Apology Tacos
Morgan
The headlines were everywhere—splashed across every sports blog, gossip rag, and even the local news app that I swore I'd delete but never did.
"Jax Carr: From Gridiron Hero to Paparazzi Puncher?" one screamed.
Another: "Football Bad Boy Assaults Photographer—Girlfriend Morgan Caught in the Crossfire."
Great.
Just freaking great.
My business, which I'd built from late-night coffee runs and schmoozing picky business owners, was now tainted by association.
Clients are definitely googling me right now, wondering if hiring the girlfriend of a hot-headed tight end was worth the drama, if any of my most recent meetings can attest to proof.
It all started innocently enough—or as innocent as a fake-dating scheme with your childhood best friend could be.
His agent, Mike, pitched the idea: fake girlfriend to clean up his "jerk to the media" rep.
But somewhere between the staged charity events and late night ice cream dates and that heartfelt night in the park where he confessed it was real for him, it became us. For real. And now this.
The paparazzi incident? Classic Jax. What we had hoped would be a perfect photo opportunity after dinner turned into something completely different when some sleazy photog shoved a camera in my face, yelling questions about our "fake romance.
" Jax lunged— not a full tackle, thank God, but enough to push the guy's camera.
It clattered to the sidewalk, lens cracking like an egg.
No punches thrown, but the damage was done.
Viral video, countless headlines, and Jax's already tarnished rep as the guy who once told a reporter to "shove it where the sun don't shine" was now cemented in stone.
I'd been blowing up his phone since it happened yesterday.
Texts: "Call me." Voicemails: "Jax, we need to talk. This affects me too."
Radio silence. He’s avoiding everyone—team, media, me. Probably holed up in his condo, brooding like a bear with a thorn in its paw until last night when he called asking if we could see one another tonight.
The doorbell ring, jolting me from my pity party. I peek through the peephole, my heart doing that stupid flip it always does around him. Jax stands there, looking like a kicked puppy in jeans and a hoodie, holding a bag from my favorite taco truck down the street.
Apology tacos. Of course.
Because nothing said "sorry for tanking our lives" like carnitas.
I yank the door open, arms crossed like a fortress. "Well, look who decided to emerge from his cave. You know, ignoring my calls is a great way to keep this relationship thriving."
He winces, those green eyes—usually cocky and flirty—now filled with genuine remorse. "Morgan... I know. I'm an idiot. Can I come in? Please?"
I step aside, but not before shooting him a glare that could wilt flowers and stop a heart. "Only because those tacos smell like forgiveness. But don't think food fixes this, Carr."
He follows me into the living room, setting the bag on the coffee table with the care of someone defusing a bomb.
My cozy townhome felt smaller with him in it—all six-foot-four of pro-football muscle taking up space on my couch.
He sat on the edge, hands clasped like he was in confession.
"I screwed up. Big time. That pap guy—he was all over you, yelling crap about our relationship being fake. I just... snapped."
"Snapped?" I echoed, pacing in front of him.
"Jax, you lunged at him! Pushed his camera right out of his hands.
It fell, broke—boom, headlines. 'Jax the Jerk Strikes Again.
' And guess who's right there in the photos? Me. Your best-friend-turned-fake-girlfriend-turned-real-one. I’ve had two recent meetings asking if my relationship was going to be a negative conflict with their business already.
Clients are canceling consultations left and right, whispering about 'drama magnets. '"
He rubs his face, looking exhausted. "I know. Mike called me out on it too. Said I was letting my rep ruin everything good in my life—including you. He convinced me to stop hiding and face this. Face you."
Mike, the agent extraordinaire. The guy who'd orchestrated our fake dating to begin with, turning Jax's bad-boy image into something redeemable.
"Good for Mike. At least someone's got sense.
But Jax, if we're committed—really in this—you can't act out like that.
We're a team now. Not just on the field, but off it.
Talk to me next time. Or count to ten. Or hell, throw a football at a wall. Anything but lunging at paps."
"You're right," he says, voice low and rough. "My temper's always been my Achilles' heel. Media's painted me as a jerk for years—snippy interviews, that one time I flipped off a heckler. But this? It was about protecting you.”
I stop pacing, sinking onto the armchair across from him.
Apprehension twisted in my gut like a pretzel.
Part of me wanted to kick him out, make him stew.
But the bigger part—the one that remembered bike rides as kids, sharing secrets under that giant oak tree, and the way he'd confessed his love at our recreated picnic—saw the vulnerability.
Jax wasn't just a pro baller; he was my Jax. Flawed, fiery, but trying.
"Stupid is right," I mutter, but my tone softened. "But... I get it. Kinda. Those paps are vultures. Still, we have to be smarter. For us. For my business. For your career."
He nods, leaning forward. "I promise. No more lunging. I’ve got an appointment to discuss anger management with a therapist. And I'll issue a public apology. Whatever it takes."
The sincerity hit me like a warm wave. I sigh, uncrossing my arms. "Fine. Apology accepted. But this is your warning, buddy. Next time, I'm the one lunging—at you."
His lips twitch into a small smile, those dimples that melt me, making an appearance. "Deal. Now, can we eat? These tacos are getting cold, and groveling on an empty stomach is torture."
I roll my eyes but grabbed the bag, unwrapping a carnitas masterpiece dripping with salsa verde.
We ate in semi-awkward silence at first, the crunch of tortillas the only sound.
But as the flavors hit—spicy, tangy, perfect—the tension eased.
Jax watched me, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"So," I said around a mouthful, "what's next? Besides damage control and me fielding calls from nosy reporters?"
He set his taco down, wiping his hands. A thoughtful look crossed his face, the one he got when scheming plays or, apparently, life changes.
"Actually, something good. Or at least, something I hope turns good.
With all this bad press, Mike thinks I need a positive spin.
So, I've been thinking about starting a youth football program.”
I perked up, my PR brain kicking in despite the drama. "Mentoring, football clinics?"
"Yeah." He leaned back, eyes lighting up.
"I want to start a full program—after-school stuff, skills workshops, maybe even scholarships.
Focus on at-risk youth, keep 'em off the streets.
With my rep tanking, this could show I'm not just a jerk; I give back.
But I need help. Approaching the city, groups— that's your expertise.
Events, networking, making bureaucrats listen. "
I grin, the apprehension from earlier fading into excitement.
This was my wheelhouse. "Okay, hotshot. Let's brainstorm.
First, Daly City Parks and Rec—they've got grants for youth initiatives.
Pitch it as community safety: reducing teen crime through sports.
Data shows programs like this drop delinquency by 20%. "
He pulls out his phone, typing notes. "Parks and Rec. Got it. What about partners?"
"Schools—Jefferson High, where we went. Talk to the athletic director; tie it to their football team. Nonprofits too: Boys they love redemption stories. Sponsors: Nike, local businesses. Frame it as PR gold for them."
"Damn, Morgan." He stares at me like I'd just thrown a perfect spiral. "You're a wizard. Will you... help? Like, be my partner in this? Meetings, pitches?"
I hesitate, but only for a second. This felt right—us teaming up, turning mess into meaning. "Yeah. Let's do it. We can make this epic, spin the narrative from 'jerk' to 'hero.'"
We dove deeper, me sketching on napkins: timeline—apply for grants week one, network week two. He added ideas: nutrition classes ("Can't tackle on junk food"), guest speakers from the pros. "Mental health sessions too," he said. "Stuff I wish I'd had as a kid."
"Smart. And fun events—launch with a free clinic, invite media. Positive press to bury the bad."
He laughs, pulling me onto the couch beside him. "See? This is why I need you. Brain and beauty."
"Flattery gets you tacos," I teased, but leaned into him. His arm around my shoulders felt like home.
By eleven, the napkins were covered in scribbles, tacos devoured. Yawns crept in. "It's late," I said, glancing at the clock. "You heading out?"
Jax's eyes soften, his hand tracing my circles on my forearm. "Do I have to? Mike said not to mess this up... and leaving feels like messing up."
I snorted, wit bubbling up. "Sleepover? Bold move after dodging my calls."
"Reconciliation perk?" He waggled brows. "I'll behave. Scout's honor—though I was kicked out of scouts for tackling the den leader."
"Gee, shocking." I pretended to mull it. "Pros: cuddles, no lonely bed. Cons: you snore like a freight train."
"Guilty. But I'll make breakfast. Blueberry pancakes—your fave."
Tempting. "Fine. But pajamas on, hands where I can see 'em."
"Deal." He kissed my forehead, standing and offering a hand. As we headed upstairs, I thought, This could work. Headlines be damned—we'd tackle them together. Humor, heart, and a hint of heat. What more could a girl want?
But as we settle under the covers, his warmth beside me, doubt flickered. "Jax? Promise me—no more avoiding."
"Promise." His voice was sleepy, sincere. "You're my end zone, Morgan. Not messing that up."
I smiled in the dark, apprehension gone. Sleepover contemplated, future plotted. Tomorrow, we'd face the world. Tonight?
Just us.