Damage Control
Jax
The locker room reeked of sweat, defeat, and that unmistakable undercurrent of testosterone-fueled bullshit.
It was Tuesday morning—film review day after our Sunday night slaughter by the Kings—and I was already on edge, my blood simmering like a pot left too long on the stove.
Darnell Simmons had crossed a line, hinting at my relationship with Morgan like it was some juicy locker-room gossip fodder.
Fake start or not, what we have is real, and I wasn't about to let that wide-receiver diva drag it through the mud for clicks and clout.
I spotted him across the room, lounging on a bench like he owned the place, scrolling his phone with that smug grin plastered on his face.
Teammates milled around, grabbing protein shakes and muttering about the loss and seeing their lack-luster play on the screens, but the air thickened as I stormed over.
My cleats echoed on the tile like warning shots.
"Simmons," I growled, stopping inches from him, my shadow falling over his screen. "We need to talk. Now."
He didn't even look up, just kept thumbing through whatever crap was on his feed—probably retweets of his own presser soundbites. "Not now, Carr. Busy celebrating my stellar performance. You know, the one where I actually caught passes."
A few guys nearby paused, sensing the storm brewing. I clench my fists, nails biting into palms. "Busy? You're the one who threw me under the bus last night. Hinting about my personal life like it's your damn business. What the hell was that about?"
Finally, he glanced up, eyes lazy and uninterested, like I was a gnat buzzing around his head.
"Oh, that? Just speaking truth, man. Team's distracted—some more than others.
Fake it till you make it, right?" He chuckled, low and mocking, then went back to his phone, dismissing me like yesterday's playbook.
Heat flushed my neck. "You don't know shit about me and Morgan. Back off."
Ignored. Completely. He hums some tune, scrolling faster, like I wasn't even there.
The room went quiet; eyes darted our way.
Something snapped— that same impulsive wire that had me lunging at that paparazzi camera months ago.
My fist flew before my brain could hit the brakes, connecting with his jaw in a solid crack that echoed off the lockers.
Darnell reels back, phone clattering to the floor, his hand flying to his face. "What the fuck, Carr?" he yelled, scrambling up, eyes wide with shock and rage.
Coaches burst in from the film room, shouting for order. Teammates grabbed my arms, pulling me back as Darnell lunged half-heartedly, more bark than bite now that his jaw was swelling. "You're done, man! Assault! I'll sue your ass!"
I shrugged off the hands, breathing heavy, regret already creeping in like a bad hangover. Stupid, Jax. Real stupid. But damn if it didn't feel good for a split second.
Morgan's voice was calm on the phone later that afternoon, but I could hear the edge—like a teacher scolding a kid who just colored outside the lines with permanent marker. I'd called her from the parking lot after Coach benched me for the day and threatened fines bigger than my ego.
"Jax, what were you thinking? Punching him? In the locker room?"
I paced beside my car, rubbing my knuckles. "He ignored me, Morgan. Acted like I was invisible after spilling that crap about us. I lost it."
She sighed, that patient, witty tone kicking in.
"Hotshot, you're a tight end, not a boxer.
Damage control mode: activated. Media's gonna swarm.
Answer their questions—be honest, but be smart.
Emphasize the friends-to-lovers thing. We've known each other forever; that's the heart of it.
Leave out the fake start. That's ancient history.
Spin it positive: real love, real growth. "
I nodded, even though she couldn't see. "Got it. Friends to lovers. No fake BS."
"And Jax? Stay cool. We've got this."
The presser was a circus—flashing cameras, mics shoved in my face like weapons. I stood at the podium, team PR flack hovering like a nervous babysitter.
"Jax, care to comment on the altercation with Darnell Simmons?" the first reporter fired off.
I lean in, channeling Morgan's advice. "Look, tensions run high after a loss. Darnell and I had words; it got physical. Not proud of it, but we're professionals—we'll handle it internally."
Another: "He implied your relationship with Morgan Stevens is fake. Do you have a response for that?"
I force a smile, dimples on duty. "Morgan and I? We've been best friends since we were kids—bike rides, tree climbing, the works. It turned into something more, real and deep. Friends to lovers, you know? That's our story. No fakes, just us."
They pressed, but I stuck to the script: growth, team focus, moving on. By the end, headlines shifted from "Carr Punches Teammate" to "Jax Opens Up on Real Romance." Damage control? Check.
The next few days were a whirlwind of PR hell.
Mike, my agent, blew up my phone with strategy sessions: "Issue a statement—apologize without admitting fault.
" I did, posting on socials about "learning from mistakes" and tagging the youth program for that feel-good spin.
Fines came down—$50K, ouch—but the league suspended Darnell for two games after reviewing locker cam footage as it turns out his "hints" violated some team conduct clause.
Teammates texted support:
Jones:
Darnell's a prick
Matthews:
You good?
Practices were tense, but I kept my head down, blocking drills like a machine, catching every pass like it was redemption.
Morgan was my rock—daily calls, witty texts: "Punchy McFistface, how's the knuckle sandwich recovery?" We'd meet for quick lunches, her hand in mine, reminding me what mattered. "Public sees us as solid," she'd say. "Let Darnell's crap fade."
By Wednesday, I needed an escape. The youth clinic at Daly City Park was my sanctuary—fresh air, grass underfoot, kids' laughter drowning out the noise. The field buzzed with energy: fifty kids in program jerseys, cones set up for agility drills, volunteers handing out water bottles.
I blew my whistle, gathering them in a circle. "Alright, champs! Today: blocking basics. Remember, it's not about hitting hard—it's about technique. Protect your QB like he's your best friend."
A freckled kid, Tommy, piped up. "Like you and Miss Morgan?"
I chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Exactly, bud. She's my best friend. Now, pair up!"
We ran drills: kids practicing stances, me demoing a perfect block that sent a padded dummy flying.
"See? Feet wide, hands inside—boom!" Laughter erupted as one girl, Mia, nailed it on her first try, high-fiving her partner like a pro.
Their happy faces—grins wide as the goalposts—washed away the week's crap.
No headlines here, just pure joy. A shy boy, Raul, caught a pass for the first time, pumping his fist. "Coach Jax, did you see? "
"Heck yeah! That's Super Bowl material."
For a few hours, I forgot Darnell, the punch, the scrutiny. This was why I started it—second chances, building something real.
Parents watched from the sidelines, nodding approval.
One mom even came up to me and thanked me as she picked up her son. "My son's loving this. Keeps him out of trouble."
I nodded, chest swelling. This is what I’m doing this for.
I lingered, packing cones, mind clearer. Damage control? Ongoing. But this?
This was winning.
Today, we have home game against the General, Bayside Stadium is electric under the bright lights.Thanksgiving week loomed; my parents had flown in from Florida, crashing at my place with their usual chaos: Mom's empanadas, Dad's endless football stories.
They'd known Morgan years ago as we were reckless kids, but now? Seeing her as my girl? Priceless.
I suited up, adrenaline pumping. The punch fallout lingered—fans split, some chanting "Jax! Jax!" others booing—but Coach started me. "Show 'em you're focused," he said.
Kickoff. I lined up, the roar deafening. I blocked like a wall, opening a lane for a 15-yard run. Crowd cheered. Second quarter, I snagged a seam route for 20 yards, dragging a defender for five more. At halftime we were tied 14-14.
Third quarter, we pulled ahead. My parents were in the stands—Mom's sign: "Go Jax!
From Florida with Love!" And there, beside them: Morgan, cheering alongside them like a maniac.
She wore my jersey, hair whipping in the wind, arm linked with Mom's like old pals.
Dad handed her popcorn, chatting animatedly whenever the opportunity arouse.
The jumbotron caught them: "Jax Carr’s Family in the House!" Public saw it—familiarity, warmth. No fake vibes; just real roots. Friends to lovers? Hell yeah, with family seal of approval.
In the final moments, with the Bears driving, but I stonewalled their rush, giving our Danny time for the game-sealing pick. With a win of 28-21. I jogged to the sidelines, eyes on Morgan. She waved, blowing a kiss with my parents beside her beaming.
In the tunnel, reporters swarmed again. "Jax, family in town—Morgan fitting right in?"
I grinned. “She doesn’t have to fit in. She’s been part of the family for ages. We grew up together.”
Damage controlled? Mostly. But with Morgan cheering, parents in tow, and the public seeing our real deal?
Felt like a comeback win.