Page 112 of Whistle

I hesitated.

“And when he does, will his time be consistent with a division-one school?” The dean pressed. “I would assume he’s not conditioned to swim if he hasn’t been doing it.”

I thought about his thin waist, the way my hands nearly touched when I wrapped them around it. I thought about how I worried every day if he was feeding himself properly.

“I understand you don’t want to cut him so fast, but we have to think of the team. Of what kind of message it sends that you let him slack off while expecting the others to perform exceptionally.”

“I’m not letting him slack off,” I practically growled.

How dare he lecture me about my team? My coaching. My Goldilocks.

“Students saw you outside Peregrine Hall. Carrying him to your car, then driving away with him.”

I whipped around to stare at the dean as if I could see his words and not just hear them. “He’d gotten in a fight.”

“You hit a student, Emmett.”

My jaw snapped shut. Prying it apart, I responded, “Yes. I did. I know it was completely out of line, and if you want to write me up, I’ll take the punishment for my actions,” I said, meeting his eyes.

“Is there something else going on here that I should know about?” His voice was steady, as was his stare.

There was nothing about me that was steady, the implication of his words knocking me sideways and making my heart beat erratically. Sweat gathered at the small of my back, sticking my shirt to my overheated skin.

Despite the bedlam living it up inside me, I met his gaze. “Like what?” I asked, my voice just as steady as his.

“What is your relationship with Bodhi Lawson?”

“He’s my swimmer. I’m his coach.”

“Where did he stay after the fight at the dorm?”

My tongue slid over my teeth, and my jaw jutted out. “It was late. I took him to my house.”

Dean Philip groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Jesus, Emmett. You know that is against every policy we have!”

“What was I supposed to do? Dump him at a hotel?”

“You should have put him with a teammate.”

I made a sound. “He slept on the couch!” I insisted. Lie. “And then he got a new room the next morning.”

“Need I remind you of Westbrook’s consensual relationship policy?”

I stared at him.

“An air-tight policy that prohibits any sort of sexual or romantic relationship between students and professors or coaches.”

My voice was hollow. It felt like my insides were caving in. Crumbling into rubble inside me. “Did you just accuse me of sleeping with a student?”

If anyone other than my former roommate and old college friend was the dean, he wouldn’t even think it. But Philip knew me long ago. He knew women weren’t my preference.

“I have no evidence of any such thing,” he said. “As a valued and long-standing member of our faculty, one who has an impeccable record and has brought this college abundant prestige, I felt it important to bring to your attention the rumors.”

“They aren’t rumors. That stuff happened just like I told you. Nothing more. Nothing less.” Lie. Lie. Lie.

“Yes. Well, thank you for your transparency. It’s noted.”

“Is there anything else?” I asked, trying not to grind my teeth to ash.

---