Chapter 29
JACKSON
Ifind him in the third-floor hallway of Pinewood Memorial Hospital, walking toward the elevators like he doesn't have a care in the world.
Dr. Richard Carson. Fifty-two years old, according to the hospital directory, Head of Emergency Medicine, respected and accomplished.
Rapist.
He's in his white coat, pristine and pressed, phone in hand. Probably texting his wife, probably planning dinner, probably not thinking about the woman whose life he imploded.
"Dr. Carson."
He turns, looks at me with mild curiosity. "Can I help you?"
"You raped Maya Rivera."
The curiosity vanishes. His expression goes blank. "I'm sorry, who?"
"Maya Rivera. Seven months ago. Supply closet on the second floor. You raped her."
"I don't know what you're talking about." He starts walking again, dismissing me like I'm nothing.
I step in front of him, blocking his path. "She reported you. Gave them everything. And yet, this hospital chose you."
"I don't know who you are, but you need to leave before I call security."
"She lost her job. Her apartment. Her sense of safety. And you're still here, still working, still wearing that white coat like you didn't destroy someone's life."
Something shifts in his expression. "Maya Rivera. The nurse." He has the audacity to smile. "She came onto me, got upset when I turned her down. The investigation cleared me."
The rage that's been building for days explodes in my chest.
"You're lying."
"The hospital would disagree. Now, if you'll excuse me—"
I raise my voice, letting it carry down the hallway. "Can I have everyone's attention?"
People stop. Nurses, doctors, visitors. Everyone turns to look.
Carson's face goes pale. "What are you doing?"
"This man right here..." I point at him, making sure everyone can see. "Dr. Richard Carson, Head of Emergency Medicine, raped one of your nurses seven months ago. Maya Rivera. She reported it with evidence, with witnesses, with a rape kit. And this hospital fired her and let him keep his job."
"That's a lie," Carson says, but his voice is shaking. "This man is mentally unstable—"
"Several sexual harassment complaints," I continue, louder now. "Filed against him over the past decade. This hospital settled them all quietly. Paid them off to keep them silent. How many more women has he hurt? How many more will there be?"
A crowd is forming now, phones out, recording. Carson's face is red, sweat beading on his forehead.
"You need to leave," he says. "Security!"
I grab the front of his white coat and slam him against the wall hard enough that his head bounces off the plaster. "You raped her."
"Get your hands off me, or I'm calling—"
"Call them. I don't give a fuck."
His face goes from red to purple. "She was nothing, just some nurse with a savior complex. Came crying to me about a dead patient, practically threw herself at me. I did her a favor—"
I punch him.
My fist connects with his nose, and I hear it crack, feel the cartilage give way. Blood explodes across his face, spattering his white coat. He staggers back, hands coming up instinctively, but I'm already swinging again.
This one catches his jaw. He tries to run, but I grab his coat and yank him back, before driving my fist into his ribs with all the force I can muster.
"You raped her." Another punch to his face. "You held her down." Another to his ribs. "She said no, and you didn't stop."
He's on the ground now, curled into a ball, trying to protect his face. I kick him in the ribs. Once. Twice. Then I hear something crack.
"She trusted you. Came to you for help. And you raped her in a fucking supply closet."
People are shouting, running toward us. I barely register them. All I can see is Carson's blood, all I can think about is Maya's face when she told me what he did to her.
Hands grab me, strong hands, multiple sets. Three security guards drag me away from Carson, who's moaning on the floor, face covered in blood.
"Let me go!"
"Sir, you need to calm down."
"He raped her! He fucking raped her, and you people did nothing! You fired her and let him keep working!"
They slam me against the wall and cuff my hands behind my back. But I'm still fighting, still trying to get free, still wanting to go back and finish what I started.
"You're under arrest for assault," one of them says.
Carson's being helped up by nurses, their faces shocked as they see the damage.
His nose is definitely broken, bent at an unnatural angle, blood pouring down his ruined coat.
One eye is swelling shut, and the orbital bone is probably fractured.
He's coughing, probably from the cracked ribs, and every sound he makes fills me with satisfaction.
"Call the police," he chokes out, spitting blood. "I want him arrested. I want him charged with everything."
They drag me to a security office and dump me in a chair. My knuckles are bleeding, split open from his teeth or bones. Don't know, don't care. The pain feels distant, unimportant.
The police arrive twenty minutes later.
"Jackson Anderson?" The officer looks at my ID, then back at me with recognition. "The hockey player?"
"Yeah."
"Want to tell me what happened?"
"No."
"You assaulted Dr. Carson. Multiple witnesses, security footage, and probably a dozen cell phone videos are already circulating online. You want to tell me why?"
"No."
They take me to the station, book me, take my fingerprints and mugshot, the whole humiliating process. I don't say anything, don't call anyone, just sit here in the interrogation room and stare at the wall, replaying the feeling of my fist connecting with his face.
A few hours pass, then the door opens, and a man in an expensive suit walks in.
"Mr. Anderson. I'm David Ross, attorney for the Hartford Wolves organization. The team contacted me after Ms. Rivera called them. Apparently, you listed her as your emergency contact."
"Yeah."
"She's the one Dr. Carson allegedly assaulted?"
"He raped her. Not allegedly. He raped her."
He sits across from me and sets his briefcase on the table with a heavy thud. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"I beat the shit out of the doctor who raped her."
He doesn't even blink. "Allegedly raped her."
"No. Actually raped her. She reported it, they covered it up."
"Mr. Anderson, Dr. Carson is pressing charges, and given the severity of his injuries and the number of witnesses, the prosecutor will likely pursue this aggressively." He pulls out paperwork. "You're looking at potential jail time, a criminal record, the end of your hockey career."
"I know."
"And you did it anyway."
"Yes."
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "The good news is, Dr. Carson has a history. There have been several sexual harassment complaints filed against him, as you know. Plus, Ms. Rivera's rape kit is still on file. If her lawyer is smart, they'll use this to reopen her case."
"Will it help me?"
"No. You still assaulted him. That doesn't go away because he's a rapist." He leans forward. "But it might help explain why you did it. The jury might be sympathetic, and the prosecutor might be willing to do a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"Depends. Best case? Probation, community service, and anger management. Worst case? Six months to a year in jail. You'd lose your captaincy either way, possibly your career."
The reality of what I've done settles over me like a weight, heavy and suffocating. My career, everything I've worked for since I was a kid, is gone because I couldn't control my rage.
But I'd do it again. In a heartbeat.
"Ms. Rivera is here," Ross says. "She posted bail. Do you want to see her?"
"Yes."
They process me out, give me back my phone, wallet, and keys. My hands are bandaged now. Someone cleaned and wrapped them while I was in the interrogation room, white gauze covering split knuckles.
Maya's in the waiting area. Chase is beside her, looking grim. She looks terrified, eyes red from crying, and when she sees me, her face crumples.
"Maya—"
She doesn't say anything, just turns and walks out of the station. Chase gives me a look—half concern, half you're an idiot—and follows her.
The drive back to Hartford is silent, tension thick enough to choke on. Maya's driving my truck, her jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. Chase follows behind us in his own car.
I stare out the window and try to figure out what to say, but there are no words that will make this better, no explanation that will undo what I've done.
"You could've gone to prison." Maya's voice cuts through the silence, flat and emotionless in a way that scares me more than if she were screaming. "You still might."
"I know."
"You could lose everything.”
"I know."
"For what? Revenge? To prove some point about being my protector?"
"To make him hurt the way he hurt you."
"He'll heal, Jackson." Her voice cracks. "In a few weeks, he'll be fine, back to work, back to his perfect life. But you? Your career might be over. You might spend the next year in jail. And for what? What did this actually accomplish?"
"I did it for you."
"I didn't ask you to!"
"I couldn't just do nothing—"
"Yes, you could have." She takes a shaky breath. "You could've supported me. You could've helped me find a lawyer to reopen the case properly. You could've been there for me without destroying yourself in the process."
"He was walking around that hospital like he didn't do anything wrong—"
"And now you're the one who looks wrong!" She slams her hand against the steering wheel. "Now you're the violent hockey player who attacked a respected doctor. Now, when people look up your name, they're going to find mugshots and assault charges. Is that what you wanted?"
"I wanted him to pay for what he did to you."
"He was never going to pay, Jackson. That's the reality I've been living with since it happened." Her voice drops lower. "Rich white doctor with connections versus a nurse with trauma? He was always going to win. That's how the system works."
"So I should've just let him get away with it?"
"You should've asked me what I needed!" She's crying now, tears streaming down her face.
"You should've talked to me before you drove to Pinewood and threw your entire future away.
Because now I have to live with this too, knowing that your career ended because of me, that you might go to jail because of what happened to me. "
"That's not on you—"
"It is on me!" She pulls over into a parking lot, turning my truck off. "It is on me because you did this for me. Because you love me. And now I have to carry the weight of your choices for the rest of my life."
Chase's car drives past us as I sit here watching Maya fall apart, knowing I did this, knowing my need for revenge might have cost us everything.
"I love you," I say quietly. "I love you, and I couldn't stand knowing he was still out there, still working, still living his life like he didn't destroy yours. Like what he did to you didn't matter."
"So you destroyed your own life to prove it did matter?" She wipes her eyes roughly. "That's not love, Jackson. That's ego. That's you deciding you knew what I needed better than I did."
"I wasn't thinking—"
"Exactly. You weren't thinking." She turns to look at me, her eyes red and swollen.
"There's a difference between protecting me and throwing away everything we have.
You made a choice today. A choice to risk your career, your freedom, our future together.
And you made that choice without consulting me at all. "
"I was trying to protect you."
"I don't need you to protect me!" Her voice rises. "I need you to be my partner. I need you to talk to me, to make decisions with me, not for me. I need you to understand that I've been fighting to reclaim myself, and you just took it away again."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Maya—"
"Do you know what it felt like to get that call?" She's sobbing now. "To hear that you'd been arrested? To realize that you'd lied to me about where you were going?"
"I knew you'd try to stop me."
"Of course I would've stopped you!" She slams her hand against the steering wheel again. "Because this was never going to end well. Because violence doesn't fix violence. Because throwing your life away doesn't give me mine back."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?" She looks at me with something close to desperation. "Because the lawyer told me you said you'd do it again. That you have no remorse for what you did."
"I don't regret making him hurt—"
"Then you're not sorry." She cuts me off. "You're sorry I'm upset. You're sorry you got caught. But you're not sorry you did it."
I want to argue, want to explain, but she's right. I'm not sorry for breaking Carson's nose, for cracking his ribs, for making him bleed on that hospital floor.
"I can't be with someone who thinks violence is the answer," Maya says quietly. "I can't be with someone who makes choices like this without talking to me. I've spent so long learning to take control of my own life, and you just made me feel powerless all over again."
"Maya, please—"
"I need time." She wipes her eyes again. "I need time to process this, to figure out what this means for us. Because right now I'm so angry I can barely look at you."
We sit in silence, the weight of her words crushing me.
"What happens now?" Maya asks finally, her voice hoarse from crying.
"Lawyer says the best case is probation. The worst case is jail time. Either way, I lose the captaincy, possibly my career."
"And Emma?"
"What about her?"
"She's going to find out." She touches the pendant through her shirt. "This is going to be all over the news. Hockey captain arrested for assaulting a doctor. They'll dig into why, they'll find my rape report, they'll connect the dots. I wanted to tell her myself. On my terms. And now that's gone."
She's right. The choice of when to tell Emma about the rape—it's been ripped away because I couldn't think beyond my rage.
"I'm sorry," I say again. "I'm so fucking sorry for all of this."
"I know you are." She starts the car again. "But sorry doesn't fix this. Sorry doesn't give you back your career. Sorry doesn't undo the fact that you lied to me and threw your life away without giving me a say in the decision."
We drive back to Hartford in silence, each lost in our own thoughts about what comes next.
And I just know that everything we've built is about to crumble, and I'm the one who lit the match.