Tate’s head disappears. I leave my coat in my locker and follow Coach Keller into his office. Coach Garfunkle is there too, so I know this is going to be really, really bad.
Coach Keller takes a seat behind his desk and gestures to one of the guest chairs. “Sit down, son.”
Son. I was right. This is going to be a disaster.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, sitting.
“Here.” Coach Garfunkle, in the other guest chair, holds a smooth, reddish-brown stone out to me. “It’s jasper, the supreme nurturer. It will empower your spirit, protect you from negative vibes, and support you through times of stress.”
“Uh, thanks,” I mumble, turning it over in my palm. Now I’m even more concerned. If Coach Garfunkle’s talking about stress and negative vibes, I’m seriously screwed.
Whatever it is, I hope they’ll tell me quick and get it over with. The suspense is fucking killing me.
Coach Keller leans forward and pushes aside a thick three-ring binder so he can rest his elbows on his desk. “I had an interesting visit from a reporter fromThe Daily Bulla few minutes ago.”
Okay, things just went from really, really bad to way, way worse.The Bullis the underground student-run newspaper. It competes with the school’s official paper,The Burlington U Bee. IfThe BeeisThe New York Times,The Bullis somewhere betweenThe National EnquirerandThe New York Daily News. A little news, a lot of gossip, heavy on the sensational, light on the fact checking. They write about our games all the time, but Coach wouldn’t be calling me into his office if all this guy was asking about was the game. “About me?”
Coach Keller nods. “He knows.”
A creeping sense of dread starts to overwhelm me, making my breaths come shorter and more shallow. I don’t have to ask—I know where this is headed—but I do anyway. “About what?”
“About what happened at Hartfield.”
“Fuck.”
I can’t stop the swear from slipping out, but neither of my coaches seem to care. They both know the story, but aside from the three of us sitting in this room, there’s only one other person at Moo U who knows the real reason I transferred schools.
Kolby.
One hand clenches around Coach Garfunkle’s magic rock, the other around the arm of the chair. “How did he find out?”
“He wouldn’t say. Claimed he was protecting his source.”
For a flash, I wonder if it was Kolby. But I dismiss that idea almost as soon as it forms. Kolby wouldn’t do that to me. I’m sure of it. Not after everything we’ve shared. It had to be someone from Hartfield. Maybe even Chase himself, or one of his buddies on the team.
The range of emotions coursing through me—anger, fear, disappointment, resentment, and the shame that resurfaces every time my dirty secret rears its ugly head—must show on my face because Coach Garfunkle reaches across and lays a reassuring hand on my forearm. “Just breathe. And concentrate on the stone.”
I concentrate on Coach Keller instead. “What did you tell him?”
“That Title IX investigations are usually confidential, unless the parties choose to release the information themselves.” He tents his fingers under his chin. “But the truth is, if this reporter is persistent, he may be able to force disclosure under the Freedom of Information Act, especially since the complaint is no longer pending.”
My fingers tighten around the stupid rock in a white-knuckle death grip. So much for protecting me from negative vibes and supporting me through stress. “What does that mean?”
“It means he could get the answers he’s looking for from Hartfield.”
“And write an article telling everyone I’m a sex offender.”
“Not if he tells the truth,” Coach Garfunkle points out.
I shake my head, making my hair, still damp from my shower, flop into my eyes. I release my grip on the chair and brush it back. “The truth won’t matter. Once people read that someone accused me of sexual assault, they won’t care that the investigation cleared me. If the paper even prints that part. There will always be that speck of doubt. Did he do it or didn’t he? And then there’s the people who will think my father the judge pulled some strings to get me off.”
I can feel bile rising in my throat. I’m never going to shake this. It’s going to dodge me for the rest of my life. All because I trusted the wrong guy.
“I tried to convince him to drop the story,” Coach Keller says. “Even offered him behind the scenes access and a media pass if we make the Frozen Four. But I’m not sure I succeeded.”
Coach Garfunkle leans back in his chair and rests his hands on his belly. He doesn’t just spout Buddhist theory, he looks like Buddha, too—short, squat, and balding. “So what’s the plan?”
I’m surprised at his question. I would have thought he’d suggest some woo-woo scheme involving crystals and incense and maybe a Ouija board or a voodoo doll.
