On Wednesday morning, the class iPad woke up blank.
iPad Erased
It sat on the charging cart where I'd left it.
The alphabet stickers were still on the case.
Everything else was gone.
Nobody in Room 104 had touched it.
I checked the photo on my phone.
Still there.
Still sharp.
Wear the teal. Act surprised.
At 4:30 PM, I called the teachers' association lawyer.
The call was free for thirty minutes.
She used twenty-eight of them.
"A photo without the device is your word against his."
"Keep the original."
"Don't edit it, don't crop it, don't post it."
"Find something that backs it up."
"And if I sue him?" I asked.
"Eighteen months."
"Ten thousand up front."
I wrote it all on a sticky note and stuck it inside my planner.
That night, an email came from the Ospreys.
The club wanted to make things right.
Thursday, 3:30 PM, the players' entrance.
I almost deleted it.
Then I thought about fifteen parents at a fence.
An apology from a ballclub might make them look up from their phones.
At 3:30 PM on Thursday, a man with a lanyard met me at the door.
He had a golf tan and a very good smile.
"Todd Kimbrough."
"Partnerships."
"Callie, I am so sorry about Saturday."
"The club wants to make this right."
He held the door for me.
"On camera."
A player in shower shoes came past us with a protein shake.
"Hey, T."
"Hey, big man."
Todd didn't stop smiling to say it.
The clubhouse smelled like eucalyptus and sunflower seeds.
A backdrop stood between the lockers.
The Rebound logo ran across it forty times.
Twelve reporters stood in front of it.
Behind them, an Osprey Studios crew had a camera on a tripod.
The red light was already on.
Garrett sat at a folding table under the logo.
He had a pen in his hand.
The paper in front of him had a title.
Ambassador Agreement · $15,000
He signed it while the camera watched.
Everyone clapped.
Then he saw me.
He put his hand on his heart.
"Cal."
"Honestly, I'm glad you came."
He turned to the reporters.
"I hope she's getting help."
"Really."
Twelve heads swung around to me.
A reporter in a Panthers cap went first.
"Callie, did you track his location?"
Two players by the lockers laughed.
I didn't answer him.
Todd put an envelope in my hand.
It was cream-colored, with the logo in gold.
Rebound Date Night · $2,500
A typed sheet was clipped to it.
One sentence.
I'm grateful to the Ospreys and Rebound, and I wish Garrett well.
"Just read it into the camera," Todd said.
"Thirty seconds."
"Then everybody gets to move on."
The camera kid stepped closer with the lens.
At the end of the row, a locker door shut.
Rhett Langford walked over in shower shoes and a gray hoodie.
A bag of ice was taped to his right shoulder.
He didn't look at the reporters.
He didn't look at Garrett.
He put his palm flat over the studio lens.
"Her words."
"Not yours."
The red light glowed pink through his fingers.
The kid behind the tripod froze.
A big catcher at the next locker yelled it.
"Don't read THEIR words!"
Nobody laughed this time.
I read the sheet once, silently.
Then I folded it in half and handed it back to Todd.
He took it.
He had to.
I walked to the folding table.
Garrett's contract was still lying there.
The ink on his name was still wet.
I set the envelope on top of it.
"Keep it."
"You earned it."
Somebody in the scrum said "Oh," very quietly.
Todd laughed like we'd rehearsed it.
"Okay, great energy, everybody."
Rhett took his hand off the lens.
He walked me out.
The tunnel to the players' lot was concrete and cold.
Our footsteps came back to us twice.
"Tuesday got away," Rhett said.
"I was being dumped in a car line."
"I heard."
"Thursday, then."
"I don't need rescuing."
"Good."
"I need dinner."
I almost laughed.
It came out as a cough instead.
Behind us, a door banged.
Garrett came down the tunnel fast, talking into his phone.
"Yeah, babe, it went great."
He slowed as he passed me.
He didn't stop.
He leaned close enough for me to smell his cologne.
I'd bought it for him at Christmas.
"I wiped it at nine-fourteen."
"Show anyone, you're the girl who hacked her ex."
Then he was past.
Rhett turned to watch him go.
I didn't.
"Photos don't erase, Garrett."
He missed a step.
Just one.
Then he kept walking.
Nine-fourteen.
Tuesday night.
After Brody.
He knew what I'd seen.