Chapter 5 #2
The athletic department always felt weirdly sterile, as if someone had Febrezed away guilt and booster money. I approached the main reception desk in the brightly lit foyer, holding my signed access form like a golden ticket.
The assistant raised her brows as she scanned it. “And they know you’re coming?”
I gulped past my nerves, but plastered a smile on my face. “Yes, they should. The form’s signed by my professor, see?” I pointed to Professor Flannigan’s signature. Before she could respond, the doors to the inner depths of the building swung open, and Head Coach Sutherland stepped into the foyer.
I froze.
Of course he’d be here. It was going to be fine. I willed my nerves to settle down.
“Ms. Peterson,” he said, sliding his gaze over me like he was checking for contraband. Or a microphone.
“Mr. Sutherland,” I replied with the fakest smile I owned. I saw his scowl, and the receptionist cleared her throat. “Coach Sutherland, sorry, not, um, used to . . . you know . . . it all. Um, yet.”
“Yet?”
Is this how ants felt under magnifying glasses as kids burned them with sunlight — really hot and panicked, hoping there was a safe place somewhere? “I’m here as part of my assignment for my, um, practicum, for my—”
“Feature Journalism.” He crossed his arms. He may as well have spat on the ground with the disgust he said it with. “I’m aware.” His tone was very much one of ‘I’m aware of everything you touch, and I don’t like any of it.’
I almost gave the receptionist a smug smile that confirmed he knew about me coming, but I was too scared to break eye contact with the intimidating man in front of me.
“Yes. I’m covering the spring training for my, um, assignment.”
Coach Sutherland walked forward and plucked the form from the desk, skimmed it, and exhaled through his nose in that disappointed-dad way he seemed to have perfected. “And this is approved?”
“Professor Flannigan has signed it.”
“Why?” His attention was back on me, the form crumpling in his grip. “Surely you’re the last student that should be here.”
Probably.
“He believes in second chances,” I said. “And I am looking forward to putting the past behind me.”
It didn’t look like he was.
“This may be approved by your professor, but it is not approved by me. So take this—” he handed me my form — “and I’ll wish you a pleasant day, Ms. Peterson.”
“But—”
“Goodbye, Ms. Peterson.” He looked to the main door, and I knew he wasn’t leaving until I did.
The doors opened behind me, and I heard footsteps approaching, but I paid no attention to them as I stared at the head coach and frantically tried to think of a reason why he needed to let me do this assignment.
“Miss Peterson? What brings you here?”
I turned to look at Dean Cole, and I resigned myself to walking away, defeated.
The dean was in a light brown suit, a tan overcoat, and he was pulling off a pair of leather gloves. He looked the very definition of ‘academic.’
“What a pleasant morning,” he continued. “It looks like spring is trying to make an appearance.”
“Dean Cole.” I blew out a low sigh. Why didn’t I factor in the fact that the head coach could say no?
“Dean,” Coach Sutherland’s greeting to the dean was almost as sour as mine had been. “I already said no.”
Dean Cole looked between us. “You said no to what?” He put his gloves in his pockets. “What am I missing?”
“This.” I stepped forward and handed my form over to the dean, hoping he didn’t know about my bright idea. “It’s signed by my professor.” This time, I did point out the signature.
Dean Cole scanned the document, and I could see the slight frown on his face. “I see that, Hadley.” He looked up at Coach Sutherland. “I think we should take this out of the foyer and into your office, yes?”
I think the receptionist and I both held our breath because it looked like the head coach was about to say no to the dean, but he eventually jerked his head to the door he came through earlier, and Dean Cole and I followed him.
“And how have you been?” the dean asked me. It was clear he was just being polite, and I knew he wasn’t really interested in the answer.
“I’ve been okay, thank you.” I looked between him and Coach Sutherland’s broad back. “Keeping out of trouble.”
The dean’s eyebrows raised, but he said nothing. Great, now I just reminded them what I’d done. As if Sutherland would ever forget.
Why was I allowed out unsupervised? I was my own worst enemy.
We were led down a stark-white, sterile-looking wing that opened into a wide office space with long tables at the center, surrounded by individual offices.
Coach Sutherland opened the door to his office and stepped back to let the dean and me go in first. I automatically took a seat, and the dean followed.
The door closed behind us, and Coach Sutherland sat at his desk.
It was cluttered with paper, notebooks, an iPad, and more pens and paperclips than one person needed.
On the walls hung framed pictures of the coach with former star players who went on to the Draft and probably never looked back. Trophies were in a cabinet, too many crammed in for any one of them to stand out.
“I said no, I meant no, and it’s still no.”
Wow.
I glanced at the dean to gauge his reaction to such brusqueness, but he simply smiled. “And I have noted your objection.” He turned to me. “Miss Peterson, you can understand why Coach Sutherland may have . . . reservations about your intent here.”
“You don’t have reservations?” Coach Sutherland asked incredulously. “Have you forgotten the lies and complete BS she wrote last time?” He looked between us both.
Don’t defend yourself, Hadley, don’t say a word. I lowered my head and clasped my hands tighter together in my lap.
Dean Cole sighed, as if he were already exhausted with the conversation.
“She didn’t write lies,” he said carefully. “She wrote speculation.”
Coach Sutherland scoffed. “She wrote that the football program was funneling money into shell projects to hide illegal player benefits.”
I felt both of them looking at me.
“I merely stated that the numbers didn’t add up, with the information that I had been given at the time.
” I could see that Coach Sutherland looked like he was about to burst. “There was a facility upgrade that never happened! A booster donation that went to ‘discretionary spending,’ and a training program billed twice in the same year.”
“Allegedly,” the dean cut in sharply.
“Yes, of course, allegedly.” I swallowed hard as I met Sutherland’s glare.
“Your blog implied this program, my program, was corrupt!”
“And that implication was defamatory,” Dean Cole said firmly. “Which is why the article was removed, and why Miss Peterson was put on academic probation.” He glanced at me before returning his attention to the head coach.
Removed.
Not disproven. Not corrected. Removed. I had a real story, and they claimed I jumped to conclusions. Without proof, I had nothing.
“Using sources as thin as she did was a grave error on Miss Peterson’s part, and she has been under supervision for many months.
” Dean Cole’s gaze flicked to my hands and back to me.
“Her school record is very good, her grades have improved—” he gave me a small smile — “and her blog has remained offline.” He turned to look at the coach.
“In fact, she received a near-perfect grade on her media ethics paper.”
“Near perfect?” Coach Sutherland grunted. “That impresses you?”
Dean Cole’s smile shifted slightly to almost a patronizing one.
“There are no right or wrong answers in ethics. It’s more about interpretation and how a reaction to an action affects the individual.
What is morally right for one may be harmful to another.
Therefore, there are no set answers. It’s about interpretation and the why, not the how.
” Dean Cole turned to me. “Hence, the near-perfect grade. Everything is open to interpretation. Well done, Hadley. Your paper was very impressive.”
“Thank you.” I hadn’t been expecting that praise, and I wasn’t sure how to react.
“As fascinating as that is, my decision hasn’t changed.” Coach Sutherland looked ready to ask us both to leave. “I have training to attend. Winning championships doesn’t come without discipline.”
“Ah, of course.” The dean didn’t make any move to stand. He turned back to me. “Tell us why you want to cover this team, Miss Peterson.”
Lie. Really well.
No wonder my ethics score wasn’t perfect.
“I was enthusiastic last year.” I ignored the snort across the table.
“You’re right, Dean Cole, I didn’t check my sources, I didn’t double-check facts.
I thought I had something juicy and ran with it.
” I shook my head. “Inexcusable really. Headline news, social media breakout stories, they warped my perception. My blog was taking off, I was getting traction, and I went for sensationalism, instead of taking the time to stop and think.” I looked over the desk at the coach and hastily looked back at the dean.
“It was wild, not thought out, and reckless. I triple-check everything now. I search multiple media sources to ensure what I am using, learning, and repeating can stand up to scrutiny.”
“That’s very encouraging to hear,” the dean said. “But it doesn’t answer the question.”
This time, the snort was derogatory to us both, but the dean never batted an eye.
“I want to redeem myself,” I said simply. “I want to write a feature on an aspect of this team that complements the hard work that goes on here, is truthful, and reflects the athletics program.”
“No.”
Dean Cole exhaled loudly as he turned to face Coach Sutherland, his patience with the older man waning. “At Wrighton University, we believe in second chances.”
Coach Sutherland leaned on his desk, eyes locked on the dean’s. “In this department, my word is final.”
Holy shit.