Coach Williams is sitting behind his desk when I knock on the open door. He waves me in without looking up, and I take a deep breath. His neck is red, betraying the anger bubbling just below the surface. He finishes what he’s writing, and sweeps his meaty hand through his thin, greying hair.

“Sit.”

I nod, taking a seat across from him. Even though I’m a grown man, being called in to Williams’ office never fails to make me as nervous as a school boy. I grip the arms of the chair and wait for him to speak.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” He asks after a pause.

“Nothing,” I reply. Williams’ jowls tremble. His eyes narrow and I take a deep breath. “Just a bit of a scuffle. It’s not important.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the phone call I got this morning, would it?”

I frown. “Phone call?”

Coach Williams leans back, smoothing his tie and folding his arms over his generous stomach. He watches me, and I try not to shift in my seat.

Coach is the type of guy who would lay down across railroad tracks for you, but if you cross him, he’s just plain scary. He commands authority like no one I’ve ever seen. He has to—he’s got an entire NFL team and staff as well as the press to wrangle every day.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of staring, he sighs and shakes his head.

“You know I have friends at the Globe.”

I nod. I don’t like where this is going. The Globe is Boston’s biggest newspaper.

“Well, I got a phone call this morning that accompanied an email. It was about you, and your new girlfriend, and your brother.”

My blood turns to ice. The press got a hold of something? They could turn this whole thing about Farrah, or about me. They could paint Elijah as the victim. I lean forward in my chair and Coach shakes his head. He spins his computer monitor towards me and opens an email attachment.

I sigh, closing my eyes.

Pictures.

Half a dozen pictures that tell a story. Pictures of Elijah and Farrah at their engagement party, and then a picture of me and Farrah kissing in the club six months ago, and finally, a picture of Elijah’s battered face. It’s a selfie, and I assume he took it this morning.

“They’re saying you attacked Elijah and stole his fiancée.”

“That’s fucking bullshit! He attacked me. He cheated on her! We only started seeing each other after the Football School was finished. That was months after they broke up!” I don’t mention the night at the club, because, well, it would only hurt my case.

Coach Williams leans back again and studies my face. He nods.

“I believe you, Jesse.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Coach shakes his head.

“But I’m not sure everyone else will. Our first game of the season is next week, Jesse. We don’t need this kind of distraction.” He sighs, his eyebrows drawing together as he combs his hair back with his fingers. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “Your brother’s fiancée, Jesse? Was there no one else that you could go after?”

A feeling passes through my chest and I sit up straighter. I look him straight in the eye and I shake my head. “No. There is no one else. There was never anyone else.”

He stares at me for a few moments, and then dips his chin down ever so slightly. “I can hold off the guys at the Globe, but that’s not to say that he won’t sell his story to other newspapers.”

“So how do I stop it?” Pain is radiating from my heart. This will destroy Farrah. The pain I saw in her eyes last night will be nothing compared to what a public shaming in the press will do to her.

“Can you talk to your brother?”

I start laughing. I can’t help it. I shake my head. “Look at my face, Coach. This is what happened when I tried to talk to him.” I pull down my shirt and show him my scar. “This is what happened when I tried to talk to him. He’s a fucking loose cannon.”

Williams tents his fingers over his stomach and leans his head down. He stares at a spot on his desk, thinking. I chew my lip. I wish I knew what to do.

I don’t want to stoop to Elijah’s level. I don’t want to bring the truth to the press and shame my brother like that. I just want this whole thing to go away.

Coach Williams’ phone pings, and he reads the message. He glances at me.

“My contact at the Globe wants to talk to you. I told her that I was sure it was a misunderstanding or it just wasn’t true, and she wants to hear your side of the story.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want any of this in the papers, Coach. I just want it to go away.”

“The only way we can make it go away is to face it head-on. Come on. I’ll drive.”

Before I know it, we’re walking into the Globe’s headquarters. I slip my phone into my pocket after going back and forth over whether I should tell Farrah about all this. I decide to wait it out. Williams marches me straight to the reception desk, and we’re told to wait while they get his contact. His daughter went to college with one of the Editors here, and it has come in handy more than once when a controversy threatens to spill over.

But this—my brother, Farrah—this is more than a drunken night, or the typical controversies that come out about the team. This could be a big story. And it would be bad for the entire organization.

We’re ushered into an office at the back of the building. There’s an oval conference table with old, rickety office chairs around it. I gingerly take a seat. You never trust a rickety chair when you’re six foot four and made of muscle. It creaks under my weight, but it seems to hold.

When a tall brunette woman walks in, Williams stands. He kisses her cheek and introduces us. The woman is wearing thick-framed glasses and her hair is tied in a no-nonsense ponytail. She looks at me with a discerning eye, and then waves us to sit.

“So,” she starts. “I’m assuming you’ve seen the photos?”

I nod. “It’s not what you think. The story you have—none of it is true.” I stop talking when a man walks past the conference room doorway. “Who’s that?”

I recognize him. I frown, staring after the man as he turns into a corner office. His greying hair, his barrel chest, the way his eyes sweep around the room. Where do I know him from?

“That? That’s Thomas Harding, the group CEO. He owns half the newspapers in the North Eastern United States. He’s visiting the offices this week.”

My eyes widen. I know who he is—Farrah saved his life last night! He was the choking man. I jump up, rushing to the door and ripping it open.

“I need to talk to him,” I say. “He can help me.”

“Wait, Jesse—” the woman jumps up, but I ignore her. “You can’t just—”

I don’t hear another word over the rushing of my heartbeat in my ears. I march straight towards the office I pull open the door.

“Mr. Harding,” I start. “My name is Jesse Matthews.”