Chapter 17
JADE
Boston hits different in winter.
Like the cold has personality.
Like the wind has something to say.
Friday morning after Thanksgiving, we pile into the rental SUV—Mom, Dad, my little siblings snoring under blankets in the back seat—and drive toward the city with the sun low and pink on the horizon, the air sharp as bitten apples.
Christmas lights are already wound around every lamppost. Wreaths hang from brownstone doors like the whole place is auditioning for a holiday movie.
And honestly?
It kind of is.
The second we check into the hotel—warm lobby, fireplace crackling, garlands twined up the banister—I feel my shoulders drop for the first time in months.
A little kid squeals as he runs across the marble floor.
Some business guy in a suit is FaceTiming his grandmother.
My little brother, Max, asks if we can go ice-skating later, and my sister Lily keeps pressing her nose to every glass ornament we pass.
It feels… normal.
Or as close to normal as my life gets now.
Before we left the Cape, Aunt Susan hugged me at the door and whispered, “Go make memories with your family. I’ll hold down the fort. And don’t wait up tonight—I won’t be.” Then she winked like a teenager sneaking out past curfew.
I swear I felt my jaw hit the ground.
“SUSAN,” I whispered.
“What? I’m allowed to have a life, Jade.”
“You’re… going on a date?”
“That’s for me to know and you to guess.”
“Do I know him?”
“You do not, and that’s all I’ll say for now.”
She gave me a proud little pat on the cheek.
“You inspired me, sweetheart. Watching you fight for yourself… reminded me I’m allowed to want things too.”
I carried that with me all the way to Boston.
We step out of the hotel and the cold hits like a slap—clean, salty, alive. The wind coming off the Charles River has teeth, but it smells like something I can’t describe except: potential.
We walk the city like tourists.
Because that’s what we are.
And honestly? It feels amazing.
We eat at a New Orleans-style seafood place near Faneuil Hall—crab cakes and spicy gumbo that warms my bones. Musicians play jazz outside, even with freezing fingers. My dad insists on walking off dinner through Quincy Market even though the rest of us are stuffed and shivering.
Street vendors sell handmade scarves.
Chestnuts roast in big metal drums.
Someone dressed as a Nutcracker salutes every kid who walks by.
Boston is… beautiful. Chaotic. Cozy. Old and new and proud.
We do the Duck Tour—yes, the cheesy amphibious boat thing, and yes, it’s ridiculous—but Lily laughs so hard she hiccups and Max keeps mooing at pedestrians because the guide said it’s “tradition.” Mom gets misty-eyed. Dad’s snapping photos like he wants to remember the exact shape of this day.
And then—
Harvard.
We take the T (which is basically a metal can that screams underground). It smells like wet wool sweaters, pennies, and a kind of permanent dampness that somehow feels nostalgic.
Harvard Square is lit up with shops, book carts, and students in scarves rushing to who-knows-where. My siblings chase pigeons. Dad buys coffee from a street vendor that tastes like burnt heaven. Mom takes pictures of the old brick buildings like she’s trying to memorize them.
But it’s the vibe that gets me.
The buzzing ambition.
The feeling like everyone is going somewhere important.
I catch myself thinking:
I want this. I want a future. I want a life that’s bigger than everything that’s happened to me.
Saturday morning is colder.
The kind that bites your lungs when you first breathe in.
But BC’s campus looks like a Gothic postcard—stone towers, stained glass, lawns dusted with early frost.
The minute we step onto the quad, something in my chest shifts.
Like… this.
I want this.
A place where I could reinvent myself.
A place where the only thing people know about me is how hard I work and how much I want it.
A few athletes are on campus for break—some soccer girls, a couple runners—and they offer to show me around. They’re relaxed, friendly. Real. Exactly the kind of people I want on my team.
“So,” one of them asks, “you’re the girl from RI? The one everyone’s talking about?”
I tense.
She lifts her hands.
“No judgment. Honestly? Respect. You must be tough as nails.”
I swallow my surprise. “Something like that.”
They take me to the training rooms, the gym, the locker rooms. Everything smells like turf and laundry detergent and potential victories. I touch the BC crest painted on the floor and feel chills.
Not fear.
Hope.
The head coach meets me after.
Sharp eyes. Firm handshake. No nonsense.
“I’ve seen your reels,” she says. “You’ve got talent. Raw speed. Field vision. You don’t fold under pressure.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter.
She studies me.
“I know about the… incidents,” she says carefully. “I know it wasn’t your fault. But universities get nervous when a player’s name is linked to controversy. So here’s the deal.”
My heart pounds.
“Keep your nose clean. Keep training. Get more tape. Join a travel team here. And we’ll talk in the spring. I had someone enter the portal, so I might have a spot.”
My mom squeezes my hand. My dad grins like I just won the World Cup.
The coach continues:
“Your job is simple: prove you’re exactly who your film says you are. A workhorse. A competitor. Grit over glamour.”
I breathe out. “That’s me, Coach. I wasn’t born with money or connections. Every single achievement I have is sweat and late nights and refusing to quit. I’d be honored to play here.”
Something softens in her eyes.
“We’ll be in touch.”
We stay one more night in Boston.
The hotel glows with Christmas lights.
We eat hot pretzels and cannoli from a food cart by the harbor.
For a little while, I forget:
Royal Oaks.
Slime.
Litigation.
Leo.
I’m just Jade Bryan.
Daughter. Sister. Athlete.
A girl in a city with her family in the soft glow of the holidays.
And when we go to bed that night—Lily curled between my parents, Max muttering in his sleep about wanting more cannoli—I take a moment by the window.
Snow is falling.
Soft.
Almost gentle.
Boston hums below me.
Alive.
Hopeful.
For the first time, I let myself imagine a future that isn’t defined by pain.
Maybe even—
AI film it sitting on the windowsill of the hotel, Boston glowing behind me like a Christmas postcard. The city is soft with falling snow, the lights of Quincy Market blinking like tiny galaxies. I’m wearing a hoodie. No makeup. Hair slightly messy from walking in the wind with my family all day.
I don’t script it.
I don’t rehearse it.
I just… hit record.
The video opens with my breath fogging the glass as I stare out at the skyline.
“Hey. It’s me. Jade.”
I laugh under my breath—soft, self-conscious.
“I don’t usually know how to start these. I’m not an influencer. I’m not… whatever people think I am now. I’m just a girl trying to figure her life out.”
A beat.
The city lights shimmer behind me.
“But this week—this whole month, honestly—it made me realize something. So this is for every bully victim out there. Every girl, every guy, every kid who’s ever felt small. Invisible. Targeted. Destroyed.”
I swallow, eyes flicking away for a second.
“Once you leave that bubble—the school, the town, the people who think they have power over you—you realize how big the world is. And how small they actually are.”
My voice gets steadier. Stronger.
“You can start over anywhere. Anywhere. Boston. A new school. A new state. A new team. A new room with a squeaky couch and two depressed goldfish in a bowl. Literally anywhere.”
I lift the little leather-bound journal I bought in Chatham and wiggle it at the camera.
“I bought this journal. I’ve been writing. Not to be aesthetic or whatever, but because I needed to remind myself that my story isn’t over. Every page I fill is proof I’m still here. Still fighting. Still deciding who I want to be.”
My chest feels tight. But good tight, like something unclenches.
“And this—this video diary—is my love letter. To all of you. To anyone who’s ever woken up with dread in their stomach because their face was turned into a meme. Because one bad moment became a hashtag. Because a screenshot lived longer than your reputation.”
I look straight at the lens.
“You can start again. You can start again every day if you need to.”
Snow falls harder outside. It makes everything feel quiet and holy.
“Here’s the truth I’ve learned,” I say softly. “People who bully you? They’re not powerful. They’re not confident. They’re not happier than you. They’re hurting. They’re jealous. They’re insecure. They’re lost. And making someone else feel small—temporarily—makes them feel bigger.”
I shake my head.
“But that’s temporary too.”
A breath.
A smile.
The tiniest flicker of hope.
“Look… I’m in therapy. And yeah, I’m not too cool to admit that. I needed it. Badly. And maybe you do too. There’s no shame in that. Zero.”
I lean closer to the camera.
“You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not what they said you were. Pain is temporary. Shame is temporary. Harassment is temporary.”
I lift my journal again.
“But this?
This is permanent.
Your story.”
I flip it open to a blank page.
“And you get to write the next chapter. Not them.”
Something in me feels like it’s lifting—like wings unfurling.
“Tonight my family and I walked through Boston. We ate seafood and rode a Duck Boat with freezing faces and took pictures in front of giant Christmas trees. No one knew me. No one pointed. No one whispered. I wasn’t the scholarship girl. Or the bullied girl. Or the slime girl. Or Leo Holt’s ex.”
A small, shaky laugh.
“I was just… Jade. And it felt good. It felt like breathing.”
I wipe at my eye, snow glow catching the motion.
“So maybe tomorrow, try it. Unplug. Put all your phones in a basket on the counter and just… be with your people. The ones who truly care about you.”
My voice turns into a whisper.