Page 6 of Split Decision

I am grateful for the support of my team and sponsors during this time.

I read it twice.

It’s neutral. Clean. Professional. There’s nothing wrong with it—and that’s exactly what bothers me. and it doesn’t defend or accuse, doesn’t explain or warn. It simply exists, polished and final, like a decision already made somewhere I wasn’t invited to be.

“Andi isn’t mentioned,” I say.

Marin folds her hands loosely. “Correct.”

“And why not?”

“Because the inquiry is not officially about her.”

Andi’s jaw tightens slightly.

Marin continues before either of us can respond. “Introducing additional names expands narrative territory. The less you feed speculation, the less it grows.”

I look at Andi. She isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at the statement. Specifically, her absence in it.

“She is my team,” I reply, slightly above a whisper.

Marin nods. “Privately. Absolutely.”

The word hits me wrong, like a gut punch when I’m not looking.

Privately.

“Publicly,” she continues, “your priority is discipline. The Commission wants focus. Sponsors want stability.Someone who is emotionally compelling doesn’t fit the optics either party requires.”

“And I look unstable with her next to me?” I ask.

Marin’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You look distracted. As I said, that makes you less credible.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s positioning—reframing the situation to limit exposure and give no one new material to weaponize. Understand the logic of it. My brain tracks the strategy easily; this is her job, her expertise, and she’s been nothing but professional since she walked through the door. She isn’t wrong. That’s the worst part. Everything in her plan makes sense—and every step costs me something I didn’t agree to give. I

Even so, something in my chest tightens. Because even if it’s efficient, even if it’s correct, this statement doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like being moved without my consent. It feels unmistakably like betrayal.

Brandon speaks up, reading my mind through interpreting my facial expressions. He’s my brother and knows me far too well. “It’s only temporary, man. You post this, let things cool down, then you rebuild when circumstances are more favorable for you both.”

Cool down. Like we’re a fever… or radioactive and on the verge of a nuclear meltdown.

I read the statement again, as if extra words will suddenly appear to explain every lie that’s been told about us. But it denies nothing. It defends nothing. It doesn’t protect her.

It protects me.

I feel Andi’s eyes on me now. Not her angry eyes. I’ve seen those enough to recognize them instantly. She’s waiting to see what I’ll do, to hear my decision before she weighs in with her thoughts. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s weighing the odds of me abandoning her, leaving her to face the repercussions alone.

Marin closes the laptop halfway.

“If you expand this to include her,” she says calmly, “the Youth Outreach inquiry becomes linked to your license review in public perception. Right now, they are parallel lines. You don’t want to connect them.”

She’s implying we have to fracture ourselves on purpose—contain the damage so it doesn’t spread and expand. I can protect my boxing career by staying silent about Andi, by letting her absorb the strain of the youth center inquiry alone while I remain insulated from it. When she speaks, she can’t say my name. She can’t acknowledge my career, my investigation, or the accusations circling me, because linkage is liability now.

The strategy is clean. Effective. It keeps my file contained and my futureintact.

And it leaves her standing by herself.

That’s the trade. Two distinct narratives deliberately held apart, because separation is the only option anyone believes will keep us upright. I nod slowly, understanding the logic even as my throat clenches involuntarily. Strategically, she’s right. Emotionally, it feels like I’m agreeing to survive by letting the person I love take the hit instead—and I’m not sure which part of me that costs.