“Coach,” I interrupted, planting myself directly across the table from him. “How do we undo Aleksey’s resignation?”
The faint trace of pride dropped from Corby’s face. He looked at me for a long moment, taking in my rigid stance, before letting out a deep sigh.
“Kid, don’t do this tonight.” He gestured vaguely with his coffee cup, as if trying to wave the problem away. “Zotov stepped away. He is off the roster, and I already told you boys that I want distractions off my ice.”
“I know Coach,” I pressed, keeping my voice level. I gripped the edge of the table. “But I also know he was backed into a corner over a fake Title IX report. There has to be a way to reverse the paperwork.”
“My hands are tied.” Corby slammed his coffee cup down next to the pen. He leaned over the table, bracing his weight on his hands. “Hastings handles the administrative garbage, and a formal complaint was filed. Zotov chose to walk instead of fighting a hearing. That is the end of the play. The AD’s decision is final.”
“So if the complaint goes away, the resignation goes away with it?”
Corby frowned. He dropped his voice, casting a quick look toward the closed door. “That is not how the front office works. The paperwork is locked in. Unless the anonymous coward who filed the report walks into Hastings’ office and recants, or we somehow prove it was a total fabrication, the investigation stands. And the AD will never let Zotov back on the team.”
I clamped my teeth together.Unless we prove it was a total fabrication.
Coach had just handed me the exact playbook.
Trenton filed the complaint. If I could get him to brag about making it up just to clear out a scholarship player, the entire case against Aleksey would collapse. Hastings would not have a leg to stand on if I pushed.
Releasing the edge of the table, I turned around and walked back out the door.
My new objective was hunting down Trenton before he left for the night. Pushing through the arena doors, a blast of wind hit my face.
The VIP parking lot was still alive with post-game energy. Small clusters of fans huddled near the exits, while players hauled their gear toward waiting cars.
Two guys from the third line crossed my path. One of them offered a tight, obligatory nod toward me, but neither slowed their pace. They talked loudly about the party starting back at the legacy frat house, deliberately keeping their shoulders angled away to make it very clear my invitation had been permanently revoked.
That gave me a tight window. Trenton would be heading over to the frat house to celebrate any minute now.
Scanning the rows of frosted windshields, I spotted his obnoxious sports car parked near the far curb. A pair of idling catering trucks created a narrow, unlit gap away from the streetlamps. Slipping between the metal panels, I leaned against the freezing corrugated siding and waited, my thumb resting over the screen of my phone inside my pocket.
Fifteen minutes crawled by before Trenton strolled across the asphalt. He spun a set of car keys around a taped finger and kept his focus glued to his phone screen. He was likely soaking up the praise from the team’s group chat. I pressed the screen of my phone through the fabric of my jacket and waited for a short vibration against my thigh.
The audio was rolling.
Crunching over a patch of dirty ice, I stepped out from the gap between the catering trucks. “Trenton.”
Trenton stopped. He lowered his phone and peered through the dim lighting. Recognizing me, he widened his stance andsquared his shoulders. “Karter. Did you come out here to take another swing at me? Because your brother is not around to hold you back this time.”
He pocketed his phone and thumbed the fob. His sports car chirped, headlights flashing across the dark asphalt.
“We’re going to talk about Aleksey.”
Trenton rolled his eyes and leaned back against the driver’s side door, arms crossed. “Jesus, Karter. Again? Guy packed his bags a week ago. You should be thanking me. I did you a favor.”
“You filed the complaint.”
He tilted his head, mouth twitching toward a grin. “Wow. That’s a hell of an accusation. You take a hit to the head tonight, or are you always this paranoid?”
“You were bleeding ice time,” I said, stopping just outside swinging range. “Couldn’t beat him straight up, so you went crying to the front office.”
Trenton scoffed. “This again? You’re like a broken record lately.” He pushed off the car, and then his smirk vanished. He took half a step toward me, squaring his shoulders. “You need to quit flinging that shit around. Not when you’ve got so much to lose.”
“I have nothing to lose.”
That got a laugh out of him, sharp and cutting. “Nothing? Right,” he sneered. “Listen, I know exactly what you and Zotov were doing up in that attic. Hell, half the team does by now. So here’s the deal. You drop this, walk away, and I don’t have a chat with your dad about which team his youngestreallyplays for. How do you think that call goes?”
“Make the call.” I held his stare and let my mouth curl. “My dad already knows.”
