Chapter 139 Chapter 139

Chapter 139 Chapter 139
Noah's POV

I knew something was wrong because nobody looked me in the eye. Not dramatically. Not movie-style where conversations stopped and people turned. Worse. People acted normal. Which usually meant everybody knew something except me. Training had gone well. That should've been the first warning. The shoulder felt good. Movements were cleaner. Coach looked irritatingly satisfied. Recovery reports still held. Everything should've felt good. Which meant life was due for a plot twist.

I was finishing drills when Sean jogged over holding his phone. He looked uncomfortable. Sean almost never looked uncomfortable. He looked at me. Then away. Then back. Immediate red flag. I frowned. “What.”

He hesitated. “Coach wants you.”

I stared. “Okay?”

Sean scratched the back of his neck. “In media.” Not office. Media.

I grabbed my water bottle and started walking. Sean followed. Bad sign. I looked over. “Are you coming?”

He shrugged. “Emotional support.” Fantastic.



The media office looked exactly like places designed to deliver bad news. Too neat. Too quiet. There were screens. Glass walls. Corporate furniture. Coach Bennett stood near the window. Two PR people sat at the table. One looked exhausted. The other looked apologetic. I stepped inside and immediately knew. It was something public.

Coach looked at me. Then nodded. “Sit.”

I sat down. Nobody spoke. The PR woman slid a tablet across the table. Her expression softened. “You should probably see this before somebody else sends it.” Fantastic.

I picked up the tablet and opened the article. And immediately felt something cold settle in my stomach. It was an old photo of me. Older and angrier, walking out of somewhere. The headline was, Can People Really Change?

I kept reading. There was another article. Old clips. Old interviews. Old fights. Old stories. Old mistakes. Photos. Comments. Context removed. Patterns created. Another headline was, Growth Or Better Public Relations? Another said, Noah Harris: Reinvention Or Reputation Management?

I scrolled, then stopped. Her name. My ex was mentioned. Not interviewed. Just threaded back in. Old timelines. Old narratives. Relationship history. Emotional instability. Public mistakes. Old Noah. I stared quietly. The room waited. I kept reading. Comment sections. People debating. Some supportive. Some not. Some saying people grow. Some saying nobody does. One comment sat there. Thousands of likes. People don't change. They just get better at packaging themselves.

I locked the tablet ans put it down. Coach watched me. PR looked nervous. I looked back. “Okay.” PR blinked. Coach narrowed his eyes. I leaned back in thought. “When did this start?”

PR looked surprised. Not emotional enough. She answered. “Late last night.”

My stomach tightened. Late last night. Because that was close. Draft projections. Internship coverage. Public support. Momentum. I looked at the screen again. “Any source?” I asked.

PR hesitated. Coach noticed too. “No confirmation. But the push looks coordinated.” There it was.

My jaw tightened. Not because of the articles. Because suddenly, I knew. Not facts. Not certainty. But instinct. This felt familiar. Not random. Not organic. Curated. Strategic.

I looked at Coach. “What do you want me to do?”

Coach looked at me. Then shrugged. “Nothing.” I blinked. He folded his arms. “Unless it's true.” The room shifted. Coach looked directly at me. Not accusing. Not comforting. Just honest. “If it's true...work on it. If it isn't...keep moving.”

That sat somewhere uncomfortable. Because the frustrating thing? Parts of it were true. I had been selfish. Reactive. Emotionally immature. People got hurt. Not because I didn't care. Because I cared badly.

Coach looked at me. “You're not trying to prove you've never been somebody. You're trying to prove you're not done becoming.” The room got quiet. I nodded, then I was dismissed. I left.

I walked outside with no destination in mind. My phone was buzzing with messages, notifications, people asking about it and media requests. I ignored everything.

“Noah.” I stopped and turned around. It was Lucas. His hands were in his pockets. He wore the perfect coat. He was annoyingly composed. He looked at me. Then nodded once. I stared. “You knew.” Not accusation. Observation.

He walked over. “Yeah.”

I looked away. “What.”

He looked across the field. “Dad's nervous.”

I looked at him. He stayed calm. “He's losing influence. Publicly. You're performing. You stopped exploding. People like redemption stories.” I stared. Lucas looked at me. “Dad likes predictability.”

I understood immediately. My chest tightened. Because suddenly, it clicked. Not attack. Not punishment. Control. Old versions are easier to manage. People who don't change stay understandable. Stay dependent. Stay stuck.

Lucas looked away. “People benefit from believing change isn't real.” That landed hard. Because suddenly, I remembered. My father. Every conversation. Every warning. Every implication. Emotion weakens. Attachment complicates. People repeat. Stay efficient. Stay controlled.

I looked at Lucas. “You think he did this?”

Lucas shrugged. “I think Dad doesn't have to tell people what story they prefer.”

That was somehow worse. We stood there in the wind on the practice field. There was noise in the distance. Then Lucas looked at me. “Do you know what's funny?” I looked over. His expression softened. Just slightly. “If this happened a year ago… You would've proven them right.” Because he wasn't wrong. A year ago, I would've posted something. Picked a fight. Spiraled. Broken. Instead, I stood there. Annoyed. Tired. But not broken. Lucas looked at me. “You should probably call Emily.” I blinked. He shrugged. “She'll hear eventually.”

My chest tightened immediately. Because suddenly, I remembered. Unknown numbers. Context. Stories. Versions. People carrying pieces of you into other people's hands. I looked at my phone in thought. Then smiled slightly. Because suddenly, I realized something. Old versions of me existed. People remembered them. Some people preferred them. Some people needed them. But that didn't mean they were current. And maybe, people get uncomfortable when change means they lose the explanation they had for you.

I looked at Lucas. "Are you okay?”

He stared. Then sighed. “Don't make this weird.”

I smiled. He looked annoyed. Good. Then walked away. I stood there another minute. Then opened my phone. I opened Emily's contact and pressed call. Because if old versions of me were getting loud, I suddenly wanted to hear somebody who knew who I was now.