Conflict Accepted
1197 Words
I slept exactly two hours.
Not because I was anxious—though I was—but because my brain refused to stop assembling arguments like it was prepping for trial against my own conscience. Every time I drifted, I saw a split screen: the case on one side, the man on the other. Facts versus feelings. Precedent versus impulse.
By morning, caffeine was the only thing keeping me upright.
Margaret called at eight sharp.
“Joan,” she said, voice brisk, efficient. “My office. Now.”
I arrived with my notes organized and my expression neutral. If this was going to be a test, I would not fail it by looking unprepared.
Margaret gestured for me to sit. “We’ve reviewed the preliminary footage.”
“And?” I asked.
“It’s messy,” she said. “Crowded sidewalk. Poor angles. The alleged victim initiated contact, but the fall is unclear.”
“That helps,” I said carefully. “Legally.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Publicly? Less so.”
I nodded. “The optics favor the narrative of a temperamental athlete.”
“Exactly.”
She studied me. “You’re conflicted.”
I didn’t deny it. “I’m concerned about impartiality.”
“That’s honest,” Margaret said. “But honesty isn’t disqualification.”
I met her gaze. “It can be.”
She leaned back. “You’ve defended clients you disliked.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve defended clients whose values opposed yours.”
“Yes.”
“This is no different.”
I exhaled. “It is. I met him before the incident. Socially.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And I didn’t know who he was,” I said. “Which means my impression wasn’t influenced by his status.”
“That could cut both ways,” she said. “Bias exists whether you like the person or not.”
“I know.”
Silence settled.
“Here’s the reality,” Margaret said finally. “We need someone disciplined. Someone who won’t posture for cameras or grandstand in interviews. Someone who understands restraint.”
She paused.
“That’s you.”
My chest tightened.
“If I take this,” I said, “I do it by the book. No special treatment. No back channels. No blurred lines.”
“Good,” Margaret said. “That’s why I’m assigning you.”
I closed my eyes briefly, then nodded. “Understood.”
“Good,” she repeated. “You’ll meet him at ten. Conference room B. Media will catch wind by noon.”
As I stood, she added, “Joan—if at any point you feel compromised, you tell me. Immediately.”
“I will.”
I wasn’t sure I believed myself.
---
Jayden arrived early.
He stood when I entered the conference room, posture respectful, expression unreadable. No suit today—dark jeans, pressed shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to remind me of yesterday. Of the café. Of the easy laugh he hadn’t offered since.
“Counselor,” he said.
“Mr. Cole,” I replied, professional distance firmly in place.
We sat across from each other. The table felt wider than it was.
“I’ve reviewed the preliminary facts,” I began. “This conversation is protected by attorney-client privilege. Answer honestly.”
“I will.”
“Walk me through the incident,” I said. “From the moment you arrived.”
He did. Calmly. Precisely. No embellishment. No bravado.
He described a teammate being shoved. The insult that followed. The shove he delivered in response. The fall.
“I didn’t punch him,” Jayden said. “I didn’t kick him. I didn’t chase him.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“No.”
“Did you speak afterward?”
“I told him to back off,” he said. “That’s it.”
I took notes, eyes on the page.
“Were you aware of cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Did that affect your actions?”
He hesitated. “I thought about it. Then I thought about my teammate.”
I looked up.
“That matters,” I said.
He searched my face. “Is that good or bad?”
“Neutral,” I replied. “Context, not justification.”
He nodded.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I continued. “The prosecution will lean into your reputation. Aggression. Power imbalance. They’ll frame you as someone who should have walked away.”
“I could have,” he admitted.
“Correct,” I said. “And they’ll use that.”
“What do you think?” he asked quietly.
I met his gaze. “I think the law doesn’t require sainthood. It requires reasonableness.”
His shoulders eased slightly.
“But,” I added, “we are not discussing this outside this room. No statements. No apologies. No social media.”
“I don’t use it.”
“Good. And you will not contact the accuser.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“And you will not contact me unless it’s related to the case.”
A beat.
“Understood,” he said.
The word landed heavier this time.
I closed my folder. “I’m officially representing you.”
Relief crossed his face before he masked it. “Thank you.”
“This is not a favor,” I said evenly. “This is a responsibility.”
“I know,” he said. “And I won’t make it harder.”
“I hope not,” I replied.
As I stood, he said, “Joan.”
I paused.
“I trust you,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
Because trust, once acknowledged, changes things.
---
By noon, the headlines hit.
**WOLVES STAR UNDER INVESTIGATION**
**LATE-NIGHT ALTERCATION SPARKS OUTRAGE**
**LEGAL TEAM DECLINES COMMENT**
Phones rang nonstop. Emails poured in. The firm buzzed with that particular energy that only high-profile cases created—excitement thinly disguised as concern.
Maya appeared at my door with two coffees and a look.
“You okay?”
“I’m functioning,” I said.
She handed me a cup. “That’s lawyer for ‘barely.’”
I smiled faintly. “Media’s circling.”
“Of course they are. And for what it’s worth—” She lowered her voice. “You’re the right person for this.”
“I hope so.”
She hesitated. “And him?”
“I don’t get to think about him,” I said.
She gave me a look. “That’s not an answer.”
I didn’t respond.
---
That evening, as I packed up to leave, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
I stared at it.
Then I silenced it and slipped the phone into my bag.
Boundaries were not optional. They were necessary.
Outside, cameras flashed across the street. Jayden stood near his car, flanked by team security, expression composed, jaw set. He didn’t look at the reporters.
He looked at me.
Just once.
No smile. No plea.
Just recognition.
I turned away.
Because if I didn’t—
If I let myself linger in that look—
I might forget that the law demanded distance.
And desire had a way of closing it.
- Writer
