Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
JADE
The smell hits me before the sight does—sickly, sour, rotting.
At first, I think it's just something in the air. Maybe trash nearby. Then I see it.
My Mini.
My sweet, slightly battered, high-mileage escape pod—stuffed to the brim with dead fish.
Dozens of them. Gutted. Staring. Their glassy eyes reflect the late afternoon light like some grotesque, mocking army.
My knees nearly buckle.
A group of students huddles nearby, phones out. Clicking. Recording. Whispering.
"Guess Leo’s done with his little charity case."
"Should’ve seen it coming—he always trades up after Thanksgiving."
"Fish? Really? That's savage."
I can’t move. My hands are fists at my sides. My jaw aches from clenching.
The fish weren’t just a prank—they were a message.
You were never one of us.
Someone shoves me lightly as they walk past. “Told you it was on when he was done.”
The words scrape like gravel against my raw skin. My breath catches, thick with humiliation.
And yet—I don’t cry.
I refuse to cry.
Not here. Not in front of them.
Instead, I pull out my phone, hands shaking only slightly, and start recording. I circle the car slowly, letting the camera capture every detail. The stench is overwhelming, curling in my throat like a curse.
“Evidence,” I mutter to myself, barely loud enough to hear over the rush in my ears.
Because this? This isn’t just bullying.
It’s harassment.
It’s targeted.
And it’s the final straw.
I can feel it—the shift in my spine, the snap of something inside me that had been bent but not yet broken. I’ve taken the bruises. I’ve walked the hallways with eyes on my back and whispers trailing me like smoke.
But this?
No more.
Not one more day of letting them control the narrative.
Not one more step of walking with my head down like I belong beneath their shoes.
Not when I’m finally good enough for college ball.
Not when Coach believes in me.
Not when I still have something left to fight for.
Someone in the crowd snickers. “You gonna cry, scholarship girl?”
I raise my chin, meet their gaze, and smile.
“Nope,” I say calmly, pressing stop on my recording. “I’m gonna press charges.”
And with that, I turn on my heel and walk straight toward the administration building, fish guts and all.
Let them watch.
Let them laugh.
But I’ve got claws too.
And I’m done hiding them.
A hand grabs my elbow, gentle but firm. Coach Roman.
“Hey,” she says, voice low but fierce. “Come with me.”
I blink. I don’t argue.
She leads me back inside, past the stares and muttered jokes. Through the back entrance of the gym and into her office. The door shuts behind us. The world goes quiet.
“I heard,” she says, not looking at me as she pulls two water bottles from a mini fridge and hands me one. “What happened out there was disgusting. And I already submitted a report to the school board. But we both know that’ll take weeks to resolve. Maybe more. You okay?”
I nod. Lie. “Yeah.”
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are sharp. Clear.
“Jade, I played D1 soccer. I know what this kind of targeting looks like. But let me tell you something—you don’t survive girls like that by shrinking down.
You survive by being better. And you, kid, are better.
I’ve had calls from BC. From Northeastern.
From coaches who don’t just want tape—they want you on campus. ”
I blink again. “Wait, what?”
“They like your game. Your grit. That goal you scored yesterday? I sent it to my old assistant coach at Northeastern. She thinks you're scholarship-worthy. But you’ve gotta keep your head in the game. No missing practices. No slipping on your grades. No quitting.”
I take a breath. It’s like oxygen for my soul.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t thank me,” she says. “Earn it. Now go wash off the stink. You’ve still got a future if you want it.”
Coach was right. I needed to wash off the stink.
But first, I walked the two blocks over to the police station and filed a report.
The officer behind the desk was young, distracted, and more interested in the leftover donuts on his side table than the fact someone had filled my car with rotting fish like it was some mafia warning.
Still, he handed me a clipboard.
“Name?” he asked without looking up.
My pen hesitated for only a second.
“Jade Morgan Bryan,” I said.
The lie rolled off my tongue easily. It had to.
Real name? Real identity? That belonged back in the life I’d left behind. The one I was running from. The one that still had reporters sniffing around and lawsuits half-written. That name came with too many strings—and too many people who’d love to yank them.
He typed it in like it was nothing.
And just like that, the paper trail began.
I signed, filed, and left without giving it another thought.
Not realizing that little slip of a name—so carefully constructed—was the thread that would begin to unravel everything.