Now his knee’s destroyed, it has to be. I did more damage than I intended, and now I’m going to have to face the consequences.
With one deep, shaky breath, I raise my fist and knock.
The door opens with the slow deliberateness of a horror film. A click. A creak. And then the chancellor’s cool, unreadable gaze flicks to mine.
“Come in,” he says with no warmth or pretense.
My feet move before I can talk myself out of it. I step into the room—and stop cold.
Jackson is here.
He’s sitting stiffly in one of the leather chairs directly across from the chancellor’s desk, one leg stretched out awkwardly, the other bent around the thick white cast that encases his knee. A pair of crutches lean beside him. He glares at me, and I can feel the hate swimming just beneath the surface of his stillness.
There are two other people aside from the chancellor, who is now back behind his desk. One of the men is tall andbroad-shouldered. He wears a varsity-branded pullover, and the whistle hanging from his neck confirms that he’s the coach. That’s usually how it happens, right? A player gets injured, and the coach gets involved. Otherwise, why else would he be here?
The other man stands directly behind Jackson’s chair, a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and the other in the front pocket of his slacks. He’s older, harder, with silver at his temples and the same cold edge in his jawline as Jackson. There’s no mistaking the father and son relationship.
They all just stare at me like I’ve ruined something valuable. As if I’m the perpetrator and not the victim.
“You must be Samantha,” the chancellor says, his voice clipped. “Have a seat.”
Hesitation bites at my limbs, and I glance between the men, my brain telling me to get the hell out of here, while my body freezes in place. The energy in the room is draining. It’s dark and cold, and not just from the lack of heat.
It’sthem. The way they watch me like I’m dirt under their boots, like I’ve dragged filth into a room that was never meant for someone like me.
I make myself move, grabbing the top of the chair and scooting it closer to create space between Jackson and me. I lower myself into the seat and am acutely aware of how small I feel.How am I the only girl in a room full of angry men?
My palms press against my thighs to hide the shaking. I won’t give them that. I won’t let them see me flinch. But still, my chest tightens.
“I assume you know why you’re here,” the chancellor says, lacing his fingers together as he leans back in his office chair, his gaze never leaving mine.
I swallow hard, my voice stuck behind the taste of dread. “No. I don’t.”
I do know, but if I’ve learned anything from watching crime documentaries—you let them tell you what they know first.
A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, like I’ve failed some unspoken test. “Then let me make it abundantly clear.”
And just like that, I am fully aware of what they know, and whatever comes next won’t be mercy. From my peripherals, I notice Jackson looking at me. My gaze darts around, searching for something—anything—to anchor me.
That’s when I spot the paperweight on the chancellor’s desk. A knight, wrapped in brass and silver, twin swords crossed over its chest. It’s massive, about half a foot tall and several inches wide. And somehow, even knowing it’s a nod to the school’s mascot, it feels more menacing than the men in this room. Red pearls burn behind the helmet’s visor, glinting where its eyes should be. The grate around its mouth looks more like a snarl than armor.
“I don’t know what they do where you’re from, but we don’t tolerate violence at this school, Ms. Collins.” The chancellor’s voice snaps me out of a daze.
“Neither do I,” I bite out. “I’m not a violent person.”
“I’m in a cast. You broke my knee in three places. That feels pretty violent to me,” Jackson snaps, leaning forward in his chair in an attempt to intimidate me.
“You attacked—”
“Enough. Why don’t you tell us what happened, Mr. Kincaid?” Chancellor Williamsburg asks, cutting me off.
Seriously? Why the hell is he asking only him?
“She was drunk, coming on to me,” he says smoothly. It’s sickening how easily he lies. “But when I told her I wasn’t interested, she got aggressive.”
A cold prickle runs down my spine. “That’s not what happened,” I say, forcing my voice to hold steady. “I wasn’t drunk. I don’t drink at parties because there’s always some asshole—”
Coach bristles. “Watch your tone.”
