Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
LUKE
Brandon doesn’t knock the way normal people knock. He pounds on the door as if he’s announcing himself to a stadium.
I open the door before he can do it again. I’m not in the mood, and everything feels like nails on a chalkboard.
He steps in with his usual energy, big shoulders, loud presence, filling space the way he always has. Behind him, Marin Caldwell follows at a measured pace. Dark blazer. Hair pulled back. No jewelry except a thin watch.
She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t linger. She just enters. There’s something deliberate about the way she moves, as if she’s aware of where every object sits and what it says about the people who live here. She shakes my hand once. Firm. Measured. Efficient.
“Andi,” Brandon says, softer than usual. “Are you okay?”
Andi nods once. “I will be.”
Marin offers her hand. “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances,” she says, her voice composed and low, carefully balanced between sympathy and detachment. It’s composed in a fashion that feels intentional, as if nothing about her presentation is accidental.
“Thank you for coming so quickly. Have a seat so we can talk through your suggestions.” Andi motions to the couch.
Marin quickly takes in the living room. The open laptop on the coffee table, news alerts still flashing across the screen, and two coffee mugs untouched since the headlines broke.
She’s forming her assessment of us. This is not the demeanor of someone who’s merely curious.
She takes a seat on the couch, but her posture is controlled.
Her movements are measured, right down to her facial expressions.
Her demeanor is absolute. Her bearing leaves no doubt that she’s equally exact in all aspects of her life. Her job is her identity.
“I looked at the Commission notice,” Marin says, setting her bag down neatly next to her on the floor. “And the Youth Outreach inquiry.”
I watch Andi’s posture tighten slightly at the word “inquiry.” It conjures flashbacks to her bogus confinement and the psychological damage that forced it. Now she associates it with being stripped of the ability to help the most vulnerable people.
Marin notices the subtle change in Andi’s stance. It seems she notices everything.
“It’s procedural,” she continues. “But procedural doesn’t mean harmless.”
That’s the first honest thing anyone’s said all morning.
Brandon drops into a chair. “Tell them what you told me.”
Marin folds her hands loosely in front of her. “This isn’t about what’s true or false. It’s about what sticks first. You’re not fighting facts. You’re fighting narrative formation.”
I don’t like that phrase.
“And narrative forms fastest in silence,” she adds. “Or in panic.”
Andi crosses her arms, not in a defensive posture, but in a contained, controlled way.
“So, what’s the move?” I ask.
Marin doesn’t hesitate. “You narrow exposure.”
There’s that mindset being thrust upon us again.
Narrow the focus. She’s not advising us to eliminate the threat.
She’s not saying we should try to defend ourselves against the lies.
She’s simply saying we have to make ourselves smaller to be less of a target. What does that mean we have to give up?
She continues calmly. “No joint appearances for a few weeks. No unscripted interviews. No reactive social posts. Let the review stabilize before you give anyone additional footage to manipulate.”
The word “manipulate” hangs in the air.
“And I’m the footage,” Andi says quietly.
Marin turns toward her fully for the first time.
“You are emotionally compelling,” she says. “That makes you powerful. It also makes you easy to frame.”
She delivered it the way she delivered everything else—measured, unvarnished, but not as an insult.
It’s an expert assessment from someone who has managed political crises with cool, steady precision.
Even if it’s an honest assessment and a valid tactic, Andi’s physical response to her words feels like a gut punch to me.
I can’t protect her from this. I can’t protect her from what I can’t see coming.
I feel my chest tighten with dread. If Andi is seen as powerful by those who want to destroy our lives and emotionally compelling to everyone else, this fight won’t stop until she’s no longer a threat.
“She’s not unstable,” I blurt out before I mean to.
Marin meets my eyes evenly. “I didn’t say she was.”
But she doesn’t say she isn’t, either. One thing I’ve learned since training under Mack is that I have to watch for what’s not there as much as for what is. I’m seeing those same things in my day-to-day interactions more and more.
Brandon leans forward, shrugs one shoulder, and softens his face. “It makes sense, Luke. Just for now.”
Just for now. Put my life with Andi on hold “just for now.”
“We need to assess and respond to the Commission politics for Luke too.” Brandon looks between Andi and me. The concern in his eyes is palpable.
“Their investigation is not random,” she says calmly after assessing the Commission language.
My chest constricts.
“You’re sure?” Andi asks.
“Yes.” No hesitation. “This is classic escalation through procedure.”
Her phrasing makes Andi go quiet.
Marin continues. “Your mistake right now would be an emotional reaction.”
I bristle slightly. She doesn’t flinch.
“Emotion creates footage. Footage creates and feeds the narrative. The narrative drives the story and gives plenty of fodder to convict you before a shred of evidence is presented. Strong reactions make good clips, even when they’re used out of context,” she says. “Those clips are forever.”
Marin opens her laptop and turns it toward us.
“Public opinion is already trending toward a conflict of interest,” she says, pulling up a graph.
“That doesn’t mean people think either of you did anything wrong.
It means they’re starting to connect your names.
The Youth Outreach inquiry gives critics language to work with—enough to suggest an overlap of transgressions, even if none exists. ”
“If you appear publicly united right now, the overlap becomes the story. The narrative becomes that your personal relationship is interfering with professional judgment, especially when you’re both embroiled in potential scandals.
If you challenge this too aggressively, the response shifts to your behavior rather than the accusations. Either way, you lose credibility.”
She looks at me, not at Andi. “You’ve worked too hard for that fight to let optics derail it. Perception matters more to the public than truth. A public relationship amid dual crises makes you less credible.”
There it is—the pressure point we have to contain.
The answer that makes sense to Brandon, and it’s exactly what he’s trying to get me to accept.
I glance at Andi. She’s still, but not angry.
She’s thinking, but her face remains expressionless.
And that scares me more than if she’d started shouting.
Because I know Andi. I know her heart. I know her generosity. I know exactly what she’s thinking and feeling by her expression, the way she tilts her head, or the way she bites her lower lip. But I’ve never seen her face completely devoid of any emotion.
Marin closes her laptop. “You don’t fight this with outrage. You fight it with containment. You make yourself boring,” she says. “That’s how you survive this part.”
That word feels too familiar—like an ominous déjà vu I can’t put my finger on. Containment feels a lot like restraint.
Marin doesn’t ask permission to move to the kitchen table. She simply does, and we all follow without hesitation. She slides her laptop open again, as if she’s done this in a hundred houses before ours.
Brandon stands behind her, his arms folded, watching as if she’s about to perform something impressive. Andi stops near the kitchen counter. She’s not hiding. She’s just not sitting… or interacting with us yet.
Marin glances between us once before she starts typing.
“You need to say something,” she says, tone measured. “But you need to say very little.”
I lean forward. “Define ‘very little.’”
“Enough to appear cooperative, but not enough to create new angles for anyone to use against you.” She types as she talks. The sound of the keys is steady, controlled, like a metronome. When she lifts her fingers from the keyboard, she turns the screen toward me.
The word “DRAFT” is a watermark behind the statement. It feels a lot more like a brand, though.
I welcome the Georgia State Athletic Commission’s routine review and remain fully committed to transparency.
My focus remains on my upcoming fight and on fully cooperating with any inquiries.
I am grateful for the support of my team and sponsors during this time.
I read it twice.
It’s neutral. Clean. Professional. There’s nothing wrong with it—and that’s exactly what bothers me. and it doesn’t defend or accuse, doesn’t explain or warn. It simply exists, polished and final, like a decision already made somewhere I wasn’t invited to be.
“Andi isn’t mentioned,” I say.
Marin folds her hands loosely. “Correct.”
“And why not?”
“Because the inquiry is not officially about her.”
Andi’s jaw tightens slightly.
Marin continues before either of us can respond. “Introducing additional names expands narrative territory. The less you feed speculation, the less it grows.”
I look at Andi. She isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at the statement. Specifically, her absence in it.
“She is my team,” I reply, slightly above a whisper.
Marin nods. “Privately. Absolutely.”
The word hits me wrong, like a gut punch when I’m not looking.
Privately.
“Publicly,” she continues, “your priority is discipline. The Commission wants focus. Sponsors want stability. Someone who is emotionally compelling doesn’t fit the optics either party requires.”
“And I look unstable with her next to me?” I ask.
Marin’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You look distracted. As I said, that makes you less credible.”