Chapter 34 #2
I blink. That’s not what I expected.
He leans back, studies us for a long, heavy moment, then he pulls open a drawer, takes out a fat manila folder, and drops it onto the desk in front of me with a heavy thump.
The little metal tab rattles. I feel it in the base of my throat.
My name is written across the top in black marker.
“That’s for you,” Coach says.
My mouth is dry. “Is… is it expulsion paperwork?”
I knew this was coming. Hell, I’ve even made peace with it.
I decided I’m going to enroll in a community college halfway between Huntston and home so I can finish getting a degree, even if they don’t have a sports medicine program.
It’s something, and I won’t have to leave the most important parts of my life behind—my family.
My mom, Davis, and Beck, who has already found several apartments that he knows I can’t afford but insists on paying for since he plans to be there every night or weekend he has off, and breaks.
We have a plan, and I feel good about it.
Still, holding the evidence of my failures in my hands is hard to swallow.
“Open it.”
My hands shake a little as I flip the folder open.
There aren’t any forms. I don’t see a neatly typed letter from the dean or enrollment office, or anything on stark white paper with the terrifying university letterhead I was bracing for. It’s something different entirely.
The first page is a printed email, the logo at the top from the Board of Directors’ office. I recognize Caty’s mom’s name, though the subject line doesn’t fully sink in before my eyes snag on what comes next.
Concerns Regarding Athlete Welfare
It’s a hand-written statement. The page beneath it is the same, another statement. The next page, another.
The stack is thick. Some are typed. Some are messy handwriting. My brain doesn’t process individual words at first, just a flood of familiar names at the top of each page. Aaron Eros, Jay Norman, Roman Bailey, Sean Cabot, Cade Washington, Jeremy Fisher, Matt Young.
I’m surprised to even see some names of people I was pretty sure hated me. Then I start over and look through the names again. Then I count them. Every single name on our roster, save an obvious one, is present.
“What is this?”
I pick up the first statement. It’s from Roman, Sean, and Beck together, an official statement as co-captains.
They detail Pierce’s ongoing pattern of harassment towards me.
Instances where they reprimanded him. Times he ignored them.
They describe a lot of what they witnessed in detail, and use words like targeting and hostile environment and concern for team cohesion.
I flip to the next.
Jay’s handwriting is cramped and furious. He writes about the way Pierce talks about my family and his blatant homophobia. About how far Pierce took things before I broke and swung. He says he believes I showed restraint for months longer than any reasonable person would.
My throat closes.
“Keep going,” Coach says quietly.
I do.
There’s an incident report from two freshmen who admit to slashing my tires under the instruction of Pierce, who told them they had to follow through on pranks to earn their place.
How he framed it as tradition, as team hazing, and would dole out punishments when they didn’t complete the tasks to his approval.
They write that they’re willing to accept whatever punishment comes their way but feel it’s important for the administration to know that Pierce orchestrated the entire thing.
I flip the page and nearly choke.
Someone, Sebastian again, based on the shaky handwriting, details how Pierce tried to spike a drink at a party.
One that was purposefully meant for me, to get me drunk.
Sebastian details how he purposefully spilled the drink on Pierce and took the heat for it.
He writes about being forced to do naked pushups in the hallway of their dorm as punishment.
I flip more pages, and find more accounts from trainers about overhearing Pierce’s comments. Notes about reminding him of team policies. Emails from the athletic department documenting past warnings.
Then my heart somehow squeezes tighter when I find a page that’s different. Cleaner. It’s on official letterhead from the athletics office.
Character assessment: Broderick Miller.
It’s a list of my grades, which are all above a B+.
My history of volunteer work. My transcripts from Nebraska.
Conduct statements from my professors and athletics instructors at both schools, which are full of comments like consistently on time, well-liked by staff, models positive attitude in workouts and goes out of his way to help others.
“I—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “I don’t… understand.”
Beside me, Beck is quiet. His knee touches mine, solid and warm.
Coach steeples his fingers on the desk. “What you’re looking at, Mr. Miller, is the reason you’re sitting in that chair today instead of cleaning out your locker permanently.”
I blink, trying to catch up.
“There will still be consequences,” he goes on. “You swung and hit another student in the face in front of multiple eye-witnesses.”
“Yes sir,” I whisper automatically.
“But.” He taps the folder with one blunt finger. “Because of your exemplary conduct and rapport with this team, which brought every single member together to take up your case, we have a very different path forward than we thought we would two weeks ago.”
My head is buzzing. “What does that mean?”
“It means there will be a disciplinary hearing. You and I will both be there, as will legal, athletics, and student conduct. Mr. Jamison’s parents have, unsurprisingly, been eager to pursue charges, but once all this documentation surfaced, they became very aware of how much their son has to lose if the full story is on the record. ”
He leans back, mouth twisting into something that might be a smirk if he weren’t trying so hard to look professional.
“In my professional opinion, with the evidence we have of Mr. Jamison’s long-standing behavior, with your teammates and the entire wrestling admin at your back, I believe there’s a good chance you’ll take a hit with a suspension, but I think you will keep your scholarship. And your spot at this university.”
The words land in pieces.
Keep your scholarship.
My chest seizes.
I look back down at the pile. At all those names.
All those pages. So many people stepping up for me, when mere months ago many of them treated me like I was less than.
Because these statements aren’t just from friends.
Not just the guys I’d already started to feel anchored to.
Everyone. Guys I thought barely tolerated me.
Guys I assumed sided with Pierce because they laughed at his jokes or didn’t step in when he ran his mouth.
They were watching. They were paying attention. And when it mattered, they chose me.
I didn’t know I was gripping the arms of the chair until Beck’s fingers quietly cover mine, prying them loose so he can lace our hands together. I stare at our joined hands for a second.
“Son?”
I drag my gaze back to Coach.
He clears his throat, looking uncomfortable, like he’s about to say something earnest and would really rather be screaming at us to do suicides.
“Look,” he says. “I knew you were having some growing pains getting integrated into the team. I should have stepped in sooner. That’s on me.
From where I was standing, it looked like you were making good strides with the majority of the room, aside from Mr. Jamison and, uh,” his eyes flick to Beck, then back to me. “Mr. Beckett here.”
Beck shifts beside me, ears going pink.
“But I did not know the circumstances behind your transfer,” Coach continues. “Or everything going on back home. I didn’t know how deep Jamison’s history with your family ran. That ignorance is on me, and I’m sorry for it.”
My throat tightens. I open my mouth to tell him it’s not his fault, that I didn’t tell anyone, that I wanted to pretend none of it existed, but no sound comes out.
“I also want to say,” he adds gruffly, “that I’m proud of you.”
My brain short-circuits. “You’re what?”
He clears his throat and repeats himself.
“I’m proud of you, Miller. And I hope it’s okay for me to say that I think your father would be, too.
Not just for what you do on the mat. But for the way you handled months of absolute horseshit without throwing a punch.
” His mouth twists. “Between you and me, and this is completely off the record, I think you probably should have laid him out a hell of a lot sooner.”
A shocked laugh bursts out of me, half-sob, half-snort. Beck chokes on his own breath next to me.
Coach points a stern finger. “But you didn’t. You rose above it. You kept showing up. You did your job. That says a lot about who you are. This,” he taps the folder again, “says a lot about who you are. That’s why all these people went to bat for you. Don’t lose sight of that.”
I swipe a quick hand under my eyes. “Yes, sir.”
He stands abruptly, as if he’s allergic to lingering feelings. “Alright. Get out of here.”
Beck and I scramble to our feet.
For a second, I’m not sure what to do with my hands. Shake his hand? Hug him? That doesn’t feel right. Coach McCoy doesn’t really seem like a hugger.
Coach notices my hesitation and snorts. “Don’t even think about it, Miller.
That’s what you’ve got Beckett for, apparently.
” He cuts us both a sharp side-eye. “Just keep it out of my facility. I see enough boners in my line of work as it is. I do not need to see boners with intent during my workday. They don’t pay me enough for that. ”
My face goes nuclear. Beck makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh or a plea for death.
“Yes, sir,” we chorus.
Coach thrusts out his hand instead. I take it, grip firm. He squeezes once, solid.
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice cracks, but I don’t care.
He gives a curt nod, looking almost embarrassed. “Just doing my job. Now get out of my office before I change my mind and add extra conditioning as punishment for defiling my pull-up bars.”
We don’t need telling twice.
I stop just outside the doorway to Coach’s office, the folder clutched against my chest and lean back against the wall. My knees feel a little unreliable.
Beck hovers close, hand warm between my shoulder blades. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”
I let out a shaky breath and nod, though I’m not sure it’s convincing. Everything inside me feels squeezed and full and hollow all at once.
Before I can start crying in the hallway like a complete mess, I turn and wrap my arms around Beck, dragging him into a hard, desperate hug. He comes willingly, chin dropping to my shoulder, arms wrapping around my back and pulling me in tight.
I bury my face against his neck and breathe. He smells like my soap mixed with his expensive cologne and the specific, undefinable scent that’s him. His hand slides up into my hair, fingers scratching lightly at my scalp.
We stay like that for a long, grounding minute. Maybe longer.
It’s only when I can finally breathe without my chest hitching that I realize how silent the hall is. How obvious we must look, two grown men wrapped around each other outside the coach’s office. And Beck doesn’t seem to mind one bit.
Right on cue, Coach’s voice bellows through the closed door.
“Quit fraternizing in my hallway! Don’t you two have a dorm room to go to? Take it to a utility closet or something, damn!”
I choke on a laugh against Beck’s shoulder. Beck snorts, then giggles. It’s a ridiculous, delighted sound I’ve never heard from him before.
“Come on, baby girl,” I murmur, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and shiny, but he’s smiling. “Let’s go find a utility closet or something.”