Chapter 3: Downfall

His family had power and influence, so the accusation blew up online immediately.

The Carters had friends everywhere—politicians, journalists, business execs. Within hours, my inbox was full of hate mail. TV anchors debated my fate over breakfast. Hashtags trended nationwide. My face was everywhere, always paired with Carter’s wounded gaze.

Reporters swarmed the hospital, desperate for a story.

Camera crews blocked the ER doors, a local news anchor shouting questions as a paramedic rolled his eyes at the circus. I could barely step out of my room without getting ambushed.

Carter Evans, pale-faced, spun a tale for the cameras:

He spoke with the poise of someone who’d grown up in the spotlight, pausing for effect, voice cracking at just the right moments. I watched from my hospital TV, heart pounding.

“I thought Mike Taylor was a hero, but he left me for dead down there—just to keep his name on a trophy. He didn’t want anyone breaking his record. When I tried to finish the dive, he dragged me back, crushed my arm, then knocked me out from behind. He knew fainting underwater could’ve killed me, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to make sure I’d never dive again. That’s the kind of man he is. I’m lucky to be alive. I want everyone to know the truth—and I want justice.”

He finished with a trembling hand and a twisted smile. The cameras zoomed in on the hint of a tear, his family’s legal team standing behind him. America loves a scandal, especially when it’s rich kids and ruined heroes.

I hadn’t even been discharged before reporters rushed in, shoving microphones in my face.

They burst through the automatic doors, catching me in a rumpled gown, bruises on my arms, confusion plain on my face. Someone snapped a photo as I blinked against the flashes.

"Mr. Taylor, do you agree with the Carter family’s claims? Did you really risk someone’s life just to keep your record?"

Their voices came at me from every angle. I could see the skepticism, the hunger for a story. Every word I said would be twisted online within minutes.

I shook my head and told the reporters the truth.

I forced my voice to stay steady, laying out the facts as clearly as I could. “Check the logs. The rock at the bend was chipped away by hand. Carter wouldn’t cooperate. If I’d let him keep going, he’d be dead. Knocking him out was the only way to get him out alive. I already told Mr. Carter everything.”

I tried to meet a reporter’s eyes, pleading for understanding. But I could see them already writing tomorrow’s headlines.

No sooner had I finished than Mr. Carter stormed in, furious.

He shoved his way through the crowd, face red, jaw clenched. The air crackled as he squared off with me, the media loving every second.

He jabbed a finger at me and barked, "Are you out of your mind? How dare you lay a hand on my son? No wonder you asked if you’d be responsible before the dive. Turns out you wanted to kill him!"

His chest heaved with anger. The bodyguards glared. The room shrank around me, tension thick enough to taste. Nurses whispered at the desk, eyeing the scene.

I glanced around and saw my teammate, Jason, standing off to the side, hands jammed in his pockets. Our eyes met—he looked away, ashamed. He wouldn’t even meet my gaze.

"Mike, Carter was lucky this time. If anything had really happened, the consequences would have been unimaginable. You went too far. If I hadn’t stopped you, you might have killed him."

The words stung. Jason’s voice was soft but clear. The betrayal felt like a gut punch—after all we’d been through, he picked the safe side.

Everything clicked into place. Carter had set this up, painting himself as the victim and me as the villain. Even those I trusted couldn’t risk their own necks.

I’d saved him, and this was my thanks.

That’s America’s favorite story: build you up, tear you down. No good deed goes unpunished, especially when money and ego are involved.

What could I say?

Every explanation sounded like an excuse. I’d already lost the internet court.

There were only three of us underwater, and now two accused me.

The odds were stacked. My word against theirs—an easy story for the evening news.

With the Carters’ power, I had almost no shot at winning.

I let out a dry laugh. “What else can I say? Check the logs. My conscience is clean.”

Mr. Carter glared. "You call that a clear conscience? I gave you all that money, and you tried to kill my son. How can someone like you be a diver? I’ll make sure your license is revoked for good—you’ll never compete or dive again."

His words echoed in the room. Heads nodded, reporters scribbled. I was already guilty.

Soon after, the police took me away for questioning.

A pair of deputies hustled me through the back, trying to shield me from the cameras. I caught my reflection in a window—pale, bruised, defeated.

The interviews caused a sensation online.

The story was everywhere within minutes. #CancelMikeTaylor trended on Twitter. Daytime hosts debated my fate over pizza. Some friends texted support, others demanded answers.

Online, I was guilty before I’d even left the hospital.

People love a villain, especially if he used to be a hero. My inbox filled with hate mail, threats, and the occasional message from someone who still believed in me.

"Didn’t he go down with a student before, and that student ended up brain dead?"

The internet never forgets. Someone dug up an old incident, twisting facts for maximum outrage.

"Back then he claimed to save him, but maybe he saw the student was better and set him up."

"So scary. My daughter took diving lessons from him once. Thank God nothing happened."

Every half-truth and rumor found new life. Even people who barely knew me joined in.

The truth? That student broke the rules, diving alone, and his tank failed. If I hadn’t found him, he wouldn’t have survived.

But none of that mattered. Facts don’t matter when you’re already the villain.

Now I understood—public opinion is a beast. When they want you to be a hero, you’re a hero. When they turn, you’re not even worth a dime.

The coaching staff came to see me. For a second, I felt hope and explained everything in detail.

They showed up in polos with the US National Diving Team logo, faces drawn and tired. I told my story, voice cracking. For a moment, it looked like they might believe me.

But the head coach just sighed, helpless.

He rubbed his temples, glancing at a stack of media reports. “Mike, this is a mess. Sponsors are calling, parents are scared. It’s out of our hands.”

"Fame brings trouble. All the teams in this competition are tough. If they can bring you down, their chances go up. Carter’s always been a brat—he drove off half his coaches. He just couldn’t stand the embarrassment, so he needed someone to blame."

His voice softened. “You were the best, Mike. But this country eats its heroes.”

The police had already interrogated me once. The case was a mess, and they couldn’t decide.

They went over every detail—timeline, logs, tank readings. Jason’s story wavered. I saw the exhaustion in the detectives’ eyes. They wanted a villain, but reality was messier.

Hearing the coach’s words, I broke out in a cold sweat.

I realized then that the truth wasn’t enough. The system was built for those who could afford to bend it.