Page 102 of Nowhere to Hide
I sit with that, and what hits me isn’t relief.
It should be — Franklin just confirmed that what Mason did has a name, a process, and a consequence, and that’s what I came here for — but the thing underneath is uglier: Sloane’s name is going to be in a conduct file.
Her story will be typed up, submitted, and reviewed by people she’s never met, in a building she’s never been inside, in a way she didn’t choose. I chose it. I walked in here and laid her life out because that was the shortest path to a solution.
But even though it feels wrong, I don’t stop it.
“Your punch.” Franklin points at my hand. “I should bench you for that.”
“I know.”
“You’ll sit the first period of your next game, and you’ll run the freshmen’s six a.m. skates for two weeks,” he says. “And no more fuckups or I’ll have your ass.”
“Understood.”
Then his voice drops half a register, and I swear I catch him looking around to make sure we’re alone. “You know who Mason’s father is?”
I do. Patrick Cross is a longtime NHL scout with connections in front offices around the league. I’ve known since freshmanyear because Mason made sure everyone did, dropping the name into conversations like loose change.
“I’m not telling you to do anything differently,” Franklin says. “I’m just telling you the context you now have to live with. Are you hearing me?”
“I’m hearing you.”
That context is obvious. Patrick Cross has been scouting players since before I was born, and his son just walked out of Murphy’s with a split lip and a suspension, and I’m the one both Mason and his old man will blame for both.
“Get some ice on that hand, eat, and sleep,” he says. “You look like shit.”
I nod and leave his office, and when I reach the parking lot behind the athletics building, the guys are waiting for me like I asked them to in a text as soon as I woke up. They all showed up in various states of Saturday morning, which tells me I’ve still got the team on my side.
A team I need to help me undo some of the damage.
“Mason is suspended effective immediately, and the formal channels are in motion,” I say. “Nobody talks to him until that plays out.”
The silence holds.
“Second thing. The post about Sloane. The screenshots, the comments, the texts — all of it ends now. We all have clout on this campus, so use it.”
“Already on it,” Seb says.
He’s leaning against the wall with his arms folded. I hold his gaze, and he holds mine, and we have a whole conversation without making a sound. And a glance at some of the others tells me they’re already putting in work, too.
Luca clears his throat. “Honestly, this is hard for me, because gossip is my major…”
A few of the guys laugh, and a few crack smiles.
“Anything else?” I ask.
Silence.
“Practice Monday,” I say. “Be early.”
They scatter in pairs, but I catch Seb before he pushes off the wall.
“Things okay?” I ask. “The calls at Ironwood — you’re carrying something.”
His jaw sets, then he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Offer stands, whenever.”
