Page 83 of Fatality on the Field

fifty

MORGANA

By the time we park in the shadow of the enormous stadium, I already hate it. There’s nothing about this place that doesn’t scream ‘look at us, we spent more on field paint than on faculty salaries’. The concrete superstructure looms at the farthest north edge of campus, clearly designed to be visible from the highway for a good two exits on either side. Channing and I cross the parking lot, boots crunching on the salt and black ice, past a line of donor-named parking spots—half of them empty, and the other half sporting cars that could have funded an entirely new theater if sold for parts.

Fucking rich people drive me insane—which makes my groups of mates ironic, I know.

My friend walks half a pace behind me, wearing a State U windbreaker, but it’s so cold she’s got it zipped to the throat, and her ears are already going pink. We’re early for the walkthrough, which was my idea because I don’t trust a single member of the Bowl committee not to sabotage something if I leave them unsupervised for thirty seconds. We’re only two days out now, and with a shit ton of work and late nights, we’re almost home free from this albatross around my neck.

The first surprise comes when we reach the staff entrance—there’s no one waiting there for us. Not one coordinator, not one coach, not even a player with a forced smile there to greet us. The glass doors are unlocked, though, so we let ourselves in and stomp the snow off our boots just inside. For a second, the only sound is the echo of our footsteps. Then, we hear a shout so loud and cheery it rebounds three times as clicking shoes hit the concrete.

As she gets closer, I see a big nametag that says ‘Nikki’ on it. She appears around the corner in a windbreaker so blood red it makes me recoil a bit, her curly, ribboned ponytail bouncing like a weaponized slinky. She does not walk so much as spring forward with energy that is both inhuman and exhausting to watch.

Mind you, I have no idea who the actual fuck Nikki is or why she’s here.

“You must be Dean LeCiel!” she chirps. “And you’re Channing, right? I saw you both on the morning news yesterday! They totally did not mention your height, or I would have worn shoes to accommodate that.” She says it in a way that’s not a micro-aggression, but more like she’s genuinely shocked to meet a woman who’s not tiny and blonde like her.

I glance at Channing, who is a millimeter away from showing how taken aback she is despite the unprofessionalism of that. “Nikki,” I say, “where’s the rest of the Bowl prep committee? This is supposed to be a Bowl staff, coaches, and administrative walk-through. It’s been on the schedule all week.”

She points with her whole hand, like she’s auditioning for her future career in aeronautical hospitality. “Coach and the others are… busy with team stuff? I’m your campus ambassador for the day, which is so exciting! I can answer any and all questions about the stadium, athletes, or logistics you might have.”

“Are you… on the cheer squad?” Channing’s voice is level, but it has the kind of subsonic edge that makes me want to check my fillings afterward. “They sent a… cheerleader… to do the walk-through?”

Nikki smiles harder, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “Who better, right? I know the place inside and out because we all support the coaches and team all year round while they play and train. Also, I’m the captain of the squad, so I have a vested interest in the Bowl going perfectly. Please follow me!” She pivots, all but skipping down the hall, expecting us to follow.

Someone is going to die for this.

Channing pulls out her tablet and starts logging information with a stylus that has definitely been chewed on. “First item,” she mutters, “Bowl prep staff: absent. Student labor: substituted. Administration: infuriated. Disciplinary action recommended after the game. Insubordination, falsifying university documents, unpaid labor from students, and dereliction of staff duties, all done with malice and forethought.”

I arch a brow, chuckling as we follow Nikki deeper into the bowels of the stadium, past framed jerseys and looping highlight reels on screens built into the hallway walls. “You are spending entirely too much time with a goddamn lawyer, Chan.”

Her lips curve up and she shrugs. “You spend time with a bunch of alphas who thump their chests and bellow and grumble a lot. We all make choices, Morgana.”

Can’t argue with that, I guess.

Our guide takes us into the home team’s locker room first. The ceiling is so high it could give non-aerial supes vertigo, and the banks of lockers are lined in alternating chrome and black, and trimmed in that damn bloody red. Nikki beams as she gestures at the wall of monitors above them. “This is our team’s home base! We have the most advanced digital playbook system in the whole conference. Each locker has a biometric lock and charging station, plus built-in dehumidifier. The coaching staff has an AI-assistant to schedule and optimize⁠—”

I tune her out long enough to count the number of big-screen TVs in this single room; there are eight of them. Each shows a different ESPN channel at the moment, the carpet beneath our shoes is thicker than the grass on the quad. Channing paces the perimeter, logging the features in a series of bullet points I recognize as passive-aggressive financial forensics.

“Is there a comparable women’s locker room?” I ask drily. “I’m told they have several national-level teams as well as contenders for Supe Olympics this year. That’s also not an uncommon occurrence as far as our research states.”

Nikki blinks at me, then shrugs. “Uh, they have facilities, but no, they aren’t this… comprehensive. I can show you after, but the team’s facilities are not fully funded by the university. Generous alumni and donors ensure our players have the most up-to-date equipment, accommodations, and league equivalent facilities for their division.”

“Then you’re saying that alumni and donor support is directed to large, male only sports,” Channing fills in. She shoots me a look and we both frown. That’s not only bullshit as a general rule, but quite illegal depending on how creative this accounting has been done over the years.

No wonder they’re threatening our accreditation.

However, Nikki isn’t responsible for this, nor is she the right person to have the discussion with. So we allow her to move on to the training and recovery wing, while my assistant scribbles her notes for post-Bowl research. When we get there, I blink again, simply gaping at the insanity that is this fucking place.

If the locker room is a cathedral of male athletic narcissism, this area is the Vatican. The walls are lined with weight racks, each etched with the State U logo and even the plates are in custom team colors. A glassed-in area holds a zero-gravity treadmill, a row of hyperbaric oxygen chambers, and a pool with a programmable current for resistance swims. Two trainers, both wearing matching track jackets, ignore us completely as we walk past. They seem to be setting up for something, but I don’t know what. Interestingly enough, I don’t see any players or coaches in here busy like we were told by our chirpy ambassador.

“Are any of the players around?” I ask, just to see if the answer is what I expect. “I haven’t had time to meet them since I arrived.”

Nikki shakes her head, her big doe eyes reflecting faked sadness. “They’re all in a mandatory media blackout until after the Bowl. The coach doesn’t want any distractions.” She smiles, but her hands are flexing on the clipboard she’s carrying.

She was definitely coached on what to say if asked, but her answer is unsatisfactory. I stop in the middle of the hallway, folding my arms over my chest as I level my irritated gaze at her. “The Dean of the university is not the press, and that is not an acceptable excuse.” I glance down at Nikki, whose bouncy affect is starting to show hairline cracks. “I realize you were fed that response and I won’t ask by whom. But if you’re supposed to report back, you can damn sure let them know that I expect attendance at events and meetings deemed mandatory or the staff will be in breach of contract, plus I will trigger an eligibility review of the athletes on their team’s academic performance done by an outside interrogator who has empathic abilities.”

Nikki’s mouth opens, then closes. Her eyes dart to Channing, who is clearly savoring my polite but firm message to the assholes who seem to think they have more sway than me. “Maybe they’re nervous because of the whole… earlier in the week thing, you know? When that one coach—” She makes a slicing gesture across her own throat and then seems to realize that’s awkward, so she tucks her hands behind her back and stares at her shoes.