Then I open the phone and click on the video on my feed, because I hate myself, because it exists whether I look or not.
Wren dropping me. The crowd. Theo’s fist. My own voice begging.
I watch it once.
On the second replay, I can’t get past her face when she says, “you were my first.”
My hand spasms. The phone nearly slips.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I shove it back into my pocket like it’s burning me.
Then I turn toward the athletic complex.
Not to hide. But to go find the first adult who will look me in the eye and tell me exactly how bad this is.
Because the only way past this—if there even is one—is straight through.
And Wren?
Wren is already gone.
Coach McCarthy’sdoor is closed.
That alone is wrong. His door is usually cracked, like he’s letting the rink breathe into his office. Today it’s shut. Final. Deliberate.
I stop outside it, hand hovering near the knob. My knee aches. My lip is split again where it dried and cracked on the walk over. My phone won’t stop vibrating in my pocket.
None of that is the problem.
The problem is that he asked me a question days ago, and I lied with my whole chest.
“Is there anything else I should know?”
I knock once.
“Come in.”
His voice is flat. Not angry. Worse. Controlled.
I step inside and close the door. The office smells of coffee, old tape, and ice. Two monitors glow on his desk—one paused on game film, the other an email thread withCompliancevisible in the preview pane.
He looks me over. “Sit,” he says finally.
I take the chair across from him. My body feels too big for it. My knee protests. I keep my face still.
Coach folds his hands on the desk.
“Two hours ago,” he says, “I got a call from Athletics Communications. Then the Dean’s office. Then Compliance, asking whether this program is aware of what’s circulating.”
He watches my eyes like he expects them to flinch.
I don’t.
“I watched the video,” he continues. “I watched the post. I watched you go down on that quad. And I watched a hundred students turn it into entertainment.”
My throat tightens. I force air into my lungs.
