I swallow. My tongue tastes like metal.
“I left her alone in the hallway,” I say instead. “I thought it would be fine. That’s on me. The rest is on him.”
Coach studies me for a long time. The silence stretches, thin as ice over shallow water.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says finally. “I’m scratching Reed for tonight. Not as punishment—yet—but as a precaution while we figure this out. He doesn’t dress, he doesn’t skate, he doesn’t travel until I say otherwise.”
Relief hits my chest and anger collides with it, sparking.
“But,” Coach adds, holding up a hand, “I’m not putting this to bed in-house. I’m calling Compliance and Title IX. They’ll want your statement, and they’ll reach out to the girl. If they decide to move forward, this becomes a university matter. You don’t control what happens after that. Understood?”
My stomach flips. “Yes, sir.”
His gaze drops to my hand again. “You understand there may be consequences for beating the hell out of a teammate at a party, even if your motives were…understandable.”
“I’ll take whatever you throw at me,” I say. “As long as he never touches her again.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek. For a second, I see something like grudging respect there, twisted up with disappointment and worry and the weight of being responsible for thirty guys and a whole program.
“You’re going to talk to Compliance this afternoon,” he says. “Then we have a game to play. Go downstairs. Stayaway from Reed. And don’t say a goddamn word about this in the room.”
“Understood.”
He picks up his phone. Conversation over.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click that feels like a starting gun.
Reed is leaningagainst the opposite wall when I come out, arms crossed, his nose bandaged. Someone slapped a butterfly Band-Aid over his cheekbone. He looks like he walked into a door.
He looks like I didn’t hit him nearly hard enough.
“Wow,” he says, his voice thick, clogged. “Straight to Daddy.”
I stiffen, feel my hands curl, nails biting into the palms.
Reed’s eyes glitter, bloodshot but calculating. “You really want to go this route, O’Connor? You sure you want people digging through every detail of last night?”
I stare at him. “You roofied her.”
He snorts. “She was drunk.”
“She wasn’t.”
“Yeah, because princess would never drink at a party.” He rolls his eyes. “Maybe she took something herself. Maybe she’s not as innocent as you think.”
White noise roars in my ears.
“You were hauling her upstairs when she couldn’t walk.”
“I was helping,” he snaps. “She almost fell on the stairs. I was taking her to lie down so she didn’t puke.”
The way he says it—slightly louder, just enough that someone passing could catch the words—makes my skincrawl. He’s already building a narrative. Helpful guy. Overreacting boyfriend. Misunderstanding.
“Coach benched you,” I say. “That’s not changing.”
“Tonight,” he says evenly. “Maybe longer. Or maybe they look at things and decide your little story doesn’t play as well when it’s not fueled by cheap beer and a guilty conscience.”
“Guilty of what?” I grind out.
