Page 57 of Forever Defiant
“Let’s see what they tried to make disappear.” I started typing and didn’t look up for hours; when I finally did, it was because I ran out of evidence. Well, I didn’t really have any evidence; everything digital was gone. Nothing came up when I googled him. My pen tapped against my lips. The student-paper archives had copies of everything.
I knew the building well. I’d been friendly with the editor for a while, and shadowed them, unofficially, while they were here.
I packed my belongings and headed across campus. It was late afternoon, and I purposefully avoided looking at the Den. If I had any sense, I wouldn’t go anywhere near the stadium again.
The student newspaper office didn’t smell like journalism. It smelled like dust, old carpet glue, and a hint of stale pizzasomeone probably left in here years ago. But tucked behind the bright, modern workspace with its ring lights, bulletin boards, and stressed-out interns was the part of the building that mattered to me. The archive room.
I slipped inside and shut the door behind me. The click of the latch felt like sealing myself into a confessional booth.
No windows. One buzzing fluorescent light. Walls lined from floor to ceiling with metal filing cabinets, binders, and stacks of old printed issues stretching back decades.
Gold.Dangerous, dusty gold.
I set my bag down and flicked the switch for the second overhead light. It hummed to life, casting long shadows over filing cabinets that badly needed dusting. Most students didn’t know this place existed. The ones who did didn’t come back here unless a professor made them. But me? This place felt as comfortable as home. I spent so much time here because stories lived in places like this. Digital was fine, but the hidden stories were found in paper archives, as I recently discovered.
I searched the cabinets, looking for the year Mason Sterling’s name appeared — and disappeared. Four years ago. The information wasn’t as bulky because, while paper was more reliable, digital formats were easier, so I knew I’d still have a limited amount of information to weed through. I tugged open the drawer and nearly choked on a cloud of dust. Great. Perfect. Maybe the university really didn’t want anyone going through old records — maybe they’d weaponized mildew.
Inside were manila folders, each stuffed with clipped articles, staff notes, rejected pieces, and the printed proofs of every sports page from that year. I almost giggled with excitement. I pulled out the entire stack and lowered myself onto the floor because some tasks demanded the emotional support of sitting.
I flipped through the first few months. Football tryouts. Player spotlights. Coach’s preseason interview. I saw Bobby Ray Sutherland and stuck my tongue out at him. I skimmed theWho to Watch This Yearcolumns. My eyes glanced over the names — people who would no longer be on campus because they’d graduated or, as Flannigan said, simply fizzled out of the program.
Then I saw it, the headline that made my pulse race:Winter Roster Announced — New Faces on Defense. I flattened the page, smoothing out the crease, and read the list of defensive ends, guys like Mike, followed by linebackers like Noah Matthews. There, in the second column, third name down, wasMason Sterling — DE (Freshman).
I exhaled, feeling equal parts thrill and dread.
There he was.
In ink.
In print.
I’d found him.
He was a person who existed. He was real. I dug deeper, flipping to the next article, next week’s issue, but he wasn’t mentioned. Which was fine — rookies didn’t get the spotlight every week. Mike had told me this — God bless him for being so open. I flipped through month by month, tracking his name through time like a ghost. A few mentions here and there, he was seen as a promising player by everyone. I didn’t really know more — just a comment about a “promising player” and Mason’s name.
Then I reached March. The paper for that week had a noticeable gap in the sports section. Not to the naked eye — most readers wouldn’t notice anything — but to someone who lived and breathed print layout, it was obvious. The spacing was off, and the text block had been shifted upward. Almost as if something had been removed. I knew how the old editorworked; I had been pretty much their shadow until they graduated last year, so I knew where to check the staff editor’s markup on the back. In pencil, scribbled lightly, not to hide, just that time had faded it a bit,cut the Sterling piece, not cleared.
My mouth went dry.
‘Cut the piece’ meant therewasa story, an actual written article, or at least a draft.
Something someone wrote — and someone higher up refused to approve. I rummaged through the folder until I found a stack of draft prints clipped together. Most were random pieces that never made it to the paper — niche game recaps, half-written interviews, jokes the editors had canned.
I skimmed page after page, my fingers shaking a little until I found a headline with a line drawn through it: “Freshman DE Makes Strong Start Amid Internal Evaluation Review.”
I read the first few sentences.
“Sources in the department confirm freshman defensive end Mason Sterling is currently undergoing additional academic and behavioral review. Coaches declined to comment on the specifics.”
My chest tightened. The next paragraph was completely blacked out with thick permanent marker strokes. It had been fully redacted. At the bottom, a single sentence:Do not print.
I sat back, heart pounding. There it was — proof that Mason Sterling hadn’t just left. Something had happened. Something the department had shut down immediately. I turned the page again, desperate for more, but the rest of the draft was gone. Torn out or never printed.
Footsteps echoed outside the archive room. I froze, instinct taking over, as the handle jiggled. “Hello?” someone called. A girl’s voice. Just a student. I exhaled softly. Not the dean. Not a coach. Not a shadowy figure here to escort me into a van. Probably a freshman staffer.
I needed to relax; my imagination was running wild.
“Occupied!” I called, trying not to sound guilty.
