Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Like I said, the rest is just noise.
6
MADDISON
Ihaven't moved from my desk in two hours. My eyes burn from staring at the screen, but I can't look away. Can't process what I'm seeing.
"Holy shit," I whisper, hitting pause on the third video.
The skinny boy on screen looks nothing like my husband. Nothing. This kid is all awkward angles and too-long limbs, hunched shoulders, eyes cast down. He might be fourteen, but looks twelve at most. The timestamp confirms it's from fifteen years ago.
My phone chimes for the twentieth time in as many minutes. Anya.
"Maddie, are you seeing this?"
"I ... yeah. All of it." My voice sounds strange even to my own ears.
"Seven videos so far. More coming in. Apparently Sebastian's middle school classmates had quite the collection."
"Why now?"
"Conscience, maybe? Or they saw Kyle's bullshit video and couldn't stay silent. Either way, this changes everything."
I hit play again. The skinny boy—Sebastian—is trying to open his locker when Kyle appears, flanked by two other boys. Even then, Kyle had that same smirk, that same sneering voice, that same punchable face.
"Hey, Clayboy. Still can't read the combination? Maybe if your dad was just a little bit present, you'd have more brain cells."
Young Sebastian says nothing, just keeps trying the lock.
Kyle slams his hand against the locker. "I'm talking to you, dipshit."
Sebastian flinches but stays silent. The video goes on for three more excruciating minutes—Kyle knocking Sebastian's books to the floor, shoving him against the lockers, making crude comments about Sebastian's mother.
Not once does Sebastian fight back.
"There's more," Anya says. "Much worse ones. The library. The cafeteria. Behind the gym."
I close my eyes, but the image of that vulnerable boy burns behind my eyelids.
"Sebastian never told me Kyle was his bully," I say.
"Did he know it was the same Kyle?"
"He must have. Kyle recognized him immediately that night."
My inbox pings with another video link. I hesitate before clicking. This one's from the school gymnasium. Sebastian, still painfully small, sits alone on the bleachers. Kyle approaches with a cup of something. Pretends to trip. Dumps the entire contents over Sebastian's head.
Chocolate milk. It drips down his face, soaks his clean shirt. The camera shakes with the videographer's laughter.
"Sebastian just ... takes it," I whisper.
"Different person back then," Anya says. "Before hockey. Before he grew to his full height and gained eighty pounds of muscle."
"Why wouldn't he tell me?"
"Ask him yourself. I've got to coordinate with the team. This is blowing up."
After she hangs up, I stare at my phone. The notifications keep coming—media outlets, social media mentions, journalists seeking comments. Within hours, the narrative has completely flipped.
Sebastian isn't the unprovoked aggressor anymore. He's the bullied kid who grew up, made something of himself, and then protected his future wife from the same tormentor.
It's PR gold. Vindication served on a silver platter.
So why does my chest ache and I just feel like doing nothing but cry?
Public opinion shifts like a flock of starlings—all at once, in perfect synchronization, as if controlled by a single mind. By noon, Kyle's reputation lies in ruins.
Every media outlet runs the story. Childhood bully confronts former victim. Victim defends his woman from verbal assault.
Context really does change everything.
My professional side watches with satisfaction. This is perfect crisis management—organic, authentic, emotionally resonant. Sebastian's endorsement partners are calling to reaffirm their support. The team's social media accounts overflow with messages from fans and anti-bullying advocates.
Kyle's social media has gone dark. Smart move, but too late.
But beneath my professional satisfaction sits something deeper, more personal. Those videos. That boy. The transformation from there to now.
I close my laptop and head upstairs.
Sebastian's in his home gym, punishing the heavy bag. Sweat glistens on his shoulders, across his back, his hair sticking to his forehead and neck. The tattoos ripple with each impact. He's everything that skinny boy wasn't—powerful, confident, imposing.
He sees me in the doorway mirror, stops, and turns. The way he looks at me makes me feel like crying, and I don't cry often. My breath stutters, and I blink back furious tears.
"Hey." He grabs a towel and wipes his face. "You okay, baby?"
"You never told me Kyle was your childhood bully."
He goes still, then nods once. “Mm, how did you find out?"
"Seven videos flooding the internet so far. Your former classmates have been busy, posting.”
Sebastian strips off his gloves and tosses them aside. "I wondered if anyone kept those. I always assumed they took and kept the videos so they could have something to laugh at after class."
"Why didn't you tell me? When all this started, when he was taunting you that night … why not just say it?"
His Adam's apple bobs as he takes a long pull of cold water. "Sit with me?"
We settle on the bench against the wall. His body radiates heat beside me, muscles still twitching from exertion. Sweat still trickling in rivulets down his cheeks and arms. I can't reconcile this powerful man with that fragile boy. But my heart breaks all the same.