Chapter Eleven Sam #2
“But you did,” the chancellor cuts in. “Didn’t you?”
Silence falls like a curtain.
He folds his hands again, leans back in his chair, and looks at me like I’m a stain on his perfectly buffed floor.
“Regardless of whether you ‘meant’ to, Ms. Collins, the fact remains: a student-athlete has sustained a serious injury that will bench him for the remainder of the season. Witnesses say you were aggressive and that alcohol was involved. This institution cannot afford scandal. Nor can we allow violence to go unchecked.”
“And they’re lying,” I let out, my voice rising before I can stop it. “Was I just supposed to let him touch me, pin me against a wall, and—”
“You’ve got some nerve, girl,” Mr. Kincaid snarls. “My son is on track for the draft. The draft. And you shatter his knee because what—he smiled at you?”
“That’s not what happened,” I grit out.
“She should be expelled,” he growls, turning toward the chancellor. “And arrested. If you don’t press charges, I will.”
The chancellor raises a hand, quieting the room. His expression stays neutral, unreadable. “That won’t be necessary.” His tone is calm, but there’s something colder underneath it.
“Not necessary?” Jackson’s father explodes. “She attacked him! I donate a lot of money to this university, and my son is the only reason this damn team has a chance at National—”
Chancellor Williamsburg rises from behind his desk and tilts his head toward the door. “Sebastion, let me have a word with you outside.”
Mr. Kincaid stands there, seething, but he doesn’t push back. Instead, he steels his shoulders, shoves his fists into his pockets, and glares at me on his way out the door. The chancellor follows behind him, closing the door, effectively sealing me in a room with my enemy.
Thankfully, Jackson doesn’t taunt me, and I’m sure I have the presence of the coach to thank for that. Something tells me that what I saw on Friday night isn’t even half the length Jackson would be willing to go. The way he switched from flirtatious to viciously angry in the matter of seconds.
The thick oak makes it so that we can hear their raised voices but not what is actually being said.
It’s killing me—the anticipation, the not knowing what’s being said or which part of my life they’ll rip apart next. They want to strip me down. Not just physically… emotionally. They want to humiliate me until I break.
After what feels like forever, the door creaks open. Mr. Kincaid lingers on the other side of the threshold, that grimace of his looking more and more like a permanent disposition.
“Come on, son,” he mutters, not bothering to meet Jackson’s eyes, his stare drifting sideways. Almost as if he’s detached, resigned, and defeated.
“What about—” Jackson starts but is cut off.
“Now,” Mr. Kincaid barks.
That shuts Jackson right up. About damn time.
Jackson rises, grumbling under his breath as he grabs his crutches. His father mutters something sharp and entitled, a low growl of money and threats, before the door swings shut behind them.
And then there’s silence. It’s not a reprieve, not really—more like concentrated pressure now that it’s just me and the two men still staring at me like a problem they’re tired of solving.
The chancellor folds his hands behind his back and walks slowly to the edge of the desk.
“Let me be very clear with you, Ms. Collins.”
Here it comes.
“You are dangerously close to expulsion.”
I don’t breathe and just wait.
“What you did—what you admitted to doing—could’ve resulted in a lawsuit, a scandal, a shattered reputation for both you and this institution. And instead of reporting it through the proper channels, you chose to react violently, recklessly, and with no regard for consequence.”
“He put his hands on me.”
His voice sharpens. “And you broke his knee.”
“I defended myself.”
He raises a brow. “And you’ll continue defending yourself when you’re back home, no degree, no options, and no way to afford the life you think you deserve?”
That shuts me up. Because I don’t have a comeback for the truth.
“Now, I’ve convinced Mr. Kincaid not to pursue this, but you can’t go unpunished for your actions.”
“And what about Jackson? It isn’t hardly fair that he gets—”
“You’ve effectively ruined the rest of his college hockey career and potentially his chances of going pro. I’d say he’s being punished enough.”
Not even close.
Had I not been observant and had I drank from that cup, there is no telling what that jerk would have done to me. There’s no telling who else he’s done this to, but I’m supposed to just be grateful that they aren’t pressing charges.
And it’s not that I expected them to hold him accountable. They never do. The rich boys’ club always protects their own. It’s just that they somehow think we’re even. He tried to assault me, but because I fought back and hurt him, the guilty verdict goes out the window.
It’s bullshit.
“You have two options,” he finishes, his voice clipped. “Expulsion or community service. After class, you’ll report to Coach Barrett until the end of the season.”
“I wanted to apply for work study in between classes this semester,” I say quietly. “I need the money.”
He sighs, long and exasperated, like my words personally inconvenience him. “Well. You should’ve thought of that before you made such impulsive, self-destructive choices.”
I say nothing.
“What’s it going to be?”
I blink. “Community service.”
“All right.” He walks back to his seat. “Coach Barrett will oversee your assignment. You’ll assist with the hockey team. Practices, equipment, travel coordination. Whatever he deems necessary.”
My stomach sinks. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” His tone turns icy.
I clench my jaw, eyes burning. My fists curl against the strap of my bag.
“This is absurd—”
“It’s your only path forward,” he says, cutting me off. “Bury this, keep your head down, do the work, and graduate with opportunities. Or fight back, stir the pot, and I promise you, the Kincaids will destroy every dream you’ve ever had.”
His eyes narrow.
“Make no mistake, Ms. Collins. They have the resources. You don’t.” He pauses to write something on the notepad in front of him. “You can go.”
Just like that. No paperwork. No report. No hearing.
And I’m not expelled.
I guess I should be… relieved? Grateful?
The chancellor should want me gone. Jackson’s father certainly does. And yet… he doesn’t. He gave me this scholarship with no interview or explanation. Just an offer that felt too good to be real.
And now, instead of throwing me to the wolves like I expected, he’s protecting me.
Why?
I gather my bag and rise to my feet. Coach Barrett strolls toward the door and pulls it open. He doesn’t look at me as he gestures for me to follow.
The chancellor’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“And, Ms. Collins?”
I turn slowly, my teeth clenched, and back straight.
“One more incident… one more anything… and you’re gone.”