He smiles then. Slow. Nasty.
“You sure you want to ask me that?” he asks quietly. “You sure you want them interviewing everybody? Asking what kind of bet was floating around the house lately? Who started it? Who the prize was?”
My heart stops.
He sees it. His smile widens.
“Ask Isabelle,” he says, voice silk over broken glass. “She’s got an excellent memory.”
I turn away. If I stay, I’m going to fracture his skull.
Reed calls after me, voice gone sing-song. “Better hope you win tonight, O’Connor. People get real testy about distractions when there’s an L on the board.”
I don’t look back.
Mason comesto Compliance with me. They are in an office that smells of carpet cleaner and photocopier ink. The woman who meets us is polite, efficient, and about as emotionally invested as a referee dropping puck.
She introduces herself, offers water, and explains, in calm, practiced tones, how this works.
“This is an intake,” she says. “Not a determination of responsibility. We document what you witnessed. We’llreach out to the student who received medical care and offer her options. The respondent”—she doesn’t say Reed’s name—“will have an opportunity to react. In the interim, certain measures may be taken to ensure safety.”
“Like benching him,” I say.
“That’s one option,” she acknowledges. “But decisions about athletic participation are handled by Athletics.”
She takes notes while I talk. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react when I say the words I’ve been avoiding: attempted sexual assault.
The phrase sticks to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter.
“Did you see him put anything in her drink?” she asks.
“No.”
“Did you see the bottle the entire time between it leaving his hand and reaching hers?”
“No.”
She nods like she expected that. “That’s common.”
“We’ll request medical records from the hospital,” she says. “With her consent. For now, we have your statement. Thank you for coming in.”
It feels like walking out of a penalty box after serving two minutes you’re not sure you deserved and not sure were enough.
Outside the office, Mason leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.
“Well?” he asks.
“They’re ‘documenting,’” I say. “They’ll ‘reach out and offer options.’”
He doesn’t say I shouldn’t mock the process. He just says, “She’s not going through it alone.”
“No,” I say. “She’s not.”
We head back.
By the timewe get to the locker room, most of the guys are there. Sticks leaned against stalls, half dressed in compression shorts and socks, music low on the speakers. Normally there’s chirping, someone yelling about someone else’s taste in playlists.
Today, the air feels heavier. Thicker.
