Page 72 of Fatality on the Field

The first sheet is a color photograph, high-res and unforgiving, showing the inner arm of a female runner with purple bruises spaced at the interval of a hand’s grip. There are timestamped logs of after-hours training sessions, every one of them landing well past midnight. Not a single one is signed off by any staff except the man now standing in my office. There are three written statements—two of them unsigned and the third a neat cursive that’s been blurred in places where the pen dug into the paper too hard. I flip through to the spreadsheet at the end. It maps out a perfect pattern of private conditioning when laid against the names of students. Not one of the kids listed in these sessions is wealthy; no, the names going back for ten years are always the ones with something to lose.

Magnus let these motherfucking predators run this school like their personal playground and this guy thinks he’s still in the untouchable caste—I cannot wait to inform him otherwise.

I close the folder slowly, but my tight grip leaves an impression on the manila. For a second, I say nothing, letting the silence stretch as I look at it while I work to get a grip on my fury. Des uncoils, making a slow, agitated loop under my jaw. The movement is lazy, but the tension in her body is pure threat. If the coach notices, he doesn’t flinch, just squares his shoulders as he charges ahead like a goddamn fool.

“I didn’t get a calendar invite for this,” he says as if that’s the biggest crime in the room. “I’m supposed to be at practice in twenty. What the hell is this shit, Dean? The teams have to be ready for the start of the season, not that you’d know.”

He says my title with the tone of someone who would rather be chewing glass. I look him up and down once, then lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers in my lap. I can’t kill him, obviously, but I have far more power to deal with his ass than he thinks.

“Coach,” I say, voice smooth as the marble. “Do you know why I was sent here?”

He snorts, his arms crossing over his massive chest. “Everyone on campus knows that. You killed the old Dean over some female shit and they sentenced you to deal with the paperwork from the collegiate athletics idiots. You have no experience in your role, yet once again, the DEI morons sent you to do something you know nothing about. Let me tell you now… if you’ve got a problem with the way I run my team, take it up with the Board, sweetheart. They hire talent to draw talent here and I’m not going to let some European chick tell me what I need to do to stay at the top of my sport.”

Channing doesn’t move, but she is definitely biting her tongue. Her hands are folded behind her back as she stands next to me, but her eyes are flicking between me and the coach. I’m pretty sure she brought this son of a bitch here, so I can work out of some of my damn anger about shit I can’t control. It’s smart, but hopefully I don’t lose control when this douchebag can’t shut his fucking mouth.

“You’re here because three students—four, if you count the one who transferred—have made credible reports of abuse at your hands. However, when we dug into the records, we found that your logs show a decade-long pattern of behavior that suggests there are more who have not spoken up. When we do due diligence on this situation, I believe we will find that you’ve been harming your team since the moment you stepped onto this campus and it was buried. That doesn’t look good for you, Coach.”

The coach’s face goes red, but he holds his ground. “Are you accusing me of something, Dean? If you are, I may have to ask for my attorney. ”

I look at Channing, who is already in motion. She sets her tablet down next to me and with her good hand flips open to the photo of the bruised arm. Rotating the device so it faces him, she then slides it across the marble in one smooth push.

The coach glances at it, and then shrugs. “Athletes bruise; everyone knows that. They push themselves to the limit at the college level, so they will be considered for professional teams and supe Olympics spots. If you’re trying to accuse me of doing this, you’re off your nut. Not that anyone who knows about your past would dispute that, but you’ve seriously misinterpreted your supposed evidence. Like I said, though, if you think I’ve committed a crime, I’ll want my lawyer.”

I watch him with my eyes narrowed before I let my jaw go slack, the way it does right before I drop the hammer.. “Since this is not a legal proceeding, I can ask anything I want without a single vulture present for now, but if you insist on counsel, I will send you on your way and turn this evidence into the local police so they can deal with it. So, tell me about the ‘private conditioning sessions’,” I say with a tight smile.

He shrugs again, looking completely unfazed. “Sometimes students need extra discipline. I weed out the ones who can’t take it by making them run the track or do cardio when it’s not comfortable. My coaching style is not for everyone, and I don’t waste time with the ones who want participation trophies. The team needs winners, not whiners.”

My hands go flat on the desk, and I stand. The chair slides back an inch on the tile, the sound a sharp report that makes Des tense. Circling the desk, I keep my posture loose but let my presence do the heavy lifting. I’m taller than him, but I’m also a woman and, in his world, that’s a license to dismiss me.

“You should know that we have every card swipe, every log in, and every record of your entries to the training facilities and staff housing. None of this took a lot of effort, but I bet when Channing sets our team on a more thorough sweep of your activities, the picture will get much, much worse. You know what will happen when we do that, don’t you? Your options will disappear.”

“I don’t know what these girls are telling you, but maybe they should spend more time running and less time complaining. Maybe if they had a father who was tough on them, they’d⁠—”

I cut him off with a hand, my palm up as my temper simmers. “Enough. We’re not here to psychoanalyze your victims. We’re here to discuss what is going to happen next and how that will affect you in the future.”

His eyes flash as he stands as well. “Victims? This is bullshit. I produce more All-American Champions than anyone else in the region. Maybe if you spent less time listening to whiny girls and more time supporting athletics, you’d know that.”

Now I smile, and it’s not a kind one. I don’t know why this dipshit is unable to see how little I care about sports or his accomplishments, but it’s time to show him. “Coach,” I say, my tone quiet but deadly. “Do you know what I am?”

“Unfortunately, you’re the Dean at State U. So?” he says, but there’s a tinge of hesitation now. I think his shifter senses are picking up on the emotions flowing through me or at the very least, the scent of something coming.

I step in close enough that he has to tip his chin up to meet my gaze. My office is silent except for the faint electronic hum from the laptops. Channing stays behind me, silent as a shadow as she watches the exchange. Lowering my voice to just above a whisper, I say, “I’m what happens to men like you, when the world stops covering for them.”

He opens his mouth, some half-formed insult on the tip of his tongue. “Look, honey, I get it⁠—”

That’s it—we’re done here.

My patience snaps, a single clean break. The shift comes fast as scales ripple up my throat and the snakes in my hair fan out in a hissing halo. My eyes go full gorgon, the fury so intense that I know they’re glowing with my power. I’m not letting her slip entirely—yet—but she will if he doesn’t smarten up real fast.

The idiot flinches, but doesn’t back away. “Don’t try to scare me with your freak show,” he growls, but his bravado is already slipping. “I know what you did to Corona. Do you think the Society will let you pull the same crap on me? No fucking way, bitch.”

I take a breath, my lips curving up. “You abused your female athletes and you made threats about scholarships to control them. You forced them into after-hours sessions, and told them if they reported you, they’d lose everything. You’re a coward, Coach, and a pathetic excuse for an educator and a man. You deserve every ounce of the vengeance Magnus did, but alas, I do not keep a sword in this office.”

He snorts, but his face is pale, and I see the micro-tremor in his left hand. “Go ahead and try me,” he says. “My connections go further than you can even dream, and when I report this⁠—”

I tilt my head, the way all snakes do when they’re considering striking. I turn to Channing and give her a single, deliberate nod. She reaches into the inside pocket of her blazer and pulls out a pair of glasses—small ones with a shimmer to the lenses that marks them as bespoke and very, very magical. Putting them on, she gives me a ‘thumbs up’ and I turn back to the loser in front of me.

“What the fuck are you⁠—”