Page 73 of Whistle

Ryan appeared. “Let me see your phone.”

I started to protest, but Coach cleared his throat. When I glanced over, he gave me a look. You know, the kind that said I’d better not be a shit.

I handed my phone to Ryan, and he put in his number. “Text me anytime,” he said, handing it back. “If you need somewhere to crash tonight, me and Jamie are across the hall.”

“Uh, thanks.”

The three bros went off to supervise Ronnie, and I went toward the RA’s office.

A hand on my arm stopped me. I stared straight ahead, letting my hair shield my face. He made a soft sound, and my toes wiggled in my shoes, but I refused to meet his stare.

He stepped into my line of sight. I lowered my face, but he caught my chin, tipping it back up. The pad of his thumb caressed the sore corner of my lips.

“Ah, Goldilocks,” he whispered. “What am I gonna do with you?”

My heart turned inside out, and the urge to bury my face in his chest was so strong I had to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out.

“Nothing,” I replied, the word making my throat raw. “Which is exactly what you wanted.”

His eyes flared, the green and gold melting together.

I left him standing there and went into the office.

17

Coach (Emmett)

The second I got the call there was a fight involving one of my swimmers in the dorm, I was up and out of my office before I could even get a name. Worry propelled me faster as I sped across campus. I had a lot of swimmers, but there was only one I was thinking about.

Images of him when I first saw him at the jail assaulted me. His bruised, bloodied face and haunted blue eyes. And then I thought about the way he looked a few days ago when I pulled his limp body from the pool as trauma shook his limbs.

I sent him away.

I shouldn’t have.

I had no choice.

The second I laid eyes on him, saw the smears of blood on his cheek and at the corner of his lips, all the conflicting emotions bubbled over, and I did something I definitely should not have done.

I hit a student. Me, a faculty member. Me, Elite’s coach who was supposed to be above petty outbursts of anger. God, it felt good, though. The smash of my knuckles against that jackal’s flapping lips. The verbal declaration to not touch what was mine.

I’d regret it later, but in that moment, it was satisfying. My satisfaction was short-lived, however, vanishing the second the RA spoke.

“Your roommate has alleged that you made…” He cleared his throat. “Unwanted advances toward him.”

My stomach soured, gurgling like old cottage cheese. The idea of Bodhi hitting on anyone made me want to throw another punch.

Bodhi made a rude sound. “I wouldn’t touch him if someone paid me.”

“So you are claiming these allegations are false?”

“I’m not claiming anything,” Bodhi said through clenched teeth. “I’m telling you. He’s a homophobe, and I caught him rifling through my things.”

I straightened out of the doorway. “What?”

“And that’s why you hit him?” the RA pressed.

Bodhi shrugged. I expected an outburst, some sort of justification or argument about the trouble he was in. His silence bothered me. His lack of fight. The blood and fresh bruises on his face. Beyond that, he looked tired.

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