Three hours later, he returns. When he walks in the door, I notice it immediately. The C is gone from his jersey, just the number twenty-five remaining.
"They took it," he says when Emma asks. "Offered it to Chase first. He turned it down. Marcus has it now."
"I'm so sorry," Emma says.
"It's fine, it's done." Jackson's voice is hollow. "They suspended me pending the investigation. Playoffs are postponed. Might be charges, might be jail time. We'll see."
"All because you went after Maya's rapist."
"All because I couldn't let him get away with it."
Emma looks at me, really looks at me, and I can see her processing, connecting dots, trying to figure out what she's missing. There's something in her expression that makes my chest tighten, like she's standing on the edge of understanding but hasn't quite taken the leap.
But she doesn't ask.
We eat dinner in silence. The reporters are still outside, their van lights visible through the curtains. The story is everywhere: national news, sports outlets, social media. My name, my rape, Jackson's arrest, all of it public and dissected by strangers who think they understand what happened.
No more hiding. No more secrets.
Except one.
Emma still doesn't know about us. About the relationship, about the fact that Jackson's not just my protector—he's theman I'm in love with, the man whose father's pendant I'm wearing under my shirt right now.
We were supposed to tell her this weekend. Before the playoffs started, before everything got crazy. That was the plan.
But then Jackson went to Pinewood, and everything fell apart, and now I can't find the strength to add one more thing to her plate. Not when she's dealing with the media circus, not when she's thirty weeks pregnant and terrified her brother's going to jail, not when she looks at me with so much concern and sympathy that it makes my chest ache.
Every time she looks at us, I see her getting closer to figuring it out. The way her eyes linger when Jackson and I stand too close, the questions behind her expression when she catches us looking at each other.
It's only a matter of time before she asks the question we're not ready to answer.
I touch the pendant through my shirt and wonder how much longer we can keep this up—how much longer before the last secret comes out and we lose whatever control we have left.
31
JACKSON
The lawyer calls at 7 a.m., and I'm in the kitchen making coffee. I haven't slept knowing my entire career is hanging by a thread.
"Mr. Anderson, we need to discuss Dr. Carson's legal team. They're pushing the prosecutor to pursue maximum charges: aggravated assault, potential jail time. They want to make an example of you."
"What are my options?"
"Depends on the prosecutor. If Carson drops the charges, this goes away. But he's not dropping them, his lawyer is..." Papers shuffle in the background. "Aggressive. They're filing a civil suit as well, seeking damages for medical costs, pain and suffering, lost wages."
"How much?"
"Potentially millions."
I set down my coffee cup. "Millions."
"Yes. And that's separate from the criminal charges." He pauses. "There's something else. Maya Rivera's rape case is being reopened. If the prosecutor can prove Carson assaulted her, it could help your case, show your actions had justification. But..."
"But what?"
"But it also means Maya will have to testify, publicly, in court. Are you prepared for that? Is she?"
I glance upstairs where Maya's still asleep in the guest room. She's been through enough. The media circus, the public exposure. And now a trial where she'll have to relive the worst moment of her life.
