Page 33 of Make the Play

Coach’s voice is lethal. “Sit up, Walton.”

Chase tilts his head, and his eyes momentarily flick to mine, but he obeys, straightening just enough to make it look as though he might actually be listening.

John continues. “Let’s get to the point. Chase, do you have any other videos that could surface?”

Chase purses his lips, considering it. “Are we even sure this is mine? Could be AI.”

Legal deadpans. “It’s you.”

Coach crosses his arms. “You proud of this, Walton?”

“Not particularly, Coach, but considering I wasn’t even on this team when it happened, I don’t see why—”

“You’re a Storm player now,” the assistant GM cuts in, voice sharp. “Your name is our name. You should have told us this existed.”

The weight of the room shifts and quietens for a beat, because he’s right. Chase might be one of the Storm’s best players, but that means he’s also a brand. One that the team invests in, markets, and profits from.

And right now, he’s a brand liability.

The legal team murmurs to each other, discussing next steps, while John focuses on me.

“Zoe, we need an immediate strategy. What’s our move?”

I straighten, because this is my job. I spin chaos into order. Reframe disasters into footnotes. Control the narrative before it controls me.

And maybe that’s why I love this job so much. It’s not just strategy, it’s armor. A way to stay ahead of the story, especially when the story gets too close to home.

“First,” I start, “we need a controlled statement. Something that acknowledges the situation without fueling it.”

John nods, motioning for me to continue.

I flip open my notebook, forcing my focus to stay there and not on the fact that I can feel Chase watching me.

“We shut down the worst narratives before they start. No apologies—an apology implies guilt. We go with something neutral but firm, something that signals this is old news. And more importantly, that it isn’t catastrophic. Chase isn’t a bad person, he’s just a human who made a mistake, like anyone else.Everyone has a reckless side and makes questionable decisions when they’re young.”

I take a breath, glancing at Chase. His eyes are unreadable but locked on me, and I know he hears it. The message layered under every word, the defence woven into each syllable.

I’m defending him, of course I am. He’s my friend. An unhinged, ridiculous friend, but a friend nonetheless.

Still, the weight of it settles in my chest. Because we haven’t spoken since the morning after the wedding, haven’t even looked at each other. And now, the first words I direct at him come in the form of a PR strategy meeting over his leaked sex tape.

I clear my throat, tearing my gaze from his.

“Then, we need a counter-story. A distraction.”

Marketing leans in. “What sort of distraction?”

Legal nods and adds, “Something that solidifies his public image.”

The conversation shifts, murmurs picking up around us, a blur of half-formed strategies. The GM looks like he’s teetering on the edge of a stroke, while Coach Benson just shakes his head, arms crossed like he’s personally offended that this is what we’re dealing with in the off-season.

Chase doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even try to contribute, just sits back and lets them pick him apart, dissect him like he’s not here.

But he glances at me quickly and exhales, gaze dropping to the table. And I catch it. A single crack in the act, a flicker of something raw beneath the bravado.

He’s embarrassed.

His easy smirk is still there, still set in place like a shield. But it’s just that—a front. The sex tape, his reputation. The playboy persona that’s never been as real as people think it is. A carefully practiced, paper-thin defense. I wonder if he knows I know that.

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