Chapter 4 Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Chapter 4
Noah’s POV
The training center felt different at night. It was too quiet and clean. The kind of clean that makes you feel like you’re the mess in the room.
My footsteps echoed down the hall as I headed towards the film room, my shoulder was throbbing with a dull pulse. The pain was almost comforting because it was more of a real pain, the physical pain, which is something I understand. Something that I can fix. It was something that I had caused, unlike everything else in my life.
The door to the film room was slightly open. Light spilled out, flickering across the hallway like a warning sign. Inside, I could hear Coach’s voice. It was low, clipped, and irritated.
Great.
I pushed the door open. Coach Bennett stood beside the projector screen, he crossed his arms over his chest, his face set in carved stone. Two assistant coaches, Morales and Torres, sat at the long conference table. All three looked like they had been waiting specifically to ruin my night.
“Close the door,” Coach Bennett said.
I hesitated half a second before kicking it shut.
“What’s going on?” I asked, though I already knew I wouldn’t like the answer.
Coach didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up a remote and hit play.
A video started to play, it was a grainy security footage. My stomach dropped.
It was the fight.
The one behind the student rec center. The one I thought nobody saw clearly. The one I told myself would blow over.
I watched myself on the screen, my jaw clenched. A guy shoved our freshman midfielder, and he shouted something I remembered but didn’t want to repeat. I stepped between them. The guy swung, and I swung harder. He hit the ground.
My knuckles tightened. I had forgotten how it looked from the outside. It seemed merciless and explosive. Exactly like the headlines said I was.
Coach paused the video. My distorted figure froze on the screen, with my fist raised. The room was suffocating.
“This,” Coach Bennett said, his voice was steady but sharp, “Is a problem.”
I swallowed. “I told you he started it.”
“He did,” Coach agreed. “But you finished it. Violently.”
“He went after a freshman,” I snapped. “I handled it.”
“No,” he fired back, “You exploded.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to say you weren’t there. But the truth was carved into the walls of this room… they didn’t care about intentions. They cared about consequences.
Morales leaned forward. “This makes three fights in two semesters.”
“And six tabloid appearances,” Torres added, clicking a pen. “Four involving alcohol. Two involving women.”
I gritted my teeth. “Those were blown out of proportion.”
“I don’t care if the girls climbed you like a tree,” Torres said bluntly. “Optics matter.”
Coach pressed play again. Now it was the nightclub footage, me walking out with some girl hanging on my arm, flashes went off, reporters were shouting my name. More clips of parties, bars, me laughing, drinking, and not caring. Things that were supposed to stay unimportant. Things that now look like patterns. It was the weak spots.
“You’re a walking PR disaster,” Coach said, shutting off the projector. “And the school is done cleaning up after you.”
I folded my arms across my chest, ignoring how my shoulder protested. “So what? Suspension?”
Coach didn’t answer right away, which was worse.
“You’re one incident away.” He finally said. The air left my lungs.
“And your scholarship?” Torres added. “On the line. Immediately.” There it was. The thing they knew I couldn’t afford to lose. The thing that kept me in school, in the sport, in the only place I’ve ever felt halfway in control. I remained quiet because if I spoke, I might break something.
Coach nodded to Morales, who slid a folder across the table. It was a fat one. I stared at it like it was wired to explode. “What’s that?”
“Your public image rehabilitation plan,” Morales said.
I snorted. “You’re joking.”
Coach’s expression said otherwise.
Torres sighed. “You lost the privilege of joking when that video hit my inbox.”
I dragged a hand through my hair. “Look, I will do whatever you need, extra conditioning, anger management workshops, donor events, whatever. But I’m not letting PR run my life.”
“You already did,” Coach said quietly. “By not managing it yourself.” The words hit like a punch. Coach motioned towards the folder again. “Open it.” I didn’t move. “Noah,” Coach warned.
Fine.
I snatched the folder and flipped it open. The first page was a typed proposal.
Westview University Athletic Department
Public Image Rehabilitation Strategy
Subject: Noah Harris
My stomach turned.
The second page was worse.
It was a structured plan. A long one which had bullet points, expectations, and timelines. And right in the center:
Phase One: Stabilize personal image through structured mentorship and controlled public presence.
Primary partner: Emily Taylor (Sports Rehabilitation Intern).
Task: Present a consistent, responsible, emotionally grounded public identity through coordinated appearances and social media engagement.
I blinked, and then I blinked again.
“What the hell does this mean?” I finally asked.
Coach folded his arms. “Exactly what it says.”
“You want me to… what? Appear with her? Like a PR puppet?”
“Like you’re not a threat to your team’s reputation,” Morales said flatly.
My jaw tensed. “I’m not dating some intern.”
“No one said dating,” Torres said, a little too smoothly. “But she will be working with you every day.”
“Every day?” I echoed.
“Yes,” Coach confirmed. “Training, rehab, public events, team socials, campus photo ops.”
I almost laughed. “You’re out of your minds if you think I’m doing that.”
Coach sat down slowly, his eyes were locked on mine. “You don’t have a choice.”
I stiffened. “There is always a choice.”
“No,” he said. “Not when your eligibility is on the line.”
My throat closed.
Eligibility.
Scholarship.
My position.
My future.
This was a knife held carefully against everything I cared about.
“Emily Taylor,” Morales repeated. “Top student, Influencer background, and a clean reputation. A Smart choice for a stabilizing narrative.”
Narrative. I wanted to punch something.
“So what?” I said with my voice low. “You want me to pretend she and I are… what? Friends? Close? Bonded?”
Coach didn’t look away. “Yes.”
I laughed, but it came out vicious. “You can’t force chemistry.”
“We are not asking for chemistry,” Torres said. “We are asking for cooperation.”
“And proximity,” Morales added. “Lots of it.”
I shoved the folder back across the table. “No.”
Coach sighed. “Noah-”
“No,” I repeated, louder this time. “I’m not doing this. I don’t need some intern glued to my side so donors feel better. She’s nothing like me. She won’t understand how I train, how I live, how I-”
“How you fall apart?” Torres cut in. Silence detonated between us.
Something hot coiled in my stomach, anger, shame, panic twisting into something I didn’t have a name for.
Coach leaned forward, his voice was lower now, but far more dangerous.
“You think this is about your comfort?” he asked. “About pride? About control?”
I didn’t answer.
“This is survival,” he said. “Yours. And the program’s.”
Morales tapped the folder. “This is the deal. You refuse, and we escalate. The suspension hearing won’t go your way.”
The room spun, not literally, but emotionally like gravity shifted sideways. Coach saw it.
He softened up, but not much, but enough. “I know you don’t like being told what to do.” I clenched my jaw. He continued, “I know you’ve been through… things you don’t talk about.” My stomach knotted instantly.
Mom.
The crash.
The silence afterwards.
The way Dad and I both vanished from each other without leaving the room. My stepbrother and I are not exactly like siblings or friends.
“Let this girl help you,” Coach said.
“I don’t need help.”
“Yes, you do.” He said.
The words hit harder than I expected because they sounded less like judgment and more like truth.
He gestured around the room: “Look at this. Look at where you are. You’re the captain of a nationally ranked team who can’t go out for a beer without making headlines. You’re twenty-one, and you’re already a PR fire hazard.”
“Gee,” I muttered. “Thanks.”
“You want the hard truth? You’re not a bad kid. You’re just angry. And you don’t know where to put it.”
I looked away. He was right. I hated that he was right.
Coach stood up. “Emily Taylor is disciplined, level-headed, and consistent. She’s everything you’re not right now, but everything you need around you.”
I laughed under my breath. “Perfect.”
“She won’t take your crap,” Morales added.
“Great,” I hissed.
“And she doesn’t care about your status,” Torres finished.
I paused. That part stung more than it should.
Coach picked up the folder and handed it to me. “You don’t need to like it. You need to comply.”
The word burned.
Comply.
Like I’m some out-of-control animal being redirected.
I took the folder because not taking it would be the same thing as ending my season. Ending everything. My fingers tightened around the edge.
“Is she even okay with this?” I asked.
“She agreed to the internship,” Coach said. “She wants your shoulder healed. She wants the recommendation. This is mutually beneficial.”
“I don’t want mutually beneficial,” I muttered. “I want to be left alone.”
Coach shook his head. “That’s not how adulthood works.”
I closed my eyes. Mom used to say that too. I inhaled slowly, then opened my eyes again. “Fine.”
Coach studied me. “Fine… you will cooperate?”
“Fine,” I gritted out. “I will do the plan.”
All three coaches exhaled with unhidden relief.
“But don’t expect me to like it,” I added.
“We don’t,” Torres said. “We expect you to survive it.”
The meeting ended, but my pulse didn’t slow. I tossed the folder onto the passenger seat of my car and drove without seeing the road. My fists clenched around the steering wheel the way they used to around a lacrosse stick when I was fourteen, shaking after the crash, pretending I was fine.
The drive home was quiet. All I could think about was Emily Taylor. A girl who probably thinks men like me are a waste of oxygen. She will hate me. I will hate her back. And yet…
As I shifted in my seat, the folder slid open slightly. A sheet inside was labeled:
Projected Public Appearance Schedule – Weeks 1–8
Includes: dual interviews, coordinated social media posts, on-field rehab visibility, and a mutually beneficial “stability narrative.”
Stability.
Me.
I laughed, bitter as blood.
This will never work. But I’m out of choices.
I gripped the steering wheel harder, ignoring the ache in my shoulder and the sting in my pride.
“If you think I’m letting some straight-laced intern fix me,” I whispered into the dark car, “You’re out of your damn minds.”
The light ahead turned red. I stopped.
Breathe.
I stared at my reflection in the windshield. A guy who looked like he was already losing things. “I won’t let her close.” I don’t know it yet. But I’ve already lost that battle.