Chapter 4: Outcast

At first, I hoped the police would clear me.

I clung to the hope that justice would win out. But every day, more headlines appeared, each one more damning. My lawyer told me to stay off social media.

But Carter Evans kept pulling strings, and my life unraveled.

He had the money, the lawyers, the PR team. I was just a guy with a growing pile of legal bills and no hope.

The head coach tried to comfort me.

He clapped me on the shoulder, voice gentle. “Lay low for a while, Mike. Maybe things will blow over. I’ll talk to Mr. Carter and apologize, see if we can calm things down. At least Carter survived. If you humble yourself, maybe you’ll get leniency.”

I hated the idea, but pride doesn’t pay bills. I nodded, willing to try anything.

Sometimes survival is the American dream. I needed to buy time, protect my family, salvage whatever was left.

I talked it over with my lawyer—a former diver herself, tough as nails. She told me, “You can’t fight a tidal wave. Sometimes you have to swim with the current.”

So I found a lawyer and took the initiative to apologize to the Carter family.

We drafted a formal statement. I practiced the words in my bathroom mirror, hating every syllable. But it was the only way to avoid total destruction.

But Mr. Carter refused to see me.

His secretary called, curt and cold. “The Carter family has no comment at this time.” Doors slammed shut everywhere I turned.

Carter Evans was even more arrogant, vowing to make me pay.

He tweeted about ‘justice’ and ‘accountability,’ rallying his followers. The comments were brutal, his fans egging him on.

My video apology for knocking him out went online.

It was awkward, my voice flat. I stared at the camera, hands folded, reading from a script. The comments poured in by the thousands.

This time, the internet exploded.

People picked apart every word, searching for guilt. News anchors replayed the clip, analyzing my body language. Late-night comedians made me their punchline.

Most people figured I must be guilty, or why else apologize?

Some friends said I should’ve stayed silent. Others unfollowed me. The tide had turned for good.

A few supporters tried to defend me, but their voices were drowned out by paid commenters and trolls.

Anonymous accounts spread rumors. Even my old basketball coach got a call from a reporter digging for dirt.

A bunch of fake accounts mocked my teaching, claimed I was arrogant, or bragged too much.

People who’d never met me claimed I’d snubbed them at competitions or overcharged for lessons. Old photos of me with trophies were captioned with insults.

Supportive comments vanished under a mountain of hate.

It was open season on Mike Taylor. The internet loves to kick a man when he’s down.

Every article’s comment section was a wall of strangers telling me I deserved it.

Even diving fans took sides, some accusing me of cheating, others saying I caused too many accidents.

Rival divers and coaches saw their chance to move up the rankings and piled on.

No one cared about my clarifications.

I posted rescue logs, screenshots, even Jason’s original messages. No one listened. The narrative was set.

By now, everyone only believed what they wanted to believe.

Conspiracy theories bloomed on Reddit. TikTok users reenacted the incident with rubber ducks. The truth was irrelevant—outrage ruled.

Friends who spoke up for me were accused of covering up.

A few loyal friends tried to defend me, but the Carter army pounced, accusing them of complicity. Some were harassed into silence.

Major media fanned the flames. With no evidence to prove my innocence, I was endlessly trashed.

Prime time anchors speculated about my motives, podcasts devoted whole episodes to my supposed downfall. My inbox was a war zone.

Carter Evans kept pressuring the police, spending big on media to destroy me.

Lawyers threatened lawsuits. Investigators combed through my past. The Carter PR machine cranked out stories faster than I could respond.

The incident spread like wildfire. My family, friends, and colleagues were all dragged into it.

My parents stopped answering their phone. My sister deleted her Facebook. Even my old football buddies avoided me at the store. I was radioactive.

Watching my family suffer, I couldn’t take it.

I saw the toll—my dad losing sleep, my mom crying every time she watched the news. I’d dragged them into a nightmare.

In the end, I returned the $700,000 and publicly announced I’d never dive again.

I drafted a letter, signed it in front of reporters, and wired the money back. My final post: “I’m stepping away from diving. I wish Carter Evans a full recovery. Please leave my family alone.” Then I deleted every account I owned.

My compromise only made people more convinced I was guilty.

People saw it as an admission. The memes got meaner, the news harsher. Sponsors deleted my photos overnight.

Even though the police found no evidence and released me,

The charges didn’t stick. The detectives handed back my stuff with a nod, but there was no celebration—just the hollow silence of a man who’d lost everything.

My professional diving license was revoked for good.

A certified letter arrived, thick with legalese. The last line was clear: I could never teach, compete, or guide dives again—anywhere in the U.S.

The day I was released, Mr. Carter and his son brought reporters to confront me.

I stepped out into the cold, camera flashes blinding me. Carter stood front and center, hair perfect, suit crisp. Mr. Carter beside him, all business.

Carter Evans, now fully recovered, looked at me with open disdain.

His eyes were ice, his smile thin. I felt a surge of anger, fists clenched at my sides.

"You brought this on yourself for messing with the wrong people. Just a washed-up diver, and you dared to lay a hand on me?"

He stepped closer, voice low but caught by the mics. The crowd behind him snickered.

He patted my shoulder, grinning for the cameras.

His hand lingered, a power move. My jaw tightened. I forced myself not to shove him away.

"I hope you never dive again. But I will break your record and become an even bigger star for America. Consider it what you owe me."

His words echoed long after he walked away. The crowd ate it up, clapping and shouting his name. I stood there, fists trembling, vision blurring with anger and humiliation.

Images of that night in the cave flashed through my mind—his panic, his begging. Now he was untouchable. My knuckles itched, but I bit back a retort, knowing one wrong move would finish me for good.

Just weeks ago, underwater, he’d begged me to save him. Now he’d destroyed my life.

That’s how fast things turn in America. One minute you’re the hero, the next, you’re a cautionary tale.

Yet in front of the media, I couldn’t say a word.

Anything I said would be twisted, used against me. I stared at the concrete, biting my tongue.

Mr. Carter gave me a politician’s speech, all fake concern.

“Mike, just be smart. Know when you’re beat. Luckily my son was fine, or you wouldn’t have gotten off so easy. Fame is fleeting—being grounded is what matters.”

His words stung. I wanted to remind him of the night he’d called me in tears, but it wouldn’t change anything. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked away.

He’d once begged me to save his son. Promised the world if I could bring Carter home. Now, none of it mattered.

Reporters crowded around. I forced my way through in silence.

All I wanted was peace. But the past wasn’t done with me yet.

The Carters weren’t finished. Their campaign kept going, trying to erase me from the sport.

He bragged online about my unprofessionalism.

He posted videos and interviews, always emphasizing my supposed incompetence. Each post racked up thousands of views.

"Hard to imagine someone like him could break the world record."

He sneered into the camera, feeding the story. The diving community split—some believed him, others stayed quiet.

Fake students and teammates piled on, accusing me of teaching the wrong techniques, stealing credit, or ignoring safety.

It was open season. Anonymous threats, desperate pleas for an apology I didn’t owe—my reputation was shot.

Everyone clamored to strip me of my reputation, afraid I’d reinvent myself somewhere else.

Rumors spread that I’d move to Florida or California, start over under a new name. Some parents demanded my records be shared nationwide. It was a witch hunt.

I found Jason; he’d become Carter Evans’s personal coach.

I tracked him down at the pool, running Carter through basics for a staged TV spot. He looked older, tired. Our eyes met, and for a second, I hoped for a kind word.

He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “It’s over, Mike. Don’t make it harder. You know my family needed the money.”

So he wouldn’t help clear my name. Even people who knew the truth had to pick survival over loyalty.

Even those close to me were powerless.

A few friends sent supportive texts, but no one went public. Everyone was afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.

Faced with public opinion, all I could do was disappear.

I deleted every social account, cut ties with the diving world, and hid out in my apartment. Most days, I just watched the snow pile up outside, a faded Browns pennant drooping above my couch, a box of takeout pizza on the table, boots by the door.

I took my savings, moved to a small city, and started over—anonymously sharing diving knowledge.

I found a place near Cincinnati—cheap rent, no neighbors who cared. I started a blog under a fake name, answering questions about diving safety, posting tips and stories. It was my lifeline to the water, even if I couldn’t dive myself.

Gradually, I gained a following. With ad revenue, I managed to get by.

People liked my advice—some even called me a ‘legend’ without knowing who I really was. The blog paid the bills, and for the first time in a year, I felt like maybe I could build something new. Every so often, a message would come through: "Your advice saved my life." It was a sliver of hope.

Until a year later, when I got another call from Mr. Carter—

Carter Evans was trapped in that cave again.

I stared at the phone, the past rushing back. Same urgent tone, same promise of money and redemption. My hands shook—a mix of dread and the tiniest spark of hope. Maybe this time, things would be different. Or maybe, it would be the last dive I ever made.