Chapter 15 A Reminder
a reminder
Jax
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I really messed up this time.
That was the first time that I made contact with one of them.
I’ve always verbally lashed out at the paparazzi, I’ve never physically gone after them.
It’s not as if the things they were saying were anything new.
I’ve heard it all before. The one thing that was different was that Morgan was with me. They called our relationship fake.
Two days after the steakhouse fiasco, I’m holed up in my penthouse, the LA skyline mocking me through floor-to-ceiling windows. The city’s glittering, but I’m in the dark—literally and figuratively.
The TV’s off, but I can’t escape the headlines looping in my head:
“Jax the Jerk Strikes Again!”
“Wolves Tight End Loses Cool, Shoves Photographer!”
“Jax Carr, San Francisco’s Hot Head strikes again!”
The paparazzi got their show, and I handed it to them on a silver platter. My phone’s been buzzing nonstop—reporters, teammates, my PR team—but I’ve ignored them all. Especially Morgan.
Her texts sit unread:
Can we talk?
I’m worried about you.
Each one’s a knife in my gut. I’m too ashamed to face her, the one person who’s always seen the best in me, even when I’m at my worst.
I’m sprawled on the leather couch, a half-empty beer sweating on the coffee table, when the intercom buzzes.
I consider ignoring it, but it’s probably Mike, my agent.
He’s been blowing up my phone worse than the tabloids.
Sure enough, his voice crackles through: “Jax, let me up. I’m not leaving till we talk. ”
I groan, dragging myself to the panel to buzz him in.
Mike's been with me since I was a rookie, a gruff ex-linebacker who doesn’t sugarcoat anything.
When he steps off the elevator, he’s all business—gray suit, no tie, his bald head gleaming under the recessed lights.
He takes one look at me—rumpled sweats, unshaven, eyes bloodshot—and shakes his head. “You look like hell, kid.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter, flopping back onto the couch. The penthouse is too big, too quiet without Morgan’s laugh filling it. I can still see her here last week, curled up in my hoodie, sketching logo ideas on her tablet while I watched film. Now, I’ve probably screwed that up for good.
Tony doesn’t sit. He paces, hands on hips, like he’s about to chew me out on the sidelines.
“You’ve seen the news, I assume? Most sports networks have you as the lead story, and it ain’t about your arm.
TMZ’s calling you a liability. The Wolves’ front office is pissed, Jax.
They’re giving you leeway, surprisingly.
What we thought was the end-all last time, wasn’t.
But this, surely is, since you made contact with someone.
Another stunt like this, and they’re talking suspensions. ”
I wince, staring at the hardwood floor. “I didn’t hit the guy. I just... pushed his camera.”
“Yeah, and the internet’s got it on loop,” Mike snaps, pulling out his phone to show me a grainy clip of me lunging at the photographer, Morgan’s desperate tug on my arm in the background. Her face—worried, pleading—cuts deeper than any headline. “You’re lucky he’s not pressing charges. Yet.”
I rub my temples, the shame burning hotter than the anger had that night. “I know I messed up, Mike. Those vultures were all over Morgan, throwing Elena’s name in my face. I just... lost it.”
Mike stops pacing, leaning against the kitchen island. His eyes soften, but only a fraction. “You always lose it, Jax. That’s the problem. You’re a damn good tight end—one of the best I’ve ever seen—but this temper? It’s killing your career. And now it’s hurting her.”
Morgan. I lean forward, elbows on knees, trying to breathe past the guilt.
“She doesn’t deserve this,” I say, voice low.
“She’s not built for my world, all this spotlight crap.
I thought I could protect her, but I just dragged her into the mess.
First with the fake relationship shit, and now this. This is bad.”
Mike finally sits, taking the armchair across from me. He leans forward, hands clasped, like he’s about to impart some ancient wisdom. “You love her, don’t you?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yeah. Always have.” It’s true—Morgan’s been my anchor since we were kids, racing bikes down dirt roads, her braids flying.
She was there when my dad died, she came to all my games in high school, she was at my side when I got drafted, when I doubted myself.
Crossing that line into something more felt like coming home. But now? I’m terrified I’ve ruined it.
“Then why the hell are you avoiding her?” Mike’s voice is sharp, but there’s no judgment, just urgency. “She’s not the one writing those headlines. She’s the one trying to reach you, and you’re ghosting her like some rookie afraid of commitment.”
I flinch, picking at the label on my beer.
“I don’t know what to say to her, man. I saw her face that night—she was scared, trying to pull me back.
I let her down. Again.” My voice cracks, and I hate it.
I’m Jax Carr, a GWL super-star, supposed to be untouchable.
But right now, I’m just the idiot who can’t stop screwing up.
Mike sighs, running a hand over his head. “Listen, kid. I’ve seen you take hits that would’ve flattened most guys. You get up, every time. This? It’s just another hit. But you don’t get up by hiding. You face it. And you start with Morgan.”
I look up, meeting his eyes. They’re steady, like he believes in me, even now. “What do I even say? ‘Sorry I’m a hot-headed jerk’?”
“Start there,” Mike says, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“But you need her for more than just forgiveness, Jax. You need her brain. She’s smart, runs her own business, knows you better than anyone.
Ask her for advice—professionally. How to handle this PR nightmare.
She’s got a stake in this too, now that her name’s in the gossip rags. ”
I hadn’t thought of that. Morgan’s always been my sounding board, even before we were together. Her design pitches are ruthless—sharp, strategic. Maybe she could see a way out of this mess I can’t. “You think she’d even want to help after what I did?”
“She’s still texting you, isn’t she?” Mike counters. “That woman’s tougher than you give her credit for. She’s not running from the spotlight—she’s just waiting for you to show up for her.”
His words hit hard, stirring something in me.
I think of Morgan at the steakhouse, radiant in that dress, laughing over chocolate cake.
Then, her hand on my arm, trying to pull me from the chaos I created.
She didn’t deserve to be collateral damage.
“Okay,” I say finally, my voice steadier.
“I’ll talk to her. But what if she’s done with me? ”
“Then you fight for her,” Mike says simply.
“You don’t throw 400-yard games by giving up.
You want her? You want your career? Then man up, Jax.
Start with an apology—personal, not some scripted press release.
Lay it all out. Then ask for her help. Show her you’re not just the guy who shoves cameras. ”
I nod, the weight of it settling in. “And the media? The team? How do I fix that?”
Tony leans back, crossing his arms. “That’s the long game.
First, you control the narrative. No more outbursts.
You’re gonna do a sit-down interview—someone friendly, like ESPN’s Rebecca Nichols.
Lay out your side, admit you screwed up, show you’re working on it.
Second, you get out in the community. I’m thinking youth sports—volunteer with a local football program, coach some kids, show up for them.
Not just a photo op—real time, real effort.
Fans eat that up, and it’ll remind the Wolves you’re worth keeping. ”
Youth sports. I think back to my own days as a kid, tossing a ball with my dad, dreaming of the GWL.
Those coaches believed in me, gave me purpose.
Maybe I could do that for someone else. “There’s that program in Daly City,” I say, the idea sparking.
“The one for at-risk kids. I could work with them, maybe fund some new equipment.”
Mike’s eyes light up. “Now you’re talking. Get Morgan to help you plan it—she’s got the eye for branding. Make it a thing, Jax. The Jax Carr Youth Football Initiative. Show the world you’re more than a temper.”
I let out a long breath, the first hint of hope breaking through the fog. “Okay. I’ll call her. Tonight.”
“Good.” Mike stands, clapping me on the shoulder. “And shave, for God’s sake. You look like you’re auditioning for a survival show.”
I manage a weak laugh, the first in days. He heads for the elevator, but pauses. “Jax? One more thing. When you talk to Morgan, don’t just apologize. Tell her what she means to you. Women like that—they need to hear it.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with the hum of the city and the weight of his advice.
I grab my phone, scrolling through Morgan’s texts.
Each one’s a lifeline, proof she hasn’t given up.
My thumb hovers over her name, heart pounding like I’m facing a fourth-and-goal. I hit call before I can overthink it.
It rings twice before she picks up. “Jax?” Her voice is soft, cautious, but it’s her, and it’s enough to make my chest ache.
“Hey, Morgs,” I say, throat tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. Can we talk? In person?” I pause, swallowing hard. “I need you—your advice, your... everything. Please.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I hold my breath, praying I haven’t lost her. “Okay,” she says finally. “Come over tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”
Relief floods me, sharp and sweet. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll be there. Seven o’clock.”
When we hang up, I feel lighter, like I can breathe again.
But the work’s just starting. I grab my laptop, pulling up info on that Daly City’s youth program. Tomorrow, after I beg for her forgiveness by groveling, I’ll ask Morgan to help me craft a plan—something real, something that shows the world I’m more than my mistakes.
I’ll volunteer, coach, maybe even fund a new field. And I’ll do that interview, own my screw-up, show I’m trying.
But first, I’ll show up for her.
Because if I can’t fix this with Morgan, none of the rest matters.