Chapter Eleven Sam
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAM
The silence in this hallway doesn’t feel normal. There are no footsteps, no murmurs behind closed doors, no staff. It’s just me and whatever this summons means.
I shouldn’t be here. Not on a Saturday. Not alone.
But here I am, staring down a heavy oak door with my heart in my throat, and every nerve in my body screaming for me to run. Coming to SKU was supposed to be a blessing, but right now, it feels more like a curse.
I told myself to forget it, but fate’s a cruel bastard with a very long memory. Last night still clings to my skin, and I can’t shake the feeling that my being called to the chancellor’s office has everything to do with that.
It was just one party. One mistake I felt coming before I even made up my mind to go.
The entire ride to that lake house, my stomach turned flips—much like it is now—yet I still went.
And now everything I’ve scraped together, everything I’ve worked for—the scholarship, the long hours studying, every threadbare hope—is fraying.
It’s all going down the drain, and I fear there might not be anything I can do about it. Desmond was counting on me to get us out of this mess we were born into. To rewrite the story no one ever gave us a chance to change. And I might’ve just burned our only way out to the ground.
I didn’t plan for this to happen. It was just supposed to be a harmless little house party. I wasn’t supposed to have to fight for my life.
But I did.
I told myself that I could bury this, forget the whole thing.
But I couldn’t. After I left the party, running until my legs nearly gave out, I used Christina’s account to call a Ryde and snuck in while Gracie was asleep.
And as I sat on the bathroom floor with the shower running, all I could do was replay it in my mind.
His hand wrapping around my neck, his voice that was all teeth and arrogance, and me suddenly biting down on his flesh, shoving him off me, and hearing the sickening snap.
Now his knee’s destroyed, it has to be. I did more damage than I intended, and now I’m going to have to face the consequences.
With one deep, shaky breath, I raise my fist and knock.
The door opens with the slow deliberateness of a horror film. A click. A creak. And then the chancellor’s cool, unreadable gaze flicks to mine.
“Come in,” he says with no warmth or pretense.
My feet move before I can talk myself out of it. I step into the room—and stop cold.
Jackson is here.
He’s sitting stiffly in one of the leather chairs directly across from the chancellor’s desk, one leg stretched out awkwardly, the other bent around the thick white cast that encases his knee.
A pair of crutches lean beside him. He glares at me, and I can feel the hate swimming just beneath the surface of his stillness.
There are two other people aside from the chancellor, who is now back behind his desk.
One of the men is tall and broad-shouldered.
He wears a varsity-branded pullover, and the whistle hanging from his neck confirms that he’s the coach.
That’s usually how it happens, right? A player gets injured, and the coach gets involved. Otherwise, why else would he be here?
The other man stands directly behind Jackson’s chair, a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and the other in the front pocket of his slacks. He’s older, harder, with silver at his temples and the same cold edge in his jawline as Jackson. There’s no mistaking the father and son relationship.
They all just stare at me like I’ve ruined something valuable. As if I’m the perpetrator and not the victim.
“You must be Samantha,” the chancellor says, his voice clipped. “Have a seat.”
Hesitation bites at my limbs, and I glance between the men, my brain telling me to get the hell out of here, while my body freezes in place. The energy in the room is draining. It’s dark and cold, and not just from the lack of heat.
It’s them. The way they watch me like I’m dirt under their boots, like I’ve dragged filth into a room that was never meant for someone like me.
I make myself move, grabbing the top of the chair and scooting it closer to create space between Jackson and me. I lower myself into the seat and am acutely aware of how small I feel. How am I the only girl in a room full of angry men?
My palms press against my thighs to hide the shaking. I won’t give them that. I won’t let them see me flinch. But still, my chest tightens.
“I assume you know why you’re here,” the chancellor says, lacing his fingers together as he leans back in his office chair, his gaze never leaving mine.
I swallow hard, my voice stuck behind the taste of dread. “No. I don’t.”
I do know, but if I’ve learned anything from watching crime documentaries—you let them tell you what they know first.
A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, like I’ve failed some unspoken test. “Then let me make it abundantly clear.”
And just like that, I am fully aware of what they know, and whatever comes next won’t be mercy. From my peripherals, I notice Jackson looking at me. My gaze darts around, searching for something—anything—to anchor me.
That’s when I spot the paperweight on the chancellor’s desk.
A knight, wrapped in brass and silver, twin swords crossed over its chest. It’s massive, about half a foot tall and several inches wide.
And somehow, even knowing it’s a nod to the school’s mascot, it feels more menacing than the men in this room.
Red pearls burn behind the helmet’s visor, glinting where its eyes should be.
The grate around its mouth looks more like a snarl than armor.
“I don’t know what they do where you’re from, but we don’t tolerate violence at this school, Ms. Collins.” The chancellor’s voice snaps me out of a daze.
“Neither do I,” I bite out. “I’m not a violent person.”
“I’m in a cast. You broke my knee in three places. That feels pretty violent to me,” Jackson snaps, leaning forward in his chair in an attempt to intimidate me.
“You attacked—”
“Enough. Why don’t you tell us what happened, Mr. Kincaid?” Chancellor Williamsburg asks, cutting me off.
Seriously? Why the hell is he asking only him?
“She was drunk, coming on to me,” he says smoothly. It’s sickening how easily he lies. “But when I told her I wasn’t interested, she got aggressive.”
A cold prickle runs down my spine. “That’s not what happened,” I say, forcing my voice to hold steady. “I wasn’t drunk. I don’t drink at parties because there’s always some asshole—”
Coach bristles. “Watch your tone.”
“Coach Barrett,” the chancellor warns. “Let’s allow Ms. Collins the courtesy of finishing her statement before we descend into barking.”
I glance at the chancellor, wondering if that was a defense or just a performance of fairness. But his expression gives nothing away and I’m no closer to knowing if he is friend or foe. Although my instincts are telling me it’s the latter. The chancellor nods for me to continue.
“Sir. I wasn’t drinking. I never drink at parties. I hadn’t even been there long before Jackson approached me.”
“Tell him how you were all on me, touching my shoulder,” Jackson interrupts.
“Young man,” the chancellor warns again.
Instantly, I think back to the moment I let my hand rest on his shoulder. What was supposed to be a dig at Kane might just bite me in the ass. Fuck.
“Did you touch him?”
All eyes are on me, boring deep, waiting for me to slip up.
I sigh. “I did, but it was a friendly touch, more like a tap. He approached me, even put his hand on my waist. I didn’t make a big deal of it because he was being nice. But I did not come on to him. He offered me a drink, and I accepted to be kind.”
“Why not just turn it down?” Coach Barrett asks, accusatory.
“Girls don’t exactly have the luxury of turning a guy down without bruising his ego,” I say matter-of-factly. “We don’t know who’s a decent guy and who’s not, so it’s safer to just take the drink and not drink it.”
“And you don’t see how that could give him the impression that you were interested?” the chancellor adds.
“No. I should be able to take a drink and not have some prick think that means I want him.”
The chancellor lets out an uncomfortable sigh and waves for me to keep going. It’s a silent apology because God forbid he do so out loud.
“He asked me to go outside with him while he smoked—”
“Richard. You can’t be buying this crap. Smoking? Jackson doesn’t smoke,” Mr. Kincaid blurts out.
“Then you don’t know your son very well, Mr. Kincaid,” I snap.
Chancellor Williamsburg holds up a hand to quiet Jackson’s father before he can say another word and looks at Jackson. “Is this true? You know drugs are prohibited for all players.”
Jackson shifts in his seat, the faint rustle of his crutches tapping against the wooden armrest.
“I don’t remember much, to be honest,” he adds, gaze locked on mine. “But I do remember her kicking me. Pretty hard. After I told her I wasn’t interested.”
My heart stutters.
“You tried to drug me,” I snap. “You pushed me against that house, and—”
“You were drunk,” Jackson says with a shrug. “Everyone saw it.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Oh?” His brow lifts. “So you broke my knee sober? Good to know.”
“Sir. I’m telling the truth.” I swallow to catch my breath, trying and failing to ignore the hateful stares from Jackson and daddy dearest. “He offered me some of his weed, I again said no. Then he encouraged me to drink the alcohol he gave me, and when I said no, he accused me of being rude. That’s when I noticed a white foaming substance floating around in my cup.
And before I could ask about it, he told me to relax, that it was just foam.
It was spiked punch, and last I checked, punch doesn’t foam. ”
A laugh leaves Mr. Kincaid’s mouth, dry and humorless. “You assaulted my son,” he growls. “And you think you can sit here and lie your way out of it?”
I turn toward him. “I defended myself. He put his hands on me, and I reacted. I didn’t mean to—”