Breaking the Ice before the truth comes out

BELLA  The saxophones are getting louder again. They always do, right before I wake up. It's slow at first. Distant. Like music drifting through fog. Then sharper. Closer. Wrapping around my throat until breathing feels impossible and every exit disappears beneath panic. I wake with a gasp, fists tangled in my bedsheets. Sweat clings to the back of my neck despite the air conditioner humming above me. My chest aches from the force of my heartbeat. No amount of cold air can fix this kind of heat. This heat comes from guilt. For a moment, I just stare at the ceiling of my dorm room, trying to convince myself I’m here and not there. Not standing under flickering streetlights outside Morrison Hall while Rose Lin trembled in front of me with blood running down her face. My stomach twists. I throw the covers off and stumble toward the bathroom before the memory can fully settle in. The shower water is freezing when it hits my skin, but I barely react. I grip the edge of the sink afterward, staring at my reflection through droplets sliding down the mirror. Rose had looked so small that night. Tiny. Shaking. Terrified. She’d rejected him, and apparently that alone had been enough to make her life a living hell. First came the harassment. Then the threats. Then the assault. And when I investigated it, when I dug through witness statements, campus records, party footage, and every buried rumor I could find, I discovered exactly who was responsible. The eldest son of the Ross family. Rich, connected, and untouchable. I’d thought exposing him would matter. Instead, the internet ripped Rose apart piece by piece. People questioned her clothes. Her drinking habits. Her intentions. The university buried the investigation quietly, and within weeks, Rose was expelled for “behavioral violations.” She disappeared after that. No goodbye. No justice. Nothing. Just silence. I press trembling fingers against my eyes. That case changed everything. After Rose, I stopped writing harmless campus pieces. No more coffee shop reviews. No more festival coverage. No more carefully edited articles designed to keep the university comfortable. I built my reputation exposing institutional failures instead. Sexism. Harassment. Corruption. People started calling me Bella the Equalizer like it was some kind of joke. But lately, another name has been circling campus louder than mine. Chase Carter. I leave the bathroom wrapped in a towel and reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up instantly with the same video I’ve replayed at least thirty times this week. A grainy recording from an off-campus hockey party. A girl is crying, and people are shouting. A crowd pushes closer, and Chase Carter is grabbing the girl’s arm while she struggles against him. Even through the terrible quality, he’s recognizable immediately. The university’s golden boy. Star hockey player. Projected NHL draft pick. Campus obsession. The video has been everywhere for over a week, and yet somehow, nothing has happened. No official investigation. No disciplinary hearing. No transparency. Just a vague statement from the university asking students to “avoid spreading harmful speculation.” Convenient. I sit cross-legged on my bed, opening tabs and documents across my laptop screen. If the university won’t investigate properly, I will. Hours pass without me noticing. Campus directories. Archived class lists. Old student forms. Social media accounts. By the time I finally find the girl’s name attached to the incident, the sky outside my dorm window has started turning gray. Lila Grant. My pulse quickens as I stare at the number attached to her student profile. I hesitate only briefly before typing. Hi. My name is Bella Moreno. I’m a student journalist investigating the incident involving Chase Carter. I want to hear your side of the story if you’re willing to talk. I reread the message three times before pressing send. Almost immediately, anxiety settles heavily in my chest. Most girls never answer messages like this. Some are scared. Some are ashamed. Some have already learned the hard way that speaking publicly only makes things worse. Especially when powerful men are involved. I glance at the time. 3:12 a.m. The campus outside my dorm is silent, but my nerves are loud enough to fill the room. Then my phone vibrates. A response. My breath catches. Not a text. A voice note. My fingers shake slightly as I press play and lift the phone to my ear. Static crackles first. Then breathing. It's uneven and frantic. And finally, a girl’s voice. “I didn’t mean for…” The message cuts off. Deleted. A second later, the number disappears entirely. I've been blocked. I stare at the screen, my pulse pounding violently now. Whatever happened that night, Lila Grant is terrified. CHASE I know I’m not guilty. That’s the part nobody understands. The internet talks about innocence like it’s supposed to feel clean. Simple. Like if you’ve done nothing wrong, you should sleep peacefully at night. But I haven’t slept properly in days. The empty road stretches endlessly ahead of me as I run through the cold darkness just past four in the morning. My lungs burn with every breath, but I push harder anyway. Faster. Like outrunning exhaustion might somehow silence everything in my head. Streetlights blur past. My hoodie sticks to my back with sweat despite the freezing air cutting against my skin. Since the video leaked, my life has become a carefully managed performance. The university wants me to be quiet. Sponsors want me polished. My PR team wants me smiling. The media wants me destroyed. And the worst part is that none of it has stopped the season. I still have practice. I still have games. I still have interviews. Everywhere I go, people stare at me like they’re trying to decide which version of me they believe. The charming hockey captain? Or the violent asshole from the internet? Maybe neither of them is real anymore. I slow to a stop near the edge of campus, bending forward with my hands braced against my knees. My chest tightens painfully. Not from running. From memory. Lila’s face flashes through my head again. Red eyes. Shaking hands. Her voice cracking when she grabbed my wrist that night. “Please don’t tell anyone.” I squeeze my eyes shut. I could’ve exposed everything. Could’ve told the truth immediately. Could’ve dragged another player’s name through the mud instead of letting suspicion settle on me. But Lila had looked terrified enough already. And somehow, protecting her felt more important than protecting myself. Now I’m not even sure it mattered. By the time I finally get home, dawn is beginning to bleed across the horizon. I shower quickly, letting hot water pound against the back of my neck while my thoughts spiral endlessly. Today’s game suddenly feels insignificant. Something is shifting. I can feel it. Like the moment before ice cracks beneath your feet. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure if I can keep control of what happens next.