THE GOLDENBOY FALLS
"Nayla, you're live in thirty seconds."
Marcus's voice crackled through my headphones. I pulled the microphone closer, checking my levels one more time. The studio was small, basically a closet with soundproofing and a mixing board that still had sticky keys from three years of iced coffee spills, but it was mine. For the next hour, at least.
"Got it," I replied, clicking my pen against the desk out of habit. A nervous tic I couldn't break.
The campus radio station sat in the basement of the communications building. Three in the afternoon on a Wednesday meant my show, "Real Talk with Nayla," pulled maybe two hundred listeners on a good day. Most of them were probably working out in the gym, half-listening while they ran on treadmills. But I didn't care about the numbers. I cared about the truth. And on campus, truth was becoming a luxury.
The theme music swelled—lo-fi hip-hop that I'd chosen specifically because it felt honest. Unpretentious. Not like most of the polished garbage that played on the university's main station.
"Welcome back to Real Talk," I said, settling into my voice. Calm. Direct. "I'm Nayla George, and we're here to talk about what actually matters."
I should have known something was wrong when my phone started buzzing before I'd even finished my intro.
Not one notification.
Dozens.
Nayla. Check Twitter.
Nayla, are you watching?
Did you see what happened?
I frowned, keeping my voice steady as I moved through my first segment about campus housing policy. But my thumb was already unlocking my phone under the desk. A habit that would have gotten me fired if Marcus saw it, but Marcus was in the control room, and I was fast.
Twitter was chaos.
My feed was exploding, not with retweets or comments about my show, but with a video. A viral video. The kind that takes over everything in minutes.
I clicked.
A dark video. Grainy. Shot on someone's phone, clearly. The audio was muffled, but the action was clear. Two bodies slamming against a wall. Fists connecting with skin. A moment of pure, brutal violence caught on camera. And at the center of it all, unmistakable even in the poor lighting, was Beck Ryder.
My stomach dropped.
Not again.
I kept talking. Something about affordable housing, about student rights. My voice sounded normal. Steady. Like my hands weren't shaking. Like I wasn't watching the video loop again, and again, and again. Beck's face contorted with rage, his fist raised, another student-athlete crumpling against the concrete.
The memories came flooding back. Not the video, the real thing. Two years ago, my brother Julian was limping home from the locker room with blood on his jersey and a future that would never exist. The way my mother had cried when the doctor said the injury was permanent. The way my father had just... left. Like if he didn't watch it happen, it wouldn't be real.
"We're looking at systemic failures," I heard myself say. "When institutions protect people instead of people, when powerful figures get second chances but everyone else is dispensable—"
My phone buzzed again. A text from a number I didn't recognize.
You should see what people are saying about Beck. Check the comments.
I shouldn't have looked. But I did.
He's a monster.
Lock him up.
This is what Frostford hockey produces.
Not surprised. Two years ago he destroyed Julian George's career. Now this. Beck Ryder is a walking assault investigation.
That last one wasn't in the comments. That was going to be.
I could feel it building inside me like a wave. Three years at this radio station. Three years of careful, measured journalism. Three years of interviews and investigations and trying to tell stories that mattered.
And Beck Ryder had always been the gap in my reporting. The story I couldn't tell. The wound I couldn't touch without bleeding on air.
Until now.
"You know what I find interesting?" I said, my voice sharper now. Angrier. I wasn't reading from my notes anymore. I was speaking from the place that had been raw and infected for two years. "Frostford hockey players get away with things ordinary students never could. They get protection. They get benefit of the doubt. They get second chances that most of us don't even get first chances at."
Marcus was probably waving his hands in the control room right now. This wasn't my prepared segment. This wasn't careful. But I couldn't stop.
"Beck Ryder is the perfect example. A guy with a suspicious habit of ending up in assault investigations."
I said it clearly. Deliberately. The words hung in the studio air like they'd always been there, waiting for me to finally voice them.
Click.
I hit the button to cut to a commercial break. My hands were shaking now. Actually shaking.
"You good?" Marcus's voice in my headphones sounded concerned.
"Yeah," I lied. "Fine. Just... passionate about the topic."
The commercial aired. Sixty seconds of car insurance ads and local restaurant promotions. Sixty seconds for me to breathe. Sixty seconds before my phone started lighting up like a fireworks show.
Not listeners. Not social media. But an email.
From the university. From Dean Whitmore's office.
Ms. George, we need to meet with you immediately regarding your broadcast. Please come to the administration building. This is urgent.
