Power Play (Thornhill University #2)

Chapter 1

Lennox

The espresso machine hates me.

I'm convinced it's sentient and has decided that six in the morning is the perfect time to stage a rebellion. It sputters, hisses, and sprays scalding water directly onto my hand.

"Fuck!" I yank my hand back, shaking it out.

"Language," Isla calls from the register, but she's smiling. "Customers can hear you."

"Customers can deal with it. This machine is possessed."

"It's temperamental. There's a difference." She finishes ringing up a bleary-eyed freshman and comes over to help. "Here, let me."

I step aside and watch Isla work her magic. Within thirty seconds, the machine is purring like a satisfied cat, producing perfect espresso shots.

"How do you do that?"

"Practice. Patience. Not screaming profanities at inanimate objects." She hands me the completed latte. "Table six."

I deliver the drink and the morning rush is in full swing. Students desperate for caffeine before eight AM classes. Professors who haven't learned that nothing good happens before nine. The occasional townie who wanders in looking confused by all the Thornhill merchandise.

This is my life now. Six to ten every morning, slinging coffee to pay for the journalism degree I'm barely keeping afloat after losing my soccer scholarship freshman year.

Not bitter. Not at all.

"You look exhausted," Isla observes during a rare lull around eight-thirty.

"I was up until two finishing an article." I pour myself an espresso shot and down it like medicine. "Had to rewrite it three times because Mitchell keeps saying it's 'too aggressive.'"

Mitchell is my editor at The Thornhill Tribune, the campus newspaper where I've been working my ass off to prove I belong. He's brilliant and infuriating in equal measure.

"What was the article about?"

"The hockey team. Specifically, their toxic masculinity problem and how the university enables it."

Isla's eyes widen. "Lennox. That's—"

"Journalistic integrity? Truth-telling? My job?"

"Brave or possibly suicidal." She lowers her voice. "Carter Lynch is not someone you want to piss off."

Carter fucking Lynch. Thornhill's golden boy. Hockey captain, campus royalty, walking cliché of everything wrong with elite sports culture. He's also the primary subject of my article, though I was careful to make it about the culture, not just him.

Doesn't matter. He's going to take it personally.

"I'm not afraid of some overgrown jock with an ego problem."

"You should be. He has influence. Friends in high places and from what I've heard, he doesn't handle criticism well."

"Then he shouldn't create cultures where freshmen get hazed until they puke or where women are treated like accessories. Or where academic standards mysteriously don't apply." I wipe down the counter with more force than necessary. "Someone needs to call it out."

"And that someone is you."

"That someone is me."

Isla sighs. "Just be careful. Sebastian told me about the hockey team, they protect their own and Carter especially, he's got a reputation."

"For what?"

"For destroying people who cross him."

"He can try." I try to sound tough, but not sure it’s coming off that way.

The conversation drops as more customers arrive. By nine-thirty, I'm running on fumes and espresso when my phone buzzes.

Mitchell: My office. 10:30. We need to talk.

My stomach drops. That's never good.

Me: About the article?

Mitchell: Among other things. Don't be late.

I show Isla the text. She makes a sympathetic face.

"Maybe he loved it so much he wants to give you a raise."

"Or he's pulling it because Carter Lynch's daddy made a phone call." That one seems more like what will happen.

"Pessimist." I hear Isla, and I roll my eyes.

"Realist."

At ten, I clock out and head across campus to the Tribune offices, a cramped suite of rooms in the media building that smells like old coffee and crushed dreams. Very on-brand for journalism.

Mitchell is waiting in his office, and he's not alone.

Dean Whitmore sits in the visitor's chair, looking official and uncomfortable. This is worse than I thought.

"Lennox. Sit." Mitchell gestures to the other chair.

I sit, my heart pounding.

"Your article about the hockey team," Dean Whitmore begins without preamble. "It's causing some... concerns."

"Concerns." I keep my voice level. "About the content or the truth?"

"About the timing and the tone." He shifts in his seat. "The team has a major game this weekend. This kind of negative publicity could be distracting."

"So we should wait until they're done playing to tell the truth about their behavior?" I ask, but I keep telling myself to shut up, I can not get into trouble.

"Lennox," Mitchell warns.

But I'm on a roll. "With all due respect, Dean Whitmore, if the hockey team is more concerned about an article than about fixing the problems the article exposes, that's not a timing issue. That's a priority issue."

The Dean's expression hardens. "The university has invested significant resources in that program. We have donors to consider. Reputation to maintain."

"And what about the reputation of the students who've been hazed? Or the women who've been harassed? Do they not matter?"

"Of course they matter—"

"Then let me publish the article. Let's have the conversation." I cut him off, and I have no idea where this courage is coming from.

"The article will publish," Mitchell interjects. "But there's going to be a condition."

Here it comes. The catch.

"What condition?"

Dean Whitmore leans forward. "You're going to do a follow-up series. A redemptive profile on the hockey team. Behind-the-scenes access, humanizing pieces. Balance out the criticism with the full picture."

I stare at him. "You want me to write puff pieces about the team I just exposed."

"I want you to write fair pieces that show all sides. Surely you believe in journalistic balance?"

It's a trap. A beautifully constructed trap that I can't refuse without looking biased.

"And if I say no?"

"Then the article doesn't run and your position as investigative editor comes under review." Dean Whitmore stands. "This isn't punishment, Miss Hayes. It's an opportunity. Show you can report on complex issues from multiple angles. That's what good journalists do."

He leaves before I can respond and I turn to Mitchell, who has the decency to look apologetic.

"I fought this. For the record." He fights his case.

"But not hard enough."

"He's the Dean. He threatened to pull funding from the paper entirely if we ran your piece without the follow-up." Mitchell runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, but this is the deal. Take it or the article dies."

I think about the months of research. The interviews with former players who trusted me with their stories. The evidence I compiled of systematic problems.

All of it meaningless if it doesn't publish.

"Fine. I'll do your redemptive series." The words taste like ash. "But I'm not compromising my integrity. If I find more problems, I'm reporting them."

"Fair enough. The article runs tomorrow. You start the interviews next week." He slides a folder across the desk. "Captain Carter Lynch has been instructed to cooperate. Full access. You'll shadow him, attend practices and games, do in-depth interviews."

"Carter Lynch." Of course. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

"He's not happy about it either, if that helps."

"It doesn't."

I take the folder and leave before I say something that gets me fired.

Outside, the March air is cold and sharp. Winter hasn't quite released its grip on campus, and dirty snow still lines the pathways.

I'm halfway back to my dorm when my phone buzzes.

Unknown number: Got your number from the athletics department. We need to schedule our first interview. How's tomorrow, 4pm, rink? Lynch

The audacity. The fucking audacity.

Me: The article hasn't even published yet. How do you know about this?

Carter: I'm the captain. I know everything that concerns my team. Tomorrow at 4. Don't be late.

Me: I have a shift until 5.

Carter: Then I guess you're skipping it. See you at 4, Hayes.

I stare at my phone, fury building in my chest.

He's already trying to control this. Control me. Dictate terms like he's in charge.

Absolutely not.

Me: 6pm. After my shift. The interview location is my choice. I'll send you details.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Carter: Fine. But Hayes? This doesn't mean I'm going to make this easy for you.

Me: Good. I don't want it to be easy. I want the truth.

Carter: Careful what you wish for.

I pocket my phone and keep walking, adrenaline mixing with something that feels dangerously close to anticipation.

Carter Lynch thinks he can intimidate me. Thinks he can bully me into writing what he wants.

He's about to learn that I don't scare easily and more importantly, I always get my story.

***

The article publishes the next morning.

I wake up to seventeen text messages, forty-three Instagram notifications, and three missed calls from numbers I don't recognize.

The headline reads: "Beneath the Ice: Toxic Culture in Thornhill Hockey"

Mitchell ran it on the front page with a photo of the team celebrating their last win, all smiles and glory while the subheading reads. But at what cost?

I scroll through the comments on the online version. They're exactly what I expected, half supportive, half enraged.

Finally someone said it

This is bullshit. Go interview the team before you trash them

Carter Lynch is going to destroy you

Thank you for writing this. I was hazed my freshman year and no one believed me

Feminazi journalism at its finest

I screenshot that last one for my collection of "Reasons I Drink."

By the time I get to my café shift at six, the whole campus is talking about it. I can feel eyes on me as I walk across the quad. Hear whispers that stop when I get too close.

Good. Let them talk.

Isla is already at the café when I arrive, and she looks worried. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" I ask.