on the couch in the living room of Reed’s house—or, rather, “our” house, as Reed keeps calling it—reading the final version of my article about Gates and his two enablers—the principal of my high school and Steven Price—before submitting it to CeeCee. And I love it. When I met with Leonard the day after telling my father about Gates, Leonard recommended I write this article as my best course of action—and reading it now, six weeks later, I never dreamed I’d write something this powerful.
“What’s your goal here?” Leonard asked me six weeks ago.
I replied, without hesitation. “I want to expose Gates and the men who covered up for him, so there will never be another Katrina, Penny, or Georgina at my high school.”
“Well, then,” he said, “if that’s your goal, then I don’t think walking into a police station and reporting you were the victim of an attempted rape almost five years ago would be nearly as effective as writing an in-depth, airtight account of what happened. Most people in your shoes don’t have a national platform like you do. Use it. I predict all appropriate dominoes will fall after that.”
So, that’s exactly what I decided to do: write my story, without holding back.
After our meeting with Leonard, Reed and I went straight to CeeCee’s office, where I told her about Gates, in detail. After that, after hugging me and saying some truly beautiful things to me, CeeCee immediately gave me the green light to write the article... provided I could get Katrina and/or Penny to contribute, on the record.
“Consider it done,” I assured CeeCee, brimming with confidence... and then quickly discovered my confidence was a bit premature. In actuality, when I tracked down Katrina and Penny, neither girl wanted to talk to me about Gates. Thankfully, though, after I told each girl about the other, and also about my own harrowing experience at the hands of Gates, both girls ultimately poured their hearts out to me... but only off the record. They said they wanted to take him down. They truly did. But they were scared to death they might have to pay Steven Price’s money back.
And that’s when Reed, my knight in shining armor, stepped in to save the day. He told both girls he’d cover any and all legal expenses arising from them speaking up and breaching their “hush money” agreements with Steven Price, and promised they’d never have to come up with that money. And that did it. Both girls agreed to take a leap of faith with me and let me include their courageous, heartbreaking, stomach-churning, no-holds-barred stories in my article.
And now, after six weeks of blood, sweat, and tears, not to mention daily pep talks to myself to be brave, I’ve finally finished writing my article. It’s a five-pager entitled, “Football at All Costs: How a Winning High School Coach Got Away with Sexual Assault with a Little Help from His Friends.” And I couldn’t be prouder of it. I read the article one last time, attach it to an email, and send it to CeeCee. And the moment I press send, a torrent of pride and relief surges inside me. Also, a touch of fear. But the good kind of fear. The kind that tells me I’m alive. It’s a one-of-a-kind moment for me. So, of course, I want to share it with Reed.
My heart bursting, I pick up my phone and tap out a text:
I just submitted my Gates article. I’m terrified, but mostly excited. I can’t wait to celebrate with you. Let me know the minute you’ve landed. XO
As I await Reed’s reply, I send the article to my father and Alessandra, and then wind up chatting with Alessandra on FaceTime. Alessandra gushes about the article. She tells me she loves me and is proud of me. And then, at my request, she sends me the latest mix of “Blindsided,” which, she says excitedly, Reed is planning to release in about three weeks. Finally, though, after about twenty minutes of chatting with Alessandra, my phone pings with a reply from Reed and I tell Alessandra I’ve got to go.
Reed: Landed. Coming straight home to celebrate. SO proud of you!
Me: Woohoo! Can’t wait to see you. I’ve been dying without you here.
Reed: I’ve been miserable without you, sweetheart. Can’t wait to touch you. I’m not going to make it two steps past the front door before I rip your clothes off.