27. Wren
WREN
By the time Professor Cartwright opens the floor for discussion, I’ve already filled several pages of notes.
Today’s lecture has been all about PR fallout—what happens when athletes become the scandal.
Substance abuse, infidelity, assault allegations.
The kind of headlines that shift public perception overnight.
Cartwright focused mostly on how organizations handle the backlash, the cleanup, and the spin.
Not the actual human wreckage underneath.
Lucian’s been uncharacteristically quiet beside me.
His normal running commentary and sarcastic asides notably absent.
I’ve gotten used to tuning him out while he does his best to distract me—he’s a terrible student—it’s no surprise he’s barely scraping a pass in this class.
However, since the professor announced the topic of today’s lecture, he’s been slouched in his seat, hood up, jaw tight as he stares at nothing on the wall opposite.
At the front of the room, Professor Cartwright taps the edge of the podium. “Alright, let’s open this up. Thoughts? Reactions? Anyone want to weigh in on how public opinion can shift so drastically before facts are even confirmed?”
A hand shoots up three rows ahead. “I mean…it’s kind of messed up, right?” the guy says. I think he’s on the football team. “All it takes is one accusation and boom—career’s over. Doesn’t even matter if it’s true.”
Someone else snorts. “Yeah, especially if it’s a girl accusing a guy. He’s guilty the second she opens her mouth.”
Another voice jumps in. “Didn’t that happen to that high school football player like ten years ago? The girl lied about being raped—he did time, lost his scholarship, and she admitted years later that she made the whole thing up.”
“I remember that,” the first guy says. “Brian something, right? Totally wrecked his life.”
“Yeah, so who’s protecting him?”
Around the room, heads nod. The energy shifts—righteous, almost smug. Like they’ve found a loophole in the idea of believing survivors. Like this one story negates all the others.
My pen stills in my hand.
Something cold and ugly coils inside me.
Because I get it. I do. False accusations are a real problem. And yeah, they’re infuriating, but not for the reason most of these guys seem to think.
They’re not just damaging to the people who get wrongly accused—they’re a slap in the face to people like me. People who’ve lived through the real thing. Who already fight every day to be believed. To be taken seriously. To not feel like a burden or a liability or a goddamn cautionary tale.
A guy near the front of the hall snorts. “Anyone else notice how it’s always women making those claims? You never hear of a man wrongly accusing a woman.”
The room buzzes with murmurs. There are a few nods. A few eye-rolls.
Jesus, give me strength. This is the problem with being in a sports communication class that, unfortunately, is comprised primarily of male athletes. Zero fucking ability to think before opening their stupid mouths.
Or God forbid they just keep their trap shut altogether.
Like men don’t get hurt. Like they don’t get violated. Like the narrative only ever runs in one direction.
“Let’s be real,” another student pipes up, and from his arrogant tone, I already know I’m going to hate whatever bullshit he’s about to spout.
“It’s not like men can be sexually assaulted.
Especially not players.” He scoffs like the idea is entirely preposterous.
“What girl is overpowering a six-foot brick house of an athlete?” Laughing, he nudges his buddy beside him.
I want to slap the smug as fuck look off his stupid face.
A couple of people chuckle. Not cruelly. Worse. Casually, like what he said is some harmless observation.
My vision sharpens at the edges, because this—this—is how it happens. We start by talking about false accusations, and it somehow turns into a debate over who is allowed to be a victim. As if strength cancels trauma. As if size equals consent.
I think of how many men never say anything because they already know how this conversation ends. With jokes or disbelief. Or worse, high fives and claps on the back, like they won something.
Every lie chips away at the rest of us. Every headline about some girl crying wolf makes it harder for actual victims to speak up.
All victims.
Beside me, Lucian has gone utterly still.
Locked-still. As though he is fighting against every muscle in his body to not react.
His shoulders are drawn back like steel cables pulled too tight. His jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grind. The muscle in his cheek jumps once. Twice. He’s vibrating. Actually vibrating, like his rage has nowhere to go and is eating him alive from the inside out.
A quick glance at his hands confirms they’re curled into fists, his knuckles white and nails biting so fiercely into his palms that I can already see blood welling.
The ignorant student laughs again, oblivious to the impact of every idiotic word that comes out of his mouth. “I’m just saying, if a guy’s built like a tank—”
Lucian’s chair scrapes against the floor, the noise sharp enough to cut the guy off. My heart slams into my throat as every head in the lecture hall turns our way. Lucian stands slowly, his hands braced against the desk, gaze zeroed in on the guy talking.
“Connor,” he states, voice low and deceptively calm. It’s somehow more terrifying than if he’d shouted. “You passed out at the Gamma Sig party last month, right?”
The guy—Connor—blinks, caught off guard. “Uh…yeah. Why?”
Lucian’s lip curls into something vicious, and I know he's about to cut this dipshit down with only his words. A rarity for Lucian, since he’s prone to solving problems with his fists, but some kinds of pain don’t bleed out through bruises. They demand words be wielded like weapons.
“So what you’re saying is…if someone had wanted to, they could’ve unzipped your fly, grabbed your little pocket prick, had a nice fondle, and you wouldn’t have even woken up for it?”
Connor recoils. “What the f—”
“Or maybe slipped a hand down the back of your pants, stuck a finger up your ass while you were out cold.” Connor gapes at Lucian in shocked horror, like he can’t believe Lucian is suggesting such a thing. It truly drives home just how fucking dumb this idiot is.
“Still think it’s funny?” Lucian’s voice is louder now, threatening. There’s a dangerous edge to his words. “Still think it’s impossible for a man, an athlete, to be assaulted?”
The room is deathly still, everyone watching the stand-off with wide eyes. Good to see they are all paying attention. Perhaps what Lucian is saying will actually penetrate their roid-infused brains.
Connor stares at him, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief, like he can’t comprehend the reality Lucian has just laid out for him. But isn’t that the point? No one can imagine that happening to them until it does. We all think, Oh, I’m not that person, but no one is that person until they are.
Smacking his hand against the table in utter fury, Lucian’s breath comes hard and fast through his nose, chest rising and falling like he’s holding back a scream.
“You don’t get to decide what counts as assault just because it hasn’t happened to you, or because you think you’d be man enough to fight back.
Until you experience it, you don’t get to have a fucking say. ”
Silence.
There is absolute fucking silence as Lucian drops back into his chair. Heat radiates off him, and I can tell, despite his outburst, he’s still boiling with rage inside.
No one dares look toward where we are sitting. One guy rubs the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed to exist. A girl near the front blinks hard, as if she’s seeing the conversation through new eyes.
I shift sideways, pressing my thigh against Lucian’s, my hand sliding onto his forearm beneath the desk and gripping hard in a bid to anchor him. His body is coiled like a spring under my touch. I can feel the violence of what he’s holding back, the words still clawing at his throat.
He doesn’t look at me. He’s staring straight ahead, eyes dark and feral, breath coming shallow and fast, like if he opens his mouth again, it’ll all come spilling out—everything he’s trying so hard to lock down.
The professor clears his throat, floundering. “Right…okay, I think—we’re going to end the discussion there for today. Pick this up fresh tomorrow.”
As the rest of the class packs up their belongings and hurries to leave, sending the occasional loaded glance our way, Lucian remains motionless in his chair. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He’s no longer here with me. His mind has gone somewhere else entirely.
Unable to follow, I do the only thing I can; I sit with him, my hand on his arm, and I don’t let go.
Lucian has been my safe place more than once. Now, it’s my turn. Whatever pain is clawing at him, it’s old, buried deep, and bleeding through the cracks. I know that kind of storm. I’ve lived in it. Drowned in it. And if all I can do is sit here and hold his hand, then I’ll hold on for both of us.
I’ve lost track of how much time has passed.
Lucian hasn’t moved or spoken a word. His fists remain clenched, his breathing shallow, and his body is so rigid it may as well be carved from stone.
He might be physically present, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.
Locked someplace dark and private, someplace only he knows how to reach.
I remain close, my hand braced on his arm. A quiet reminder that he’s not alone. That I’m here, even if he can’t hear me through the storm.
Eventually, we are interrupted when the door into the lecture hall is pulled open. A fresh wave of students starts to file in, laughing and chatting as they move toward their seats. Their presence pops the bubble we’d been sitting in. Lucian flinches, almost imperceptibly.
“We should go,” I whisper, keeping my voice low.