Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ANDI
After Jackson’s boat was found, the vultures in the media fed on that carcass for less than two weeks before they moved on to the next scandal…
the next distraction. I thought it was bad at the time, living through that constant visual reminder while the daily search was underway.
Sensationalized reports about his family’s philanthropy and his meteoric rise in politics permeated the airwaves between updates from the search crews.
It was like witnessing a train wreck in real time.
I was glued to the television for days, unable to look away while simultaneously being disgusted with myself for entertaining all the lies.
When the search was called off, he was presumed dead because of where they found his yacht.
All kinds of experts came out of the woodwork, claiming there was no way Jackson could have survived the elements or the marine life.
They praised the workers for their hard work but assured them that nothing else could be done.
The boat was deemed too far offshore for the capsize to be attributed to anything but natural causes.
Like so many others, the open ocean claimed Jackson’s life, and his body would never be recovered.
But I needed to see his body.
I needed proof of his death.
Knowing his body wasn’t found has caused more anguish than I care to admit.
This latest hit has been harder than a jab to my face.
It’s been more like a repetitive big right hook that slips around my guard and lands firmly on my jaw.
The KO is coming any time now. I’ve felt the pressure building during the complete silence of the last several weeks.
Until now. But I’m beginning to understand exactly how dirty they’re willing to fight.
They’ll hit below the belt, causing irreparable damage, without blinking an eye.
This coordinated attack isn’t about Luke’s boxing license.
That’s a formality. A pawn is being moved on the board as part of a bigger strategy.
Someone is after his career. His life. They’re showing me they can destroy him without breaking a sweat.
They’re waiting for me to throw in the towel.
But I still don’t know who “they” are or what “they” want from us…
other than to see us suffer, our lives ruined, and everything we love snatched away from us.
Like the youth center where I’m currently sitting in the parking lot, delaying the inevitable as long as I can.
Before I reach for the door handle, I pull my phone out of my bag for a quick check.
I needed this time without distractions, but now I’m distracting myself with something other than going inside.
My phone has one unread message. Luke sent it at six-fifteen this morning, before he left for the gym.
I love you. Call me when you're done.
It's the right thing to say. It's everything he should say.
What it isn't: I’m on my way. You’re not doing this alone.
I know he can't say those things right now. I understand the calculation. I even agree with some of it, which is the part I haven't told him yet—that Marin might not be wrong about the strategy even if she's wrong about everything else.
But understanding something and being okay with it are two different countries, and right now I'm standing at the border with no visa.
This is how it starts.
I put my phone away and walk through the door.
After Marin left yesterday, Luke soon followed her out the door for his afternoon sparring session.
Mack has him on a punishing schedule, and normally, I would be a key component of that program.
Every time Luke’s endurance holds out, Mack ups the ante, and Luke starts back at square one.
By the time he gets home, he can barely keep his eyes open long enough to shower.
The training exhausts him mentally too. Mack tests his fighter’s strategy and ability to read his opponent to the breaking point.
Complete physical and mental exhaustion doesn’t leave much capacity for tactile discussions.
So I’m here to face the board and fight for my place, helping the kids I love dearly.
Alone.
I’ve been in a similar situation before and survived.
But this is a different kind of alone. Luke still sleeps by my side, but he has to decide whether to go along with Marin’s plan to carve me out of his life.
Just a short time ago, Brandon was one of my biggest supporters.
But as of last night, he was pushing Luke to accept Marin’s counsel, as if I weren’t even in the room.
I’ve never felt so alone… even when they’re with me.
I’ve delayed my entrance as long as I can, so I take a deep, cleansing breath and walk through the front door as if I own the place.
Everything is the same as when I last left it, yet nothing is the same.
The rooms are full of chatter, games, and laughter.
But instead of being in the middle of the action, I’m watching from the sidelines.
The hallway feels longer than it should as I walk toward the conference room.
Conversations stop as I pass. Eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before looking away, just enough not to make it uncomfortable…
for them. Others flash their pointedly concerned faces—eyes drawn in the corners, tight lips that suggest a grimace more than a smile, and heads tilted slightly to the side.
But the question of guilt lingers in the air between us.
The boardroom at the youth center has always felt like home.
In fact, I designed everything here to create a welcoming atmosphere because I didn’t want any other tone in this building.
The kids deal with enough conflict when they’re away from here, so the environment we provide during the few hours they’re here matters.
Every room, every interaction, every aspect has been intentionally crafted to be hospitable and accepting.
Today, this room feels like a glass box, and I’m the insect being dissected under the microscope.
Marin is already here, sitting beside Brandon at the long table. She isn’t technically on the board. She isn’t voting. She’s “advising” as part of her role as an image consultant and crisis manager. Brandon is here as support, but I’m not sure yet if that’s for Marin or for me.
That word that keeps circling the drain in my head. Advising. Influencing. Persuading. Controlling. Everything feels and sounds like Jackson Rhoades. Will I ever get him out of my head?
The audit letter I received is projected on the wall.
There’s very specific language outlining the expectations of our financial oversight.
There are questions stated as concerns about our fiduciary diligence.
Then, there’s the heavy hitter line: the community's confidence in our programs, what we’re teaching the kids, and what they’re learning by example.
The donors look nervous. They’re not being accusatory.
They’re concerned because their names are tied to this, the same as mine.
They’ve seen how I’ve been skewered in every published story, online forum discussion, and social media post by overnight legal experts and keyboard warriors.
They don’t want to be next, and they don’t want the center shut down because of public scrutiny.
Marin speaks softly, but the room quiets around her.
“This is manageable,” she says. “However, any perception of continued or escalated conflict could speed up funding hesitation from your donors and sponsors.”
I keep my hands flat on the table.
“What perception of conflict?” I ask.
“The perception that personal relationships may influence financial structuring.”
She’s not issuing an accusation against me. She’s suggesting the public may reach their own conclusions and turn against us even more.
One thought keeps swirling in my head. I built this place from scratch.
I balanced every ledger myself for years because I refused to give anyone leverage.
I’ve poured my heart, soul, and time into every square inch of this building, and even more so into the kids who walk these halls.
Even to infer I’ve done anything remotely inappropriate boils my blood, but I keep my feelings and thoughts to myself.
I’ve become adept at keeping my face and voice utterly expressionless.
It’s not wise to keep my feelings bottled up, or so I’ve been told. Marin wasn’t the one who told me that, though.
“You’re implying I mismanaged funds,” I say evenly.
No one answers right away, but no one will meet my direct gaze, either.
“No,” Marin replies finally. “I’m suggesting critics will.”
“Every dollar is accounted for,” I say. “Every program is documented. There’s nothing here to question.”
No one disagrees.
That’s not the problem.
She shifts her attention to the other board members. The same way she shifted her attention to Luke last night. “The fastest way to protect the organization is temporary distance from any figure currently under regulatory review.”
The air changes. I feel it immediately, as it squeezes the oxygen from the room and replaces it with unbearable tension.
Every board member is looking at me differently now.
They’re not thinking I’m guilty of any wrongdoing.
They’re thinking I’m a risk… and their responsibility is to manage that risk to the youth center.
But most of all, they’re thinking they have to minimize the risk I pose to their reputation, credibility, and future.