Page 56 of Forever Defiant
Except he was wrong. There was a story here; even if it was about why the coaches at Wrighton University were a bunch of misogynistic, disgusting old men, there was still a story.
It was absolutely my story.
Maybe not for a grade, maybe not for the class, but the moment I saw that scratched-out name, something clicked inside me. A switch in my brain flipped on to ‘activate.’ I snorted at myself, but the truth was something one of my first professors had said, and I’d never forgotten it.
Stories find you.
Good ones, dangerous ones, the kinds people bury for a reason. They find you because they want to be told. With that thought burning in my mind, I made my way to the library. There was a recess on the third floor with no view — unless you counted staring at the wall a view — that was tucked away at the very back of the philosophy section. It had a single desk and chair, two power outlets, and no one ever used it because it had a strange, musty smell.
I made my way there and was delighted when I was right — it was empty, and I settled into work. Within ten minutesof leaving Flannigan’s office, with the illusion of dropping this thread hanging between us, I had my laptop open, roster packet beside me, and half a dozen tabs pulled up like a digital cemetery. My hands were still shaking with leftover rage — or adrenaline, or both — but my mind was sharp.
Whether there were scratch marks over the name or not, I had managed to trace the letters enough times to figure out what it said last night, and it had haunted me ever since.
Mason Sterling.
Let’s find out all about you, my elusive little mystery.At the moment, I had a name, and I wouldn’t leave here until I had more.
I typed it into the university student directory. Nothing. I checked the athletic department’s archive. No record. I thought about it and looked through old game logs. Nothing. It was as if he had never been here, which was impossible — because I was holding a roster that said otherwise.
I leaned back, rubbing my forehead. “Okay, Mason,” I whispered. “Who were you?”
I checked the local news archives next — the unglamorous, uncomfortable kind, those buried behind paywalls and scanned from old print. Still nothing. No injuries reported. No transfer announcements. No scholarship terminations. No medical explanations. No graduation. No expulsion. Just... silence.
A void.
Players didn’t vanish. Stories did.
I flipped the roster page again, looking at the scratched-out ink and the harsh pressure behind it. Someone had wanted that name illegible. Someone with access. Someone who believed ink could erase a person.
There was one more place to check: campus disciplinary records. The public ones were heavily redacted — student privacy laws and all that — but there were patterns if you knewwhat to look for. Dates. Codes. Repeated language. I pulled up the digital archives, scrolling through a year’s worth of bureaucratic jargon.
Then I found it.
A case was closed abruptly in the spring of that year. An unnamed male student athlete. An unnamed female complainant. A sudden withdrawal. A note:Resolved Internally.
My pulse kicked.
I cross-checked the date.
The same month, Mason Sterling’s name was removed from the roster packet. A cold, sick feeling spread through my stomach. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions — I’d promised myself, promised Professor Flannigan, promised every ethics manual I’d ever read... But the shape of the story was forming whether I wanted it to or not.
A sexual assault accusation. An investigation markedResolved Internally. No charges or follow-up, no transparency, and a player erased. Not disciplined. Not punished. Not suspended. But removed from every record as if he were a glitch in the system.
I closed my eyes, letting everything sit with me for a moment. This was the kind of thing universities buried under the rug with bureaucracy and PR spin until everyone forgot the victim existed. I opened my eyes and looked at the packet again, a new resolve building in my chest.
Flannigan could take me off the assignment. But this? This wasn’t just an assignment anymore. This was a truth someone had buried, and I was going to dig it up.
Even if it meant I’d get in trouble and the whole academic center closed ranks. I was going to find out more. My mind was whirring. Was this what Dustin knew more about, and was avoiding me because he sensed exactly what I was walking into?I mean, look at his behavior. The very first night I met him, he had me against the wall and had his tongue in my mouth.
Okay, Hadley, that’s unfair. You were more than a willing recipient, and when you said no, he walked away.
And he never once tried anything again. I’d heard him and his roommates shut down his sleazier teammates with their comments. No, Dustin was just a manwhore, not an assaulter of women.
Unlike some of his teammates, maybe. How many more of them were being protected by their coaches?
I pulled the roster closer, opened a new document, and titled itThe Sterling File. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as a wave of uncertainty made me feel queasy. Did I really want to do this? I got in trouble last semester and was on academic probation. I was definitely on thin ice now after chasing Dustin today. I’d had my professor scold me, and I still had to face the dean because there was no way in hell Dean Cole was going to let this slide.
My resolve strengthened. I was a journalist. I followed the story, andthisstory foundme.
