The word hangs between us, loaded with subtext. I know what he's really saying:not very ladylike of you.
"The ice time is compounded by significant resource shortages." I flip to the next tab, the slick paper making a softshiffsound. "We're reusing tape that should be medical waste, and my third-line winger is playing with a stick held together by prayer."
Each word tastes metallic—the flavor of humiliation—because I've been the victim of this sort of con before. In high school, I had my captaincy stolen from me by lies and manipulation, and the teenage girl who got ambushed by her best friend should have seen this coming.
But apparently I needed the lesson twice.
His chair creaks. Behind him, his glory wall screams its insecurity: photos with every semi-famous athlete to pass through PBU, a jersey from his PBU football-playing days that wouldn't fit over one arm anymore, and that championship ring he twists when he wants you to notice it.
"Well, that's quite a presentation, Morgan," he says, in a tone he might use with an intern fetching his dry cleaning. "Thank you for putting so much effort into it."
"I put effort into it because my team deserves resources," I say. "The resources you promised when you recruited me."
"Promised?" He leans back, and his chair protests under the shift. "I don't recall making promises. I recall discussing possibilities, potential trajectories?—"
"You said, and I quote, 'guaranteed practice slots equivalent to the men's team.'" I flip to a page where I've transcribed his exact words from our meeting. "That was March 15th, 2:17 p.m., at the Breakwater Café in Missoula."
He chuckles, actually chuckles, like I've told him a charming anecdote about a puppy. "You recorded our conversation?"
"I document everything that matters."
"How very… thorough."
He gestures to the wall where a photo from last week's banner ceremony holds pride of place. Him grinning as the men's team clusters around him, boys who've never had to justify their existence. The frame's price sticker is still visible: $89.99, which would buy us a week's worth of tape.
"You see, Morgan, each athletic program needs to understand strategic priorities." His hands fold across his stomach, straining against his shirt buttons. "The men's team delivers huge ROI. Championships, NHL draft picks, donor engagement."
Right. Because forty-three days with me in charge of this program is definitely enough time to cure cancer, split the atom, and get the rivers of booster gold flowing into your office,I think, but manage to keep from saying.I should probably have three Stanley Cups by now, and maybe a Nobel Prize just to be safe.
He seems to take my silence as an invitation to continue, when in reality it takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes or fire back some snark. But as he leans forward, something shifts in his expression, and his smile morphs into something that makes my stomach clench.
"What your program needs, kiddo, is to prove it can put asses in seats," he says.
On the word "asses," his eyes drop.
Not subtle. Not quick. Not even pretending to be accidental.
His gaze starts at my face and crawls downward with predatory patience. Stops at my chest—one second, two—for long enough that his assistant Patricia could brew an entire pot of coffee. Then down to my waist, my hips, and finally where my skirt—which suddenly feels three inches too short—meets my thighs.
And the whole time, it's clear he's not just looking.
He's appraising inventory.
Myinventory.
Every biological instinct screams at me to run. My muscles coil tight, that ancient prey response flooding my system with adrenaline that has nowhere to go. The office suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in, the door much too far away.
But I've survived worse than this—social crucifixion at age seventeen, and heartbreak courtesy of James Fitzgerald a year later—and there's no way inhellI'll give this creep the satisfaction of thinking he's got me rattled. So I just sit there, disdain clear on my face, until he's done.
And when his eyes finally travel back to my face, his smirk celebrates what just happened. The inventory he just took of my body. The filthy thoughts that probably just filled his head. The prospect of parading the pretty young thing at donor dinners and saying, "look how progressive we are!"
But then he reaches across the desk. His hand, damp with unhealthy sweat, lands on mine where it rests on my binder. The contact sends ice through my veins. Not fear—I killed that emotion years ago—but revulsion so pure it could strip paint.
Two pats.
Like I'm a golden retriever who performed a trick.
"I admire your drive, kiddo. Really." His thumb moves—just barely—stroking the side of my hand.
