How to Survive Your Own Scandal （Spoiler You Don’t）
How to Survive Your Own Scandal (Spoiler: You Don’t)
Cohen
The press room looks like a brightly lit morgue.
Too white, too many microphones, too many eyes.
And I, who wanted to avoid being seen by anyone for at least three lifetimes, am sitting behind a table with the club logo at my back and three men in suits pretending they don’t hate me.
Nate told me to arrive sober, shaved, and with a trustworthy expression.
I managed two out of three.
“Remember,” he whispers near my ear, “no jokes. No sarcasm. No truth.”
“Perfect,” I mumble. “So I just breathe.”
“Pretty much.”
In front of us, a thicket of journalists.
Cameras, notebooks, phones recording every little movement.
The air smells of electrical cords and the sweat of people who are just waiting for a live breakdown.
The Director of Communications begins to speak, his voice formal:
“We thank everyone for attending. Mr. Becker wishes to release a brief statement regarding recent events.”
Translation: showtime, act one.
I lean toward the microphone.
Nate hands me a sheet of paper. His green eyes stare at me, further recommending I don’t mess up.
I look at him in turn. He runs a hand through his perfectly combed hair.
I read the paper in my mind. The lines. Words I didn't write.
I take full responsibility for my actions. I apologize to my teammates, the club, and the fans for the negative image I have projected.
I think I'd rather shoot myself in the foot. At least I could say that in my own words.
I inhale. I read. I feel every syllable like glass in my mouth.
Silence.
A couple of flashes.
Then the questions start pouring in.
“Cohen, has the woman in the video been identified?”
“Was she a fan? An escort? An acquaintance?”
“Do you plan to take legal action?”
“Did the club impose a media blackout?”
“Do you feel remorseful?”
The word remorseful hits me like a bitter laugh. Nate bumps my knee under the table, signaling, don’t open your mouth.
But I open it anyway.
“I’m human,” I say quietly. “Sometimes humans make mistakes.”
A murmur.
“And what was the mistake, Mr. Becker?”
“Letting someone photograph me while I was doing nothing that everyone else doesn’t do.”
Nate nearly falls off his chair.
The coach glares at me.
The cameras go wild.
“Excuse me, what did you mean by—”
“I meant,” I cut him off, “that I won’t be speaking further. The rest is my business.”
The Director scrambles to close the conference. Fake applause. Overlapping questions. An orchestrated hell.
Just backstage, Nate grabs my arm.
“I told you no sarcasm!”
“It wasn’t sarcasm.”
“It was career suicide.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. I know what they wanted from me. Well, they won't get it.
I'm not a complete idiot and I don't want to throw my career away... but I can't look at the cameras and call that girl a mistake.
Sure, I don’t know who she is.
I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again… most likely not, considering she vanished without a trace, but I’m not that kind of jerk.
She gave me the best night of my life, and I’m not going to trash her in front of the whole world.
I shrug off my jacket and walk into the corridor, the spotlights still in my eyes.
Outside the room, I can hear the buzz of journalists already posting, tagging, commenting.
Every word I said is already everywhere.
I slip into the restroom down the hall, close the door, and let the hum of the neon light cover my breathing.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Perfect hair, trimmed beard, look of… despair.
A caricature.
I splash water on my face.
The cold water doesn’t help.
Two weeks ago, I had everything under control.
Or so I thought.
Now my future depends on how many sponsors decide not to bail.
How many people decide I’m an athlete, or just another asshole with too much money.
I let the water run through my fingers.
I feel my phone vibrating in my pants pocket—notifications, calls, articles.
I don’t look at it.
It’s enough to know that everyone out there is talking about me.
And no one, not one person, really knows who the fuck I am.
The conference ended twenty minutes ago, and I can still hear the sound of the flashes in my ears.
Nate is literally dragging me into the coach’s office, and I already know this won’t be a conversation.
It’ll be a funeral.
Julian Heart is standing behind his desk, face crimson, the veins in his neck throbbing like he needs an immediate sedative.
He slams a file onto the table as I walk in.
“Do you realize what the fuck you’ve done?”
“Morning to you too, Coach.”
“Don’t get smart, Becker! You just turned an apology press conference into a monologue by a remorseless arrogant prick!”
I lean against the table. “I’m not arrogant. And I have no remorse. I just told the truth.”
“Fuck, Cohen!” Nate intervenes, his voice tight. “The truth is useless if everyone thinks you’re an asshole!”
“Let them think what they want. They had already decided, hadn't they?”
The coach whips around to face Nate, as if he doesn’t even want to address me directly.
“Didn’t you give him clear instructions?”
“Coach—” Nate tries, but he silences him with a gesture.
Heart takes a step forward, and this time he glares right at me. “You don’t get it. We lost two more sponsors just in the last few hours. Two! The club is already in crisis after the crap you guys keep pulling, and you—you just delivered the final blow.”
I run a hand over the back of my neck, trying to stay calm.
“I’m sorry for the club. But I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t offend anyone, I didn’t lie, and I’m not going to trash that girl just to look like a saint.”
“I’m not asking you to look like a saint. You couldn’t look like one even with the goddamn World Cup in your hand!”
Silence.
Only the hum of the air conditioner and my heavy breathing.
“You know what the problem is, Becker?” he finally says, his voice low. “It’s not just what you did. It’s how you did it. People no longer see you as a player. They see you as a problem to be managed. And I’m tired of having to put band-aids on your image every time you open your mouth.”
I feel the urge to respond, but Nate cuts me off.
“Coach, let me say something, okay? We talked to the PR department. They’re trying to find a way to limit the damage. And that idea I mentioned earlier is on the table.”
“Ah, here it comes,” I mumble. “The brilliant idea.”
Coach Heart crosses his arms. “Two options, Becker. The first: we suspend you. Contract frozen. End of story.”
“Great, and the second?”
“The second,” Nate continues, “is that you stay on leave… but you participate in a media project that the club is sponsoring for a charity foundation.”
I look between the two of them. “A media project?”
The coach inhales. He doesn’t look thrilled by the idea. “A TV show. It’s called Love Goals.”
Oh, I see.
I smile, incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me? The problem is all the gossip about me, and you want to put me on a TV show?”
Nate scratches his forehead. “It’s for charity. It helps kids and sports schools. Valentine’s Day, lighthearted, positive stuff. You need it to project a different image.”
I burst out laughing. “I can donate to charity myself. There’s no way I’m participating in something like that.”
Heart slams his fist on the desk. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don't have all the funds they're going to raise. Either this or you’re out!”
The sound echoes in my gut.
“Out?”
“You heard me. The club can no longer afford to defend you. Either you agree to be seen as a human being with a shred of heart, or you can find another team. And right now, I guarantee no one would take you.”
I put a hand to my face, exasperated. “Coach, I can’t do a show about love. I can’t even handle a relationship with my washing machine.”
“You better learn,” he snaps. “You have six months to do it.”
“Six months?”
“It airs in January, when everyone is waiting for Valentine’s Day.”
“Jesus Christ… and what am I supposed to do for that long off the team?”
Nate tries to lighten the mood. “Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. You could spin it as a redemption arc. And besides—”
“—and besides what? I become the poster boy for eternal love? No thanks. Love is a short-term contract, and I never sign for more than a year.”
Heart stares at me. “I don’t care if you believe in love. You need a woman. A stable, and for heaven's sake, lasting relationship. You need to stop getting caught with just anyone.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Well, technically it would be worse if you were dead, at least this way we can still use you for charity.”
I look at him, incredulous. “Is that a threat or an attempt at dark humor?”
“Both.”
Nate sighs, his voice calmer. “Cohen, listen. You need a reset. Something to take away that irresponsible player aura. The show is perfect. There's also a major sponsor interested in investing. It could save all of us.”
Ah, there it is. It wasn't just about that, obviously. “Sponsor, PR, charity… but no one asks if I want to do it?”
The coach tilts his head, glacial. “You want your career to continue.”
I stand up, pushing the chair back. “I don’t believe this. They want me to play the part of the man in love to clean up the club’s image? I’m not the type.”
Heart adjusts his jacket, calm as if he’s already won.
“That’s precisely the problem.”
I turn to Nate, looking for a shred of solidarity.
Nate shrugs, almost apologetic.
“Are you serious?” I say. “I even have to find a woman?”
Julian Heart leans on the desk. “Yes. Real, if possible. And reliable. Someone who makes you look less… Cohen Becker.”
“And where exactly am I supposed to find her? Tinder?”
He smiles slightly, but it’s a smile that promises nothing good.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “I can help you with that.”
I freeze.
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
Nate stares at me. “Dude… I know it doesn’t seem like it, but we’re trying to help you.”
Yeah, great friend and a shit manager.
Then, Heart brings everything back to the unfriendly zone. “Actually, you did sign up for this.”
He points to the line in my contract that says: commits to the well-being of the team blah blah blah.
Then ten lines down: commits not to refuse any major sponsor.
Fantastic.
Hell, apparently, is sugar-coated pink and disguised as a charity.
Group: LAKEWOOD LOCKER ROOM ???? (Minus One) (The "Minus One" is me, so funny).
Turbo (Tayler): So? Are you alive or should we start dividing up your locker stuff? I call dibs on the new shin guards.
Blaze (Liam): I heard the Coach’s screaming from the parking lot. My car windows were shaking.
Me: You guys are vultures.
Doc (Harrison): Jokes aside. Sentence?
Me: "Leave." Indefinite. Or until I stop being a "walking image liability."
The Wall (Derek): Fuck. So you’re out?
Turbo (Tayler): "Leave." Sounds like maternity leave. Congrats, Mama Becker! ??
Saint (Javier): Cut it out, Tay. Cohen, I’m sorry. If you need to talk...
Me: I need a miracle. Or a lobotomy. They gave me an ultimatum.
Blaze (Liam): What kind of ultimatum? Do you have to clean the stadium toilets with your tongue?
Me: Worse.
Me: I have to find a "stable relationship." And play the good guy for the press. And participate in a Valentine’s Day piece of crap.
Turbo (Tayler): ...
The Wall (Derek): ...
Doc (Harrison): ...
Turbo (Tayler): HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Turbo (Tayler): You are so fucked.
Blaze (Liam): A stable relationship? You? The last stable thing you had was the titanium plate in your ankle.
Doc (Harrison): It was nice knowing you, man. That’s impossible. You don't have the right facial muscles for a reassuring smile.
Me: Thanks for the support. I hate you.
Turbo (Tayler): Don't worry, we’ll send you postcards from the stadium. You have fun playing house. ??
Saint (Javier): Good luck, man. I hope they drop this soon.