Page 75 of Final Drive

She slows half a step. “Shut up, Monroe.”

“That’s more like it.” I bump her shoulder with mine, light, two teammates on their way to class. “For the record, you’re handling this with more composure than Kinsley has managed in her entire life.”

“For the record, I’m going to throw up in about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll hold your hair.”

“I’m wearing a ponytail.”

“Then I’ll hold your jacket.”

One side of her mouth moves. It’s gone before it turns into anything, but I’ll take it.

Halfway across the quad, Kinsley Adams is set up on a bench near the humanities building with Olivia and Madison either side of her like posts. Phone already out and pointed our way.

Filming again.

“Don’t stop,” I murmur.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

We pass inside ten feet. Kinsley stands.

“Reese.” She’s pitched it to carry, and heads come around. “Nice jacket. Does the whole team get matching ones, or only the ones you’re fucking?”

Reese doesn’t break stride or turn her head. She walks past like the bench is empty.

“Must be nice.” Kinsley’s louder now, working the crowd. “Filing fake complaints to cover up that you spread your legs for eight guys and lied about what you are to get on the team.”

People are stopping. Phones are up. Everything in me wants to put myself between them and make her choke on it, and Reese asked me to walk with her, not fight for her.

Reese stops. Turns. Looks straight at her.

“Are you done?” Calm. Nearly bored.

Kinsley blinks. She was expecting tears or fury or at minimum a flinch. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you’re done. I have a ten o’clock and I’d hate to be late.”

“You think this is funny? I have proof⁠—”

“Of what? That I filed a complaint about months of stalking and harassment and physical intimidation?” Reese tips her head, the small amount she does on the water when she’s reading a line. “Because you just told about thirty people that you know it exists, and most of them are filming. Your Title IX coordinator is going to have a wonderful afternoon.”

Color crawls up Kinsley’s neck. Olivia takes her arm and Kinsley shakes it off.

“You’re a liar. You lied about your designation. You manipulated the whole team with pheromones. Everyone knows.”

“What everyone knows,” Reese says, without a fraction of a wobble in it, “is that you got into my student records, posted revenge content to twelve thousand followers, and are publicly harassing me the day after I filed a formal complaint.” She lets that sit. “Keep going. Every sentence is another exhibit.”

Kinsley’s attention snaps to the phones around her, then to the students who have stopped walking. She’s finally realizing she isn’t exposing anybody. She’s conducting her own prosecution on camera in front of a crowd.

Madison takes her elbow. “Kins. Let’s go.”

Kinsley pulls free. I shift my weight forward in case she comes at Reese, and she just stands there shaking, staring at her like she can’t work out why none of this is working.

“This isn’t over,” she says.

“I know,” Reese says. “That’s what the Title IX office is for.”