“The academic board is fully aware of the allegations.” Hastings leaned forward, dropping the grandfatherly routine just a fraction. His features hardened into something more calculating. “And we are united in managing this risk, Aleksey. I simply want to help you navigate this quietly.”
“Help me?” A dry, humorless laugh scraped out of my throat. “You just want to sweep me under the rug. Call Morris.”
I dug my fingers into the sleeves of my coat, gripping my own arms to keep from reaching across the desk. They were shutting me out. That was the moment I figured blunt was the only option left. If I pushed back enough, maybe the admin would buckle.
“Expel me, then,” I challenged him.
Hastings blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Expel me. I will fight it at a hearing. I will clear my name.”
“I do not think you want to do that,” Hastings spoke like he was some kind of disappointed mentor. “A hearing means a public record.”
“I do not give a shit.”
“You should.” He folded his hands on the desk. “If you fight this, the allegations will become public. The entire campus and our donor base will hear the story of a senior scholarship player abusing his tutoring access to target a legacy freshman.” Hastings watched my face. “Karter’s family name will be dragged right into the center of a locker-room scandal. He will be outed to his parents, the alumni network, and the entire National Hockey Circuit. Do you honestly think a scout will touch either of you after a circus like that?”
My stomach dropped. Hastings was not just threatening my draft spot anymore. He was holding a match to Karter’s entire life and forcing me to choose who burned.
“Furthermore, you lose your housing and all financial aid immediately if you are expelled,” Hastings said.
I scoffed and shifted my weight, gripping the back of the empty guest chair until the leather groaned. “Then I will get a lawyer. I will take this whole school to court for a rigged investigation.”
Hastings offered a slow, pitying smile. “With what money, Aleksey? I know you work night shifts at a convenience store just to send money home. The university has a corporate legal firm on retainer. We can bury you in paperwork and appeals until you age out of your hockey eligibility.”
The threat hit right where he aimed it. My grip on the chair slipped. He was right. I could not afford an attorney for a single week, let alone a multi-year legal battle.
“But you have a lifeline here.” Hastings opened a manila folder and slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. “A voluntary withdrawal from the hockey program. You cite family financial hardship and step down from the team.”
“If I step down, I am not playing.” I forced myself to hold his gaze. “How does that save my draft spot?”
“It leaves your record spotless,” Hastings countered without missing a beat. “Scouts will see a dedicated kid who had to step away to support his struggling family. Sign this, and I will permanently seal the complaint. You keep your academic scholarship, and you finish your degree quietly.”
A chilling silence fell between us. He had boxed me in from every single angle.
“This is your only way to keep a clean record,” Hastings said, his voice dropping into that fake, caring tone again. “It makes sure your mother’s years of sacrifice to keep you in skates do not end in a very public, very ugly expulsion. Plus, it protects Karter.”
I looked from the paper to his smug face.
“You have twenty-four hours to sign the resignation,” Hastings told me.
Pressing my lips into a thin line, I snatched the unsigned piece of paper off the desk. I turned my back on him and walked out without giving him the satisfaction of another word.
I pushed through the doors of the varsity locker room and headed straight for the dark, quiet corner where the scholarship guys usually sat. Dropping onto a wooden bench, I let the silence ring in my ears.
The unsigned resignation letter rested on my knee. My thumb rubbed over the sharp corner of the paper while I ran the harsh logic in my head.
Fighting the complaint meant losing everything. Signing the paper meant losing Karter. But if I signed it, the Title IX chargestayed buried, and I could still salvage my draft. Walking away was the only logical play. Which meant I had to cut Karter loose.
I had to look out for myself, just like I always did.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it from my pocket, the cold plastic edge of the case pressing into my palm.
An unknown number flashed on the screen.
I swiped to answer. “Zotov.”
“Aleksey. It is Russell Turner, scouting director for Chicago,” a man said.
