Chapter 29 Lines in the Ice （Kieran） #2
Mason comes to Compliance with me. They are in an office that smells of carpet cleaner and photocopier ink. The woman who meets us is polite, efficient, and about as emotionally invested as a referee dropping puck.
She introduces herself, offers water, and explains, in calm, practiced tones, how this works.
“This is an intake,” she says. “Not a determination of responsibility. We document what you witnessed. We’ll reach out to the student who received medical care and offer her options.
The respondent”—she doesn’t say Reed’s name—“will have an opportunity to react. In the interim, certain measures may be taken to ensure safety.”
“Like benching him,” I say.
“That’s one option,” she acknowledges. “But decisions about athletic participation are handled by Athletics.”
She takes notes while I talk. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react when I say the words I’ve been avoiding: attempted sexual assault.
The phrase sticks to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter.
“Did you see him put anything in her drink?” she asks.
“No.”
“Did you see the bottle the entire time between it leaving his hand and reaching hers?”
“No.”
She nods like she expected that. “That’s common.”
“We’ll request medical records from the hospital,” she says. “With her consent. For now, we have your statement. Thank you for coming in.”
It feels like walking out of a penalty box after serving two minutes you’re not sure you deserved and not sure were enough.
Outside the office, Mason leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.
“Well?” he asks.
“They’re ‘documenting,’” I say. “They’ll ‘reach out and offer options.’”
He doesn’t say I shouldn’t mock the process. He just says, “She’s not going through it alone.”
“No,” I say. “She’s not.”
We head back.
By the time we get to the locker room, most of the guys are there. Sticks leaned against stalls, half dressed in compression shorts and socks, music low on the speakers. Normally there’s chirping, someone yelling about someone else’s taste in playlists.
Today, the air feels heavier. Thicker.
Conversation dips as we walk in.
Riley spots us and straightens from where he’s taping his stick. His gaze flicks to my hand, then to my face.
“You talk to him?” he asks under his breath as I pass.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Reed’s scratched,” I say. “Pending ‘team decision’ and ‘university review.’”
He lets out a low whistle. “Good.”
Across the room, Mike swears when he sees the lineup sheet on the board. “They really pulled him?”
A couple of guys cluster around the whiteboard, murmuring.
“Are we sure that’s necessary?” one of the freshmen asks. “We’re already thin down the middle. Lowell’s got two stacked scoring lines.”
“Necessary?” Riley snaps. “He drugged a girl.”
The room goes quiet again.
The freshman holds up his hands. “I’m not saying it’s okay. I’m just saying maybe we don’t nuke our own offense before conference play—”
“If you finish that sentence,” Dalton says mildly from his stall, “I will personally introduce your head to your skate sharpener.”
A couple guys chuckle nervously. The freshman shuts up.
Someone else mutters, “We don’t even know what actually happened.”
I don’t see who it is. I don’t really want to.
Mason drops onto the bench beside me as I start pulling off my shoes. “Ignore the noise,” he says. “We can still run four lines. Coach will double-shift you if he has to.”
“Yeah,” someone across the way says. “Assuming he’s not distracted.”
I look up. It’s Lyle—junior winger, good hands, not a lot of brain behind them.
“Meaning?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
He shrugs. “Nothing, man. Just…big day. Big drama. Hope your head’s in the game, that’s all.”
Riley’s grip tightens around his stick. “You want to say what you actually mean, or you want to keep being a coward about it?”
“Relax,” Lyle says. “I’m not defending Reed. I’m just saying maybe we don’t torpedo a line over some girl you’ve been seeing for five minutes.”
The room sucks in a collective breath.
My vision flickers at the edges.
“Some girl,” I repeat.
“I didn’t—” he falters. “I just mean, this is the team, man. We’re supposed to handle stuff in the room. Not bring Compliance into—”
“That ‘some girl’ could’ve been in a body bag this morning,” Mason says, voice low and deadly. “Do you understand that?”
Lyle looks away.
Coach walks in then, saving him from whatever was about to happen next.
“We’ve got a change down the middle tonight,” McCarthy says, not looking at anyone in particular. “Number twenty-three will not be dressing while we review an internal matter. That’s all I’m saying about it.”
A ripple goes through the room.
“We adjust,” he continues. “We don’t whine. We don’t point fingers. We don’t let off-ice bullshit dictate how we show up on the ice. Understood?”
“Yes, Coach,” the room echoes.
His gaze cuts to me for a fraction of a second. Then he moves on to forecheck structure, neutral zone traps, details that normally absorb me completely.
Today they wash over me in waves I have to fight to stay ahead of. When he’s done, he dismisses us with a curt nod. As we stand, he touches my arm. “O’Connor. A word.”
Everything I thought I had mapped just collapsed.
I hang back while the others filter out. Mason hesitates in the doorway until Coach lifts his chin at him. “Go. He’ll be out in a minute.”
The door swings shut. The room feels way too big with just the two of us.
“I spoke to Compliance,” Coach says without preamble. “They spoke to you. They’ll be reaching out to the girl tomorrow.”
“Wren,” I say. My voice sounds strange in the empty space. “Her name is Wren.”
He nods. “I’ve also spoken to Reed.”
Acid rises in my throat. “And?”
“And he told a very different version of last night.”
“Of course he did.”
Coach’s jaw tightens. “I’m not saying I believe him,” he says. “I’m saying this is going to get messy. There will be rumors. There will be people who take sides. Some of them in this room.”
I know. I’ve already heard them.
“For now,” he continues, “you’re in the lineup. You earned that A on your chest. Don’t make me regret keeping it there.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“And Kieran?” He waits until I meet his eyes. “Doing the right thing for the wrong reasons is still the right thing. But it’ll come back to bite you. You understand?”
The back of my neck prickles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if there’s anything else I should know about this situation, you better hope I hear it from you before I hear it from anywhere else.”
There it is again. The crack in the ice. The bet, lurking below the surface like a rock I keep pretending isn’t there.
“Yes, Coach,” I say, because I can’t give him anything else without lighting my own life on fire.
He studies me for a second more, then nods toward the door. “Go warm up.”
I step out toward the tunnel, toward the bright cold of the rink, toward whatever comes next.