The next day, I stumble groggily down to the kitchen. My mom beams at me.

"Mornin'," I grumble.

"How was the dance?" she asks, curiously.

"It was fun."

Emma walks in. "Rumor has it, Peyton and Harley Davidson had a lot of fun." Emma winks at me. I give her the stink-eye. She gets the message loud and clear. I have too much dirt on her for her to go slinging mud at me. 

My dad sets down his paper, studying me. His face is puffy. His eyes are red and swollen. "Peyton, you and I had better have a talk."

Uh oh. It seems like I'm in trouble. I wonder what I did now as he gets up and gestures for me to follow him into his office. I flop into the chair across from his desk. He hands me the paper.

"You'd better read the article on page four."

It's an editorial. On the sports page of our local paper. It's all about how it's probably not healthy for a football program to have female players on the team. It's titled, "Female Players: Unnecessary Distractions and Threats to Team Solidarity." It references the scandal at the University of Colorado when a female kicker alleged rape charges against her male teammate. Then somehow it transitions to me. My heart is racing as the words blur on the page. Words like "sexual favors in the women's locker room," "instigating fights among teammates," "disrespecting the authority of the coach who benched her." I shake my head, and my eyes are full of tears.

But then, I'm full of rage. "None of this is true!"

"Really, Peyton? Are you sure? The writer cites sources, Peyton. Players who have witnessed these incidents. You don't have any idea what they are in reference to?"

One "anonymous" source interviewed claimed to have seen an "African American" player enter the women's locker room while I was in there changing. He claims he heard groaning and crying out. Then he said he saw me walk out arm in arm with this team member. Another source detailed the events in Friday's game, citing the incident in which I attacked an opponent after the whistle and then told coach Murphy it was "bullshit" that he was benching me. "Surely such profanity would never be tolerated from a male player," the article's author argued. Then he suggested that perhaps I used my feminine wiles to get special treatment from the coach.

Lastly, and the one that was most chilling, the anonymous source detailed the story of the day that the same "African American" player seen leaving the locker room with me "viciously attacked" another player after he heard rumors that I had a "crush" on the victim.

"These young men are passionate but inexperienced. We cannot allow them to become the victims of such predatory promiscuity. Peyton Thomas's presence on this team incites violence and discord among its most valuable members."

I'm sick to my stomach and manage to bolt into the bathroom and vomit violently. I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, leaned against the toilet. My dad is looking down at me with his arms crossed. "Why don't you go ahead and tell me what's going on here?"

"Why?" I cry, wiping snot and saliva off of my face. "You don't care about me. All you care about is figuring out how I messed something else up. Go get your bottle, Dad. That's how you solve all your problems."

My mom must have heard me yelling. "What's going on, James?"

He thrusts the paper into her hands. She's quiet while she scans it. She looks down at me, then she hands the paper back to my dad. "I'll take care of this," she says quietly. "Please leave us alone."

She slides down the wall and sits next to me on the floor. "What happened?" she asks, her left hand on my knee.

I can't answer her. How do I begin to answer her? It will break her heart. "I shouldn't have been alone."

"What do you mean? Where were you alone?"

"In the locker room. I shouldn't have stayed there. I should have just gotten my stuff and left."

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"I was crying. After a game. I was upset because the coach wouldn't let me play."

"Well, that seems natural."

"Yeah. But I should have just waited. To cry. That's how he found me. I let it happen. I shouldn't have been so weak."

"Peyton. Let what happen?" her voice has a tinge of panic.

"He found me there. In the locker room. He pushed me up against the cold metal." I can't continue. I just start shaking and sobbing.

There's an edge in her voice. "Peyton. We need to go to the police."

"No!"

She breathes hard, like someone who just finished a hard run. "I have to help you."

I shake my head. I just want her to stay here, holding me.

"I wish you would have told me before. I would have helped you."

"I didn't want to upset you. You know? I didn't want to add something else. You're sad enough as it is."

She pulls me close, tucking my head in the cradle between her chin and shoulder. I close my eyes and sink into her, calmed by the steady beat of her heart.

"Peyton, I will protect you any way that I can. But you need to tell me how you want me to help. I can go to the school. I can talk to the police. I can hire a lawyer. I need to know what you're comfortable with. You've been through enough already."

I nod and say, "I'll think about it, okay?"

"Okay, sweetheart." She kisses me on the forehead. "I will fight for you. We're all here for you."

She says that, but I'm so alone.

I wish Pax were here.

*****

I stumble in a daze upstairs to my room. I want to crawl into bed and never come out, but I don't. Something pulls me to the closet.

On my tip toes, I run my hand blindly along the upper shelf until I find the battered Nike shoe box tucked back in the corner. I lift it out and set it down on the floor.

My heart is thudding hard in my ribcage. It's mostly stuff I kept that my parents don't know about. His baby blanket. A few old team photos. I rummage and find it at the bottom. His Bible. He gave it to me before he died. "I think this will help you," he said. "I know it's helped me."

I was angry at God, bitter, so I refused to open it. I'm still angry. Still bitter. I stuffed it in the box and haven't touched it since.

I thumb through it, not knowing exactly what I'm searching for. That's when it falls out, a note written in his hand. It says "To Peyton" on the outside. My heart races. He must have left this for me. A last goodbye. But I can't open it. I just can't bring myself to read it. I lay in bed for a long time, just holding it.

*****

I wake up after sleeping for several hours. I can tell by the sun's position that it's afternoon. I'm disoriented. Then I remember the article. The aftermath.

I look down at the folded paper that's still in my hand.

"To Peyton." Carefully, I tuck the letter back into the Bible and then place the book in the drawer of my nightstand.

My phone dings, so I pick it up and see that I have several text messages, all from Jack. The one he just sent reads, I'm here.

He must have heard about, or worse, read the article. He wants to see if I'm okay. There's a soft knock at my bedroom door.

"Peyton?" Emma calls.

"Yeah, come in," I answer back, voice groggy.

"Jack Chaplin is here," she says, standing in my doorway.

"Did you let him in?" I ask, hoping she told him I'm asleep. I'm too humiliated to see anyone right now.

She walks over and looks out my window. "I offered," she says, shrugging, "but he said he'd wait on the front porch."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know." She comes and sits on my bed. "I think he's worried about you. Said he tried to reach you on your phone, but you weren't responding."

"Okay, let me get dressed. Tell him I'll be down in five."

"Okay." She nods, gets up, and walks to the door, looking over her shoulder at me once before closing it.

I scrub my face and brush my teeth, throw on a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, and my Longhorns trucker hat.

"Beautiful afternoon." Jack greets me the moment I step out onto the porch.

It is a beautiful day. Sun and cool air that smells like pine needles.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Nice day for a game of catch," he says.

I sigh. "Okay, let me get my shoes."

As we're walking down our gravel driveway, he's staring straight ahead, tossing the football lightly up in the air to himself.

"So, I take it you saw the article?" I ask.

He nods his head, silently. "It's all over social media."

"I didn't peg you for the Insta type, Jack."

"Yeah, I don't check it much. Some of the guys on the team were blowing up my phone about it. Wondering if it's true. That's how I found out."

"What did you tell them?" I ask.

"That it's a bunch of horse shit."

I nod. Grateful.

"Go long." He points to a distant spot on the horizon.

I take off running down the road, and he sends the ball sailing into the sky. I connect with it easily over my shoulder. It's a perfect pass.

"You should go out for QB," I call to him.

He shakes his head. I wait for him to catch up to me, watching his effortless stride. He walks right up to me, his eyes worried. Something's on his mind. "You need to report what happened, Peyton," he says softly.

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"That thing with Cash."

"You mean when he..."

"Yes, when he attacked you." His eyes flash with anger at the memory.

I scoff. I just want to forget it ever happened.

"It's a crime, Peyton. I looked it up. And even worse, he's eighteen." He sets his jaw like he does when he thinks he's right.

"So?"

"So, you're not. That means he can be charged with a much more serious crime...if you report him to the police."

"No freaking way am I going to the police."

"Peyton, it's always better to be honest. If you tell everyone your side of the story, then all these rumors are put to rest." He's making a huge effort to be sensitive, but the way he's clenching and unclenching his fist tells me he's frustrated.

I take a deep breath and look him in the eye, knowing full well he's not going to like what I have to say. "I can't tell the truth, Jack."

"Why not?" He cocks his head. "It's most always the case that the truth is better than a lie."

"I can't!" I close my eyes and shake my head. "I can't admit that he got to me. That I was his victim. That I was weak..." My voice cracks under the pressure building in my throat. Tears sting my eyes. Jack takes off my hat and hugs me close.

I'm sinking into him, sobbing quietly. I never want to let go.

Why can't I be a normal girl? With a normal life. And long hair. And a boyfriend who protects her. Why do I have to be such a freak?

"It's not weak to be attacked by a predator. You didn't do anything wrong."

"That's not the point. They'll find something. They'll make it about me, not him. And what about Marshall? If they think he did have a reason to hurt Cash, then what happens to him?"

He steps back, holds onto my shoulders, and looks into my eyes. "That was just football. Payne will be fine."

"Well, yeah, football. But...when he found us, Marshall went ballistic on Cash."

"Wait, he found you? What do you mean found you?"

"I was in there. Changing. Alone. You guys were showering on the boys side. Cash caught me off guard, pinned me against the lockers. I tried fighting..." I can't continue. I might totally lose it if I do.

"God, Peyton. You didn't tell me that."

I stare at the ground because I can't look at him. "It's not something I want to relive."

"He was going to rape you," he says, mostly to himself.

"Marshall came in and threw Cash into the lockers...before he..." I close my eyes as the memory flashes into my head. I feel nauseous thinking about what would have happened if he hadn't come in.

He hugs me to him again. "I'm so sorry, Peyton. I wish I'd known."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, bury my face in the safety of his chest. "I can't let Marshall be punished...for protecting me."

He's quiet for a long time, arms around me. Then he steps away and puts the hat back on my head, slightly askew. "I understand. But you should probably get your story straight with Marshall. They'll ask for both your stories, and the two sides gotta match."

He's right. The person I have to protect is not me.

It's Marshall.