discussing.”
Nico’s eyes cut to Lena. “I can guess.”
Lena lifted her chin. “Do you always enter rooms like doors personally offended you?”
“Do you always plan people’s lives on whiteboards?”
“I prefer color-coded spreadsheets.”
His mouth twitched.
Barely.
So fast she might have imagined it.
Then it was gone, swallowed by that familiar hard line of his jaw.
Talia straightened. “Nico, good. We need to talk.”
“No, you need to talk. I need to practice.”
“You are not practicing until Coach Hart clears it.”
His face shut down.
There it was again.
That one invisible blow.
Scholarship. Team status. Future.
The words did not need to be said every time to hurt him.
Talia softened her voice by half an inch. “Sit down.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Nico.”
“I said I’ll stand.”
Lena set her laptop on the table with more force than necessary. “Fine. Stand dramatically. It’s very on-brand.”
His eyes swung to her.
Dark.
Annoyed.
Too alive.
“Is that what I am now?” he asked. “A brand?”
“No. You’re a disaster with legs.”
Talia coughed once.
Nico stared at Lena.
“You always this charming when you’re trying to help?”
“Only with people who make it difficult.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“You keep saying that like consequences care about consent.”
That shut him up.
Not for long, probably.
But long enough for the words to sit between them.
Talia stepped in before they could turn the room into a second viral incident. “Nico, the department is considering a controlled narrative strategy.”
His expression turned flat. “You mean the fake girlfriend thing.”
Lena’s stomach dipped.
Hearing him say it out loud was worse.
Fake girlfriend.
It sounded cheap.
Ridiculous.
Like something that belonged in a gossip post, not a room with university letterhead and scholarship consequences.
Talia did not flinch. “A temporary relationship narrative.”
Nico gave a humorless laugh. “That sounds even worse.”
“It would be structured,” Talia said. “Limited. Public-facing. No actual personal obligation beyond appearances and cooperation.”
His gaze stayed on Lena. “And she agreed?”
“I haven’t,” Lena said.
“But you thought about it.”
Her silence answered before she could.
Something ugly moved across his face.
Not anger.
Hurt, maybe.
Which made no sense, because he barely knew her.
He looked away first.
“Unbelievable.”
Lena folded her arms. “You think I want this?”
“I think you want a win.”
The accuracy of that stung.
Her smile appeared before she gave it permission.
Bright.
Polished.
Horrible.
“And I think you want to keep your scholarship,” she said.
Nico went very still.
Talia’s eyes flicked between them but she said nothing.
Lena regretted the words the second she saw his face.
Not because they were untrue.
Because they were naked.
And Nico Reyes looked like he hated being seen without armor.
His voice dropped. “Careful.”
The warning should have made her back down.
Instead, it made her step closer.
“I am being careful,” she said quietly. “That’s the point. You are one meeting away from being benched, maybe worse. The clip is moving faster than anything we can put out. If we don’t give people another story, they’ll keep the one they already have.”
“I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not.”
“No one is asking you to.”
His laugh was sharp. “That is exactly what you’re asking.”
“No,” Lena said. “I’m asking you to let people see something besides the worst nine seconds of you.”
Nico’s eyes locked on hers.
For one second, the media room felt too small.
Too warm.
Too full of things neither of them wanted to admit.
Talia picked up her tablet. “I’m going to give you two a minute.”
Lena looked at her. “What?”
Nico said, “Absolutely not.”
Talia ignored both of them with the calm of a woman who had survived football scandals, donor meltdowns, and one very public mascot lawsuit.
“No yelling,” she said. “No threats. No furniture damage.”
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
Lena and Nico stared at each other.
“Well,” Lena said. “This is comfortable.”