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I watch it come off his face, all of it, the corner of the mouth, the whole thing, and what’s underneath is a guy standing in his own living room with nothing left to do.

Nobody says anything. Then Mathers puts his cereal bowl down on the shelf by the door. “We’re going to Berwyn.”

Greeley looks over at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, you are.” Mathers’s already pulling a hoodie off the hook. “Look at your phone.”

Greeley looks at his phone and sees the missed calls.

My hand’s still shaking, and all I can see is red, but I walk out of that house knowing I can tell Kylie I didn’t fucking touch him.

Berwyn’s behind his desk with his laptop open and his phone face up beside it. The door opens, and it’s me. Then Rafe. Then Koda. Then Mathers. Then Greeley.

Berwyn looks at the five of us filing into an office built for two. “What the hell is this?”

“Coach—” I start.

“Don’t,” Koda says to me.

Greeley opens his mouth.

“You too,” Mathers says to him.

We shut the door.

Mathers starts. He doesn’t do a lot of talking. He puts his phone on the desk and plays a video of Greeley hitting me across the back with the stick, from before the part on the internet, and then a different angle of what came after. Coach watches the whole thing. Then Mathers tells him the way the whole night went, the way it had been escalating before that, the heart of the problem, and why he thinks Greeley posted a month-old video tonight. Koda fills in what Mathers missed. Rafe hands Berwyn his phone with the picture he took of my back that night.

Berwyn looks at the image of my back for a long time. Then he looks at the video of Greeley hitting me with the stick. He turns the phone sideways. Then he sets it down and looks at Mathers.

“Why am I seeing this now?” Coach asks.

Mathers looks at the floor. “Because he’s my roommate, Coach. We played juniors together. He said we’d handle it in the room, and if I showed anybody, he’d find a way to get me thrown off the team.” His voice goes rough. “Then Kennebeck got second line and Dec went quiet, and I told myself it was over. I tried to say something to Kennebeck twice and couldn’t get it out.” He swallows. “And then tonight he posted the part where he looks like the victim because he pissed he didn’t play with the Montreal scout there. This is his retaliation, and I’m not holding it for him anymore.”

Greeley doesn’t say anything.

Berwyn looks at Mathers for a long moment and nods once. Then he leans back. “Okay. Kennebeck.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“You still beat the hell out of a teammate in his house,” he says bluntly.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I did.”

I don’t add the excuses. I could say he hit me first, that he provoked me, that he’s had it out for me since August, and every one of those things is true. But none of them is the reason my hands were on him. Berwyn watches me not say it.

“The video’s public,” he says. “That means it’s not mine anymore. Athletics is going to see it, compliance is going to see it, somebody’s mother is going to email the president about it, and I’m not going to sit on any of it, and I wouldn’t if I could.” He pulls a pad over. “Which means until I’ve been through this whole thing with them, your status is under review. You’re not guaranteed to dress Friday. You understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes, Coach.”

He looks at the rest of them. “Anybody else posts anything, says anything, comments on anything, sends anything to anybody, you’ll answer to me. Nobody talks to anybody about this. Out.”

We all stand up. I get to the door and stop. “Coach.”

Berwyn looks up.

“I didn’t hit him today.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me.