Holding his gaze, I didn’t blink. “No.”
It was a flat-out lie.
“Are you sure?” Hastings tilted his head. “Because if we find out otherwise...”
“I said no. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Shifting my attention to Coach Corby, I waited. He still refused to meet my gaze. A pen clicked rhythmically in his hand, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
A beat later, Corby stopped clicking his pen and let out a tired sigh. “Zotov,” Corby muttered, his voice tight. “The Title IX code of conduct protocols dictate how we handle this. I do not have a choice here. My hands are tied.”
“Meaning what?” I asked.
“You’re suspended from practice until we, you know. Sort this out.”
“You’re pulling me?”
“The suits upstairs are forcing a temporary suspension until the investigation clears,” Corby said. He rubbed a hand over his thinning hair, looking genuinely pissed off. “I hate this political bullshit as much as you do, kid, but I can’t override the Athletic Director on a Title IX claim. You are benched for Friday.”
The words felt like a stick to the teeth. Friday was when the Chicago scouts would be in the stands. That game was the entire point of my being here. Every garbage night shift I worked at the Food Mart, every time my mom killed her back working doubles at the nursing home just to keep me in skates, it all came down to Friday night. And now I was scratched from the roster.
I dug my fingers into the underside of the metal chair to keep my hands from shaking. This was not a random complaint. Trenton timed this perfectly. He knew exactly how to kill my draft chances and burn my one shot at going fully pro.
“Coach, you know I need to play in that game,” I said. I bit back annoyance at the hint of desperation that had crept into my voice. “The scouts are gonna be there.”
“It’s out of my hands,” Corby muttered, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry, kid. One game at a time. We have to follow the rules.”
“When do the interviews start?” I asked.
“Monday morning,” Hastings answered. “We will be speaking with the entire roster.”
Grabbing the strap of my bag, I stood. “I’ll see you on Monday, then.”
Three days.
That was the only thing circling my brain as I pushed through the arena doors and out into the parking lot, gray road salt crunching under my boots.
I needed to find Perez. I knew that he had an eleven o’clock lecture across campus, meaning he would be heading to his car right about now, and he always knew what the rest of the team was saying behind closed doors.
Scanning the rows of vehicles, my eyes landed on his beat-up sedan two lanes over. He was standing by the driver’s side, digging for his keys.
Closing the distance, I leaned against the SUV parked next to his. “Hastings just pulled me in. They are launching an investigation.”
Perez stopped chewing. He looked at me for a long moment, then checked over his shoulder, scanning the arena doors. “First off, hello to you too. Secondly, shit. They actually did it.”
“It was Trenton. I need to know how far this has spread.”
Perez rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck hard to the side. “Fuck, man, I don’t give a shit that you’re banging the Johnston kid. But if this blows up...”
I grabbed the front of his jacket and shoved him hard against the side of his car.
“Hey,” Perez held both hands up near his face, but his voice stayed steady. “Chill the hell out. It’s me. I amnotthe one trying to ruin your life.”
My grip held for another second. Then my brain caught up, and I let go, shoving my hands into my pockets.
Perez straightened his coat and punched me on the shoulder. “Asshole,” he muttered. The tension bled out of him, and we were good again.
“So you knew,” I said.
