Chapter 14 Everything Doesn’t Always go to Plan
everything doesn’t always go to plan
Morgan
I posted a series of photos today. A photo of Jax and I sitting together on the couch at my place, his arm draped over my shoulder, our heads leaning together with lazy smiles.
A photo of my feet hoisted atop stadium seats at Bayside stadium with the Wolves practicing in the background.
A photo of takeout dinner on the floor in front of the fireplace at Jax’s place.
A photo of a dress that I wore to the charity gala a few weeks ago laid out on the bed with a purse, my earrings, and my heels.
A photo of my work desk with piles and piles of folders, notepads, paperwork and pens strategically placedAnd lastly, a photo of me with sunscreen all over my face, with my lips puckering for a kiss for the person taking the photo.
This has been my life the past several days in a nutshell.
I tagged Jax, wrote a cute catchy caption, and within a minute of posting, the post received hundreds of hearts.
It’s overwhelming. I’m famous adjacent because of who I choose to spend time with.
And I can understand how invasive some of that attention could be.
However, having this kind of attention has backfired on me a little at work.
I scored a meeting with a small business and most of the time they spoke to me about hoping for a introduction to Jax.
Another meeting that I had on the books before Jax and I had made everything official, happened and the CEO mentioned my association with Jax, and asked outright if his attitude and bad press would affect their business because of the relationship we had.
Jax made reservations for the two of us for dinner and while we were seated, the candlelight flickered across the polished mahogany table, casting a warm, golden glow that made everything feel like a dream.
I sat across from Jax in the heart of The Prime Cut, one of those iconic steakhouses in downtown San Francisco, where the walls whispered stories of glamour and the air smelled like aged whiskey and sizzling prime rib.
The place was packed, as always—celebrities in discreet booths, power brokers sealing deals over martinis, and us, tucked into a semi-private alcove that still allowed just enough visibility for the purpose of this evening.
Jax had planned it that way. "Let them see us," he'd said earlier, his voice low and conspiratorial as he kissed my forehead. “This thing between us is real now, we’re no longer deceiving anyone.”
I couldn't help but smile at that, even as my heart did a little flip.He looked devastating tonight, in a tailored navy suit that hugged his broad shoulders and athletic frame just right.
His dark hair was tousled in that effortless way, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief as he reached across the table to tangle his fingers with mine.
"You look incredible," he murmured, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my palm.
I was wearing a sleek black dress that dipped low in the back—nothing too flashy, but enough to make me feel sexy under his gaze.
The fabric whispered against my skin as I shifted, hyper-aware of the way his eyes lingered on the curve of my neck.
"Thanks," I replied, my voice softer than I'd intended.
"You clean up pretty well yourself, superstar.
" I teased him with the old nickname, the one I'd used back when he was just the kid throwing spirals in my backyard.
But now, it carried a different weight, laced with the intimacy we'd recently discovered over the past few weeks.
The waiter appeared then, a discreet shadow in the dim light, presenting the menu with a flourish.
We ordered without much fuss—Jax went for the bone-in ribeye, medium-rare, with a side of truffle fries, while I chose the filet mignon, paired with a glass of cabernet that promised notes of black cherry and vanilla.
As the wine arrived, Jax lifted his glass, clinking it gently against mine.
"To us," he said, his voice dropping to that husky timbre that always sent shivers down my spine. "To finally getting it right."
I sipped the wine, letting its richness coat my tongue, and felt a flush creep up my cheeks.
The restaurant hummed around us—soft jazz playing in the background, the clink of silverware, murmured conversations that blended into a romantic symphony.
Crystal chandeliers hung overhead like stars, and the scent of garlic butter and fresh herbs wafted from the kitchen.
It was perfect, this bubble we'd created.
No one approached us outright, but I caught the glances—subtle nods from other diners, a few phones discreetly angled our way.
Jax was used to it; fame came with the territory.
But for me, it was still surreal, this shift from being his invisible sidekick to the woman on his arm.
We talked about everything and nothing, the way we always had.
He regaled me with stories from practice, mimicking his coach's gruff voice until I was laughing so hard I had to dab at my eyes with the linen napkin.
"And then Jameson fumbles the ball like it's coated in butter," he said, grinning.
"I swear, if we don't tighten up, the next few games are gonna be bloodbaths. "
"You're gonna crush it," I assured him, squeezing his hand. "You always do."
The food arrived on steaming plates, the steaks perfectly seared, juices pooling invitingly.
Jax cut into his ribeye with precision, offering me the first bite from his fork.
"Try this," he urged, leaning forward. I accepted, the meat melting in my mouth, rich and savory.
It was intimate, that simple act—feeding each other like lovers in a movie.
His knee brushed mine under the table, a deliberate touch that made my pulse quicken.
We shared sides—a creamy spinach gratin, roasted asparagus drizzled with balsamic—and with each bite, the conversation deepened.
"Tell me about your day," he said, genuinely interested, as if my latest client pitch was as thrilling as a Super Bowl win.
I launched into it, describing the rebranding project for a startup, how I'd spent hours tweaking logos until they felt just right.
He listened, nodding, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You're brilliant, you know that?" he said when I finished.
Coming from him, it meant everything. We'd dreamed together as teens—him on the field, me with my sketchbook.
Now, those dreams were reality, intertwined in ways I'd never imagined.
As dessert arrived—a decadent chocolate lava cake we decided to split—Jax's hand found my thigh under the table, a warm pressure that sent heat pooling in my belly.
"What do you say we get out of here soon?
" he whispered, his breath hot against my ear as he leaned in.
"I have plans for you back at my place."
I bit my lip, desire flickering like the candles.
"Tempting," I whispered back. "But let's savor this a bit longer.
" The truth was, I loved this—the public declaration, the way heads turned when we laughed together.
It was part of why we'd chosen this spot.
Jax's PR team had suggested it: "Show the world you're serious.
Quell those playboy rumors." And it worked.
I felt seen, cherished, in a way that made my chest ache with happiness.
We lingered over coffee, black for him, a latte for me, talking about the future. "Imagine us in ten years," he mused, his fingers tracing patterns on my wrist. "Kids running around, you bossing me around like always."
I laughed, but the image warmed me. "You'd make a great dad. As long as you don't teach them to tackle before they can walk."
His grin was boyish, vulnerable. "With you? I'd do anything right." The sincerity in his voice undid me. This was Jax unfiltered—the man behind the headlines, the one who'd cried in my arms after his dad's funeral, the one who'd fight for every yard on the field and now fought for us.
Finally, as the check arrived—discreetly handled by Jax with a black card—we stood to leave. He helped me with my coat, his hands lingering on my shoulders, pulling me close for a quick kiss that tasted like chocolate and promise. "Ready?" he asked, his arm sliding around my waist.
"Always," I replied, leaning into him. The restaurant staff nodded farewell as we made our way through the dimly lit dining room, the hum of voices fading behind us.
Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of ocean from the nearby coast. Valet attendants scurried, and our limo idled at the curb.
But as the doors swung open, a flash blinded me—then another, and another.
Paparazzi. A swarm of them, at least a dozen, spilling out from behind vans and bushes like cockroaches in the light.
Cameras clicked furiously, shouts erupting in a cacophony.
"Jax! Over here! Why are you pretending to be in a relationship?
" "Morgan, isn’t dating Jax bad for your career?
" "Jax, any comment on the rumors for next year? "
I felt Jax tense beside me, his arm tightening around my waist like a vice. His jaw clenched, that familiar storm brewing in his eyes—the one I'd seen on the field, in post-game interviews when things went south. The post-dinner activity that we were expecting, went south immediately.
"Back off," he growled, his voice low but carrying. I tried to pull him toward the limo, my hand on his arm. "Jax, come on. Let's just go."
But they pressed closer, microphones thrusting forward, flashes popping like fireworks.
"Is she the reason you dumped Elena?" one shouted, referencing his ex, a model who'd made their breakup messy and public.
Someone that he barely dated, but made up a bunch of lies about their relationship anyway.
Jax stopped dead, his body going rigid. "What the hell did you say?" he snarled, turning toward the voice. The crowd surged, sensing blood in the water.
"Jax, no," I whispered urgently, tugging harder. "They're not worth it. Please."
He shook me off gently but firmly, stepping forward. "You vultures have no right," he barked, his face flushing red. "Get out of my face before I make you."
Laughter rippled through the paparazzi—mocking, goading. "Oh, come on, Jax! Give us a show!" another yelled. "We know how you love to throw punches!"
That did it. Jax lunges, shoving a camera out of his way with enough force that the photographer stumbled back.
"I said back off!" he roared. The man caught himself, but not before his equipment clattered to the sidewalk.
Shouts escalated— "Assault!" "Call security!
"—and more flashes erupted, capturing every damning second.
My heart pounded in my ears as I grabbed Jax's sleeve again, pulling with all my strength.
"Stop! Jax, please, you're making it worse!
" Panic clawed at me; I could see the headlines already: "Jax Attacks Paparazzi—Again!
" And me, caught in the crossfire, the innocent girlfriend trying to rein in the beast.
He whirled on me for a split second, eyes wild, before regret flashed across his face.
But it was too late. The photographer was yelling about pressing charges, others filming the chaos on their phones.
Security from the restaurant finally emerged, pushing the crowd back, but the damage was done.
Jax's reputation, already tarnished, would take another hit.
And us? This perfect night shattered like glass.
The valet pulled Jax’s car up to the curb. "Get in the car," Jax muttered, guiding me toward the limo with a hand on my back. His touch, once tender, now felt brusque, laced with frustration. I slid inside, my dress catching on the door, and he followed, slamming it shut behind us.
He pulled away, tires screeching slightly as he navigated the frenzy. Silence hung heavy between us, broken only by Jax's heavy breathing. He ran a hand through his hair, staring out the window at the receding lights. "I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice rough. "They just... they push too far."
I nodded, but tears pricked my eyes. I'd tried to pull him away, to protect what we had, but the jerk in him—the one fueled by fame and fury—had won out. Again. "I know," I whispered, reaching for his hand. But as the city blurred past, I wondered if our new love could survive the old demons.