Page 215 of Whistle

He made a face. “That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t,” I retorted, wiggling out of his grasp and going toward Dean Cardinal. “I heard you myself. You told Emmett that you would cut me in a couple weeks because of my injury and the one shitty set of stats this team has for me. So cut me right now. Today. I’ll leave, and Emmett can stay.”

The dean turned around, an apprising glint in his eyes. “I did say that.”

“No,” Emmett demanded. “This is part of his reparation.”

“Does it have to be?” I asked, drawing him up short. “I mean, they really just wanted me out of Malibu, right? So what if we call my lawyer, tell him I have too much water trauma to swim? It’s not even a lie. My therapist can confirm. We can tell them I’ll stay here at Westbrook and attend classes, stay on this side of the country. The Cobalts can’t possibly have an issue with me not swimming when the reason I can’t is because of their son.”

Everyone was quiet, and I spun to Rush. “You can call the lawyer, right? What do you think he’ll say.”

Rush nodded slowly. “He’s a good lawyer. I’m sure he could make it work.”

Hope flared in my stomach, a kindling fire. “So that’s it. I’ll leave the team. You can’t fire Emmett for being with a swimmer if I’m not one.”

“You seem to forget,” Dean Cardinal said, “faculty is not to be involved with any student.”

“Oh, come on!” Kruger bemoaned. “How the hell do you sit down with that broomstick shoved so far up your ass?”

“Benjamin Kruger!” Emmett snapped. “That was too far. Apologize.”

“But, Coach?—”

“Now.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Coach cleared his throat.

Kruger rolled his eyes. “I apologize for my lewd behavior, Dean Cardinal. Coach Resch taught me better than that.”

“Yes, well, this is a stressful situation,” the dean allowed.

“You could just rip up that resignation and give Emmett his job back,” I said.

The dean shook his head. “University regulations?—”

“Excuse me, Dean Cardinal,” Arsen said, walking away from the group and over to where we stood. Today, he was wearing a pair of dark-blue ripped-up jeans, a chain hanging from the belt loop to his back pocket, and a white henley waffle tee with the buttons undone at the neck. It was a good combo with the blue Gucci jacket he’d taken off and given to Prism.

“What is it, Mr. Andrews?” the dean asked.

Arsen held out his phone, the silver rings on his fingers glinting. “My father, Senator Andrews, would like a word with you.”

“The senator is on the phone?”

“He left a meeting to take this call.” Arsen gestured toward the phone again.

Dean Cardinal pressed it to his ear. “Senator? This is Dean Philip Cardinal. … Yes, I’m aware.” He listened, making a sound. “Very prestigious. Yes.” His eyes widened. “Policy states?—”

I glanced at Arsen, smirking as he watched the dean get interrupted over and over.

Noting me looking, he leaned in. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Your dad is really a senator?” I asked.

“Are you really a senator’s kid if you can’t use it to your advantage?” he quipped.

Dean Cardinal’s voice grew loud. “Yes, Senator. Yes. I understand.” He made a sound. “Of course. Thank you, sir. It’s very generous.” He glanced at me, then away. “Hm? What’s that? … Of course.” Seconds later, he extended the phone back to Arsen.

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