Chapter 12 "So...what do you think?" Fisher asks, spreading his arms wide and spinning around with a flourish as we step onto the sand at Baker Beach. I smile. It's a beautiful, blue-sky day, and the late October sun is warm on my shoulders. The air smells like salt, the views of the Golden Gate Bridge are amazing, and I'm...content. "I love it," I tell him. "Pretty amazing to be able to go to the beach right in the city." "Makes me grateful I wasn't drafted by Winnipeg or something." Fisher mock-shudders, then grins. Like me, he grew up in the Atlanta area and then attended USG right after, so I imagine living on the California coast is as much of a novelty to him as it is to me right now. "How was practice?" We begin to wander down the beach, busy with people lounging around, playing frisbee, jogging in the sand, and enjoying the gorgeous view of the bridge against the horizon. I'm not working until three today, so when Fisher texted to ask if I'd like to make the most of the sunshine when he finished with practice this morning, I jumped at the chance. I've barely seen my roommates all week with my new work schedule picking up and the guys having two away games in a row, but I haven't been lonely. My busier teaching schedule means I've gotten to know Cora-my fellow dance instructor at Golden Gate Grooves-better, as well as some of the moms whose daughters attend my classes. Paige's mom, Andie, is one of my favorites. Kind, warm, and welcoming in a way that reminds me of my own mom. Fisher grimaces. "It was rough." "Oh no." I click my tongue sympathetically. "Coaches punishing you for the back-to-back losses?" Fisher gives me a jokey little shove. "Don't remind me of that, Ally," he groans, but then his playful expression turns serious. "Nah, it's more this jerkoff on the team named Justin Sandine who's pissing everyone off." Sandine. That's what Noah called the guy hitting on me at the party last week. "I've met him," I say tightly, my hand tensing around the coffee cup I'm holding. "My condolences." Fisher snorts, his forehead creasing. "So then you already know what a dick he is. He's being ridiculous, putting his ego before the good of the team and taking out all his frustrations on Downsby." "He doesn't like Noah?" I ask, blinking up at Fisher against the midday sunlight. "Nope." He pops the p on the word. "Not one bit. Decided on day one that Noah hadn't earned his spot on the team and had gotten there because his brother-in-law is the coach." "That's so stupid and blatantly untrue." I recall the guys mentioning that Mitch Anderson-Andie's husband-is the Lions' coach. I hadn't really thought about how that might affect Noah negatively until right now, but I get it, and it makes my heart ache for him. Having a famous stepdad has made a lot of people think doors open for me because of the last name-Callahan-that I took after my parents got married, and not because of all my hard work. It was one of the biggest issues I faced back at college. I kept Dad's name quiet, but people inevitably found out, and when I got the starring role in the performing arts department's dance showcase my sophomore year, there were many upperclassmen who thought it was because of who my dad was, rather than how well I danced. And then of course what happened when I came back to school this fall made that assumption even worse. "Tell me about it," Fisher seethes. "That guy works harder than anyone I know. Never takes a moment to have fun or let off steam or go on a date or even hook up with someone. It's like he's married to his damn hockey stick. And don't get me wrong, you know I love my sport, but jeez, I have a life outside of it. And I think Downsby should, too." "He doesn't...hook up?" Fisher gives me the side eye. "That's what you took from my entire spiel?" "He lives right across the hall from me," I retort. "Good to know if I need to start wearing headphones at night." But even as I say this, I turn away to hide my blush. It's not that I care who Noah does-or doesn't-hook up with. It's just that the way he looks at me confuses me. It's like he tolerates me, at best, while my other two roommates seem to actually enjoy having me around. But then on the flipside of that, he's the only one of the guys who looks at me in the way he does. In a way that makes my stomach flip every time those dark eyes rake over me. In a way I haven't felt since before... "As far as I know, there's no need for that. Noah's been a monk for as long as I've lived with him, at least." Fisher chuckles, the sound dirty. "But my and Penn's side of the apartment, on the other hand..." I snort and hold up a hand. "Please say no more." He smiles at me before looking down and kicking at the sand in front of him. He's quiet for a couple of paces before he starts, almost hesitantly, "And hey, while we're on that topic...I've been trying to find the right opportunity to check in with you, but we haven't really had any time alone until now." He looks over at me, his usually playful green eyes etched with concern. "You holding up okay, kiddo?" "I am, for the most part," I tell him. Archibald Fisher is the only other person who really knows what happened that night. "Better than I was before I moved out here." Fisher's mouth twists. "I'm still in some USG group chats and I-um, I heard what was being said about you when this semester started." At his words, I close my eyes, and he quickly adds, "We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want." "No, we can." I swallow. "We probably should." We stop walking and sit down on a clear patch of sand. Fisher twists his baseball cap backwards and turns to look at me. I look down at the sand, drawing patterns with my finger. "But first things first, those rumors aren't why I left." Painful as it was, I could handle the whispers behind my back calling me a cheater and a slut. I could even handle all my friends turning against me, revoking my invite to live with them. But what I couldn't handle was Tyler Whelan being my dance partner again this semester. I couldn't pretend everything was okay and let him smile at me...put his hands on me. The thought alone makes me want to puke. I breathe out slowly. "I just needed to get away from him." "Did you ever report what happened?" Fisher asks slowly, like he's choosing his words carefully. "There was nothing to report." "Allegra." Fisher looks me in the eye, dead serious. "That asshole assaulted you; what do you mean there was nothing to report?" My mom was always candid with me about sex, and she has taught me about the importance of consent-and the importance of a man having full consent from you before anything happens. I know as clearly as my own name that what was happening with Tyler when Fisher found us was not consensual. But as terrifying as the whole situation was, nothing actually happened, in terms of being report-worthy. Fisher burst into the room before Tyler did much to hurt me physically. And it's not like he dragged me up there to that bedroom against my will to begin with. And on top of that, it was me who kissed Tyler first. Me who agreed to go upstairs with him, willingly taking his hand. Me who apparently led him to think I wanted to have sex with him when we got upstairs, when all I wanted was to find a quiet place away from the party to talk to him, kiss him. "Come on, Allegra, stop acting like you suddenly don't want me to touch you." "Loosen up, already...you really think I buy you acting all frigid after a whole semester of you teasing me, dancing so close to me, moving in a way that you knew made me want you." "You did this to me." I cringe, trying to block out the awful memories. "We were just making out, and then he tried to take things further than I was comfortable with." I dig my fingers further into the sand, so cold and damp beneath the warm, dry surface layer. "But he didn't end up forcing me to do anything..." I look over at him gratefully. "All thanks to you." "I should have killed him." A ruddy flush spreads over Fisher's pale cheekbones as he grits his teeth. "Scum of the earth asshole." I'm forever thankful for Fisher happening to be walking past the door of the bedroom Tyler and I were in. He heard me begging him to stop. Heard me saying no. And he didn't waste a second throwing the door open and wrenching Tyler off me, pushing him against the wall. After throwing him out of the house, he came right back to check if I was okay. I was drunk and confused and utterly mortified. I turned down Fisher's request to call the cops. Then I also said no when he asked if he should go find my friends for me. I assured him I was fine, and I just wanted to be alone. So he obliged, helping me get outside and get into a cab safely-but not before putting his number in my phone and telling me to call him if I ever needed anything. Five months later, I made that call when I had nowhere else to turn. And it's how I ended up right here, right now. "And for the record," Fisher goes on. "I still think you should report him. But that's up to you, and I support you no matter what, whatever you ever choose to do." His words are kind, but I've done my research. If I reported anything, it would ultimately be my word against his. We were all drinking that night. Tyler was-still is-a USG golden boy, beloved by everyone there. He didn't injure me, and I initially went upstairs with him willingly. Oh, and it turns out he had a girlfriend at the time it happened. One he insisted he'd broken up with but actually hadn't. A bitter girlfriend who now hates me because she thinks I tried to hook up with her boyfriend behind her back and would vouch for Tyler. Chances are, saying anything would lead to me being even more humiliated and having to continually relive the memory of him grabbing my wrists and sliding his hands up my shirt, of his rancid breath in my face as he hissed foul insults at me, as people looked me in the face and called me a liar. "I'm eternally grateful for how you handled the whole thing," I tell Fisher with a decisive nod. "You were my saving grace that night, and then you were also nice enough to let me move in with you guys." "Lucky for me you're turning out to be a damn good roommate." Fisher, understanding the conversation about that night is over, smiles and slings an arm around me. He pulls me into a friendly hug. "You know I've always got your back, Ally. You're like a little sister to me at this point, so whether you like it or not, you're stuck with me now." I smile at him thankfully. It's nice to have a friend, especially one who knows I'm not any of the things people back at USG say I am. Things are looking up. We stand up from the sand and stretch. I repeat these four little words to myself over and over as I hug Fisher goodbye and decline a ride to work, opting to walk there and savor the sun on my face a little longer. As I walk, I quickly realize that my attempt at a sunshiny new outlook is clouded by thoughts of Noah. It sucks that he's having issues with his teammates, although it kind of explains why he's so full of doom and gloom all the time. But it doesn't explain why he's always extra grumpy around me. Discover our latest featured short drama reel. Watch now and enjoy the story!