Bad News
Jax
I jog to the sideline, helmet dangling from one hand, sweat stinging my eyes. Darnell Simmons, our loudmouth wide receiver, was already holding court near the Gatorade table like he’d just won the damn game instead of dropping a wide-open post route that would’ve cut the lead to eleven.
“Yo, check the stat sheet,” he barked, flexing for no reason. “O-line couldn’t block a pop-warner kid, and our ‘star’ tight end out here playing patty-cake with the linebackers. Hands like bricks, Carr.”
A couple rookies snicker. I ignore him, chugging water, trying to keep my jaw from clenching hard enough to crack a molar.
Darnell has been riding me all season—ever since we got into it last season.
He wanted the spotlight, the endorsements, the “face of the franchise” hype. Tough luck; I just wanted to win.
Coach blew the whistle for the final kneel-down. Game over. Locker room smelled like defeat and cheap body spray.
Darnell strips off his jersey, still running his mouth. “Maybe if certain people spent less time playing house with their PR girlfriend and more time in the film room, we wouldn’t look like a high-school JV squad.”
I slam my helmet into the cubby. “Save it for the media, Simmons. Some of us actually have to answer for our drops.”
He flashed that shark grin. “Oh, I will.” Then he saunters out for his post-game presser, shoulders squared like he owned the narrative.
The rest of us showered in silence. By the time I toweled off, Darnell was back, swagger dialed to eleven, cocky grin aimed right at me. “Hope you brought your A-game for the cameras, Carr. They’re asking the real questions tonight.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What’d you say?”
He just winked and disappeared into his stall.
Media was a blur of canned answers—“We’ll get ‘em next week,” “Team effort,” “Gotta execute.” I was out the door by midnight, bone-tired, brain on autopilot. Crashed face-first into bed without even kicking off my shoes.
The morning hit me like a linebacker to the ribs. My phone was a war zone: 47 unread texts, 12 missed calls from Mike, push alerts screaming across the lock screen.
Mike texting me to urgently call him.
Teammate group chat: “Darnell just threw you under the bus, bro.”
Sports Premier News notification: “Simmons on teammate’s ‘fake relationship’: ‘Some guys are more worried about image than winning.’”
I bolted upright, heart jackhammering. Clicked the clip.
There was Darnell under the bright lights, leaning into the mic like he owned the room.
“Team’s distracted,” he said, shrugging theatrically.
“You got guys more worried about their off-field brand than the playbook. Fake relationships, charity photo-ops, all that smoke and mirrors. Especially one specific tight end who’s real good at selling the boyfriend act. Makes you wonder what’s legit anymore.”
Reporters pounced. “You talking about Jax Carr and Morgan Stevens?”
Darnell smirked. “I’m just saying—watch the headlines. Truth always leaks.”
The clip cut. My stomach dropped through the floor.
He knew. Or thought he did. The fake-dating origin story Mike had cooked up to clean my image after the camera incident.
The part we’d buried six feet deep and paved over with real feelings, real dates, real everything.
If this blew up, it wouldn’t just torch my “reformed bad boy” arc—it’d drag Morgan’s name, her business, her reputation through the sewer all over again.
Panic tasted metallic. I didn’t shower, didn’t think—just yanked on yesterday’s sweats, grabbed keys, wallet, phone. Tires squealed as I peeled out of the garage in a blur.
Morgan. I need to get to Morgan.
Traffic was a joke, but I weaved in and out at every opportunity that I had. Every red light felt like a personal insult. My phone kept buzzing—Mike, teammates, even a producer from Good Morning Football—but I ignored it all. Only one name mattered.
She worked out of a co-working space. The building loomed ahead, it appeared like a lifeline. I parked hastily, jogged up the steps, and ran through the lobby doors to the elevator.