Chapter 6
Hadley
The dean didn’t blink, and I was scared to breathe, worried they might both remember I was in the room.
Dean Cole sat back in his chair and assessed the man across from him.
Coach Sutherland was probably handsome in his youth, but a life well lived, sun-weathered skin, and, dare I say, the arrogance of believing he was the best had dulled his complexion over the years.
His hair was clearly dyed, and I don’t think anyone had told him it wasn’t working in his favor.
It was obvious that Coach Sutherland was ‘old school,’ and by that, I mean he was a bully.
“Are we done?” the head coach asked as he mirrored the dean’s pose and sat back.
I was. I was ready to leave. The atmosphere, which had been cool, was now frigid.
Dean Cole, however, must have been ready for arctic conditions because he simply crossed his legs, picked a piece of lint from his pant leg, and flicked it to the floor.
“Alas, we are not done.” His smile was sharp as a razor. “The education of our students, whether they are participating in the program or preparing for assignments that carry a significant percentage of their grade, is our priority.”
“I don’t need the lecture,” Coach Sutherland muttered.
“Not a lecture, just a reminder.” The dean smiled again, but there was zero warmth in it. “You admire courage on the field, Bobby Ray. I’m surprised you don’t recognize it when it’s sitting right in front of you in your office.”
Bobby Ray looked at me for the first time in a while. “Courage?” The expression was similar to that of someone who had just been told they had contracted a contagious disease, through no fault of their own.
“Miss Peterson made a mistake. She has been very open about recognizing her mistake, and she has been very careful and considerate in her approach to this assignment, which significantly impacts her grade this semester.” Dean Cole glanced my way.
“When a student, or students, become derailed and need some extra guidance to get back on track, it is our duty, as educators, to help them.” His fingers tapped his thigh as if he were thinking.
“Just the other week, some of your own students—”
“Players,” Coach Sutherland grunted. “I have players.”
Ah, he’d also met Dustin Slater . . .
There was that ‘of course you do’ patronizing smile the dean wore so well.
“Are you not training your players to be better?” he asked.
“It’s all teaching. Or coaching, call it what you want.
We educate here at Wrighton. And when your own players caused a disturbance the other week on campus, did you not put measures in place to get those players back on track? ”
Coach Sutherland watched the dean as if he were an unfamiliar animal, still unsure if he was dangerous.
“I did.” He jabbed a finger my way without looking at me. “What she printed was a helluva lot worse than some hotheaded boys brawling out their differences.”
“And I have apologized for it.” They both looked at me, and I didn’t back down. “I have three or four features I could write, Coach Sutherland—” another lie — “but I want to do this one, and you know my professor actually said this was fluff—”
“What was fluff?” he asked sharply.
“The, um, feature. It’s more PR than depth, if you only look on the surface.
” I glanced at the dean quickly, who sat listening, face expressionless.
“But when you look below the surface, I hope to deliver a piece that shows more than the jock going through spring training, but the man working toward his goals.”
Coach Sutherland ran his tongue over his top teeth as he looked away. “While I wouldn’t say it’s PR,” he said, and I could hear his resentment at admitting it, “it’s not exactly new.”
I nodded eagerly. “Exactly, and that’s my challenge. To shift my perspective and hopefully create a compelling feature that truly highlights the hard work of the athletes here, and the program.”
His eyes flicked between the dean and me. He leaned back again. “You have other options?” He offered a slight smile. “Use one of them. I don’t trust the one-eighty you’re pulling here, and I’m surprised the dean of this university is.”
One day, when I grew up, I wanted to be as fearless as Coach Sutherland. Just not be a dick about it.
It was time to admit defeat.
“I understand.” I bent to pick up my backpack, but Dean Cole cleared his throat.
“It is an overused piece,” he told me, watching my reaction.
“However, I’ve graded some of your papers, as you know, Hadley, and you always bring a unique perspective to the table.
” He stood up, straightening his jacket.
“And,” he continued, turning to look at Sutherland, “the athletic department could use some positive coverage this semester, especially after the recent disturbance your players caused, not only in the parking lot, but also in the dorm. Parties. Fighting. It does look like the team has lost its focus since winning the championship. Some positive PR in this program would be a step in the right direction, wouldn’t you agree, Coach? ”
There was nothing but arctic conditions across the desk.
The dean turned back to me. “I look forward to reading it. Which player did you have in mind?”
Holy shit! He was letting me do it.
“Absolutely no—”
Dean Cole slowly turned his head and met the glare of the Alabama Lions’ head coach without flinching. In fact, I’d say Coach Sutherland did.
Scrap everything I thought about Coach Sutherland’s bravery. When I grew up, I wanted to be as fearless as Dean Cole.
“As you are so quick to remind me, Bobby Ray, I am the dean of this university. I am responsible for every student’s education and the one who reports to the board of directors, donors, and alumni.
While I appreciate that the football team is yours to coach and manage, the education of every student is ultimately my responsibility. Correct?”
I didn’t believe he was looking for an answer.
Coach Sutherland suddenly stood up, making me flinch. He glared at the dean, but said nothing, then turned to me with loathing in his eyes. “Treyvon Hernandez, offensive lineman. He’s a good player, first team, not an obvious choice.”
“Okay, I, um, that sounds—”
“Hernandez is injured,” the dean cut in smoothly. “It was on one of the sports reports last week. Torn ligament in his knee, am I right?”
Coach Sutherland was on the verge of losing it. I looked at the door, not wanting to be in this room when the fallout started; it was bad enough already.
The coach’s fingers tapped on the desk. “Slipped my mind. Hartley — defensive end. Defense gets overlooked by the media guys.”
“Hartley.” Dean Cole nodded. “A sound choice.” He picked up his overcoat. “Miss Peterson, I think we’ve taken up enough of Coach Sutherland’s morning.”
“I’ll be back . . . when?”
“Tomorrow, eight a.m.” Coach Sutherland growled.
Eight? “Absolutely.” I nodded. “See you tomorrow.”
Dean Cole walked forward, leaving me no choice but to exit the office. We were just a few feet away when we both heard the sound of something being thrown. I looked up at the dean. He wasn’t very tall; he simply carried an aura of authority that made him seem taller.
“Thank you.”
He nodded slightly. “You will stay in your lane this time, Hadley. No digging. No ‘independent research.’ No creative interpretation of what access means.” We walked down the corridor toward the main reception desk.
“You will shadow Hartley, and you will focus only on Hartley. You will not stray from your assigned player. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” I licked my bottom lip. “I’m just writing a profile,” I reminded him, sounding innocent enough to win an Oscar.
“Good. And you might want to thank your professor for having the foresight to warn me this was happening.”
I gaped at him but said nothing.
At the reception, he put on his overcoat and waited for the receptionist to finish a call. It didn’t take long, and Dean Cole gestured to me.
“Coach Sutherland is aware that Miss Peterson will need to have an access pass to get her through to the training facility only.” He didn’t so much as blink as the woman’s eyes flicked to mine in surprise.
“I look forward to reading your piece,” he said to me.
“Don’t give the head coach — or me — a reason to regret this. ”
“Absolutely not.” I nodded, thanked him, and walked out of the athletic center with perfect poise. Only when I rounded the corner did I breathe again. Because the dean showing up wasn’t an accident. I didn’t know if it was a leash to control me or a buoy to keep me afloat. Possibly both.
This wasn’t going to be easy, I knew that. I expected it. But didn’t they say nothing worth winning was easy? I started to smile. Instead of feeling trapped, though, something in me clicked into place — steady, stubborn, steel. The dean’s warning still rang in my ears.
Stay in my lane, no digging.
“Oh, I’m definitely digging,” I whispered to myself. “Just quietly.”
* * *
The stadium looked different up close.
It was bigger than I remembered, and somehow louder even though the stands were empty. Now it just looked . . . hungry.
Or maybe that was just me and my overactive imagination. I clutched my tote bag and wore an expression that said I was totally confident and definitely not dying inside as I headed toward the players’ entrance for day one of my feature assignment.
I had been given a pass when I arrived that morning; it beeped me through to the ‘private’ area, not the office I had been in yesterday. No surprise there, my lips curled into a smirk.
My sneakers squeaked across the white floors. This entire building looked like something out of a bad horror movie. Or a hospital. White everywhere — polished, plastic, and trying too hard to seem clean on the surface, if you asked me.
Coach Sutherland stood near the tunnel with his arms crossed, jaw clenched so tightly I was pretty sure he could crack granite between his molars. He looked exactly how I expected him to look this morning.
A piranha in a polo shirt.