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“Everything okay, Brad?” I ask, walking over to the middle-aged man. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before.”

Brad glances at the pool briefly before pulling his attention back to me, his shoulders squared and his hand on his belt, as if there was a gun there. There isn’t, but I know he’s an ex-cop, so I guess old habits die hard. Even so, the stance makes me shudder, my pulse kicking up a notch as I swallow.

“Brad?”

“Sorry, Doug,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m here to escort you to the Hall. West wants you.”

The world tips on its axis a little as I try to process what he’s just said. “West ishere?”

“Yes.” He nods. “And she wants to see you. Right now.”

I swallow, my heart now thundering in my throat.Shit.To want a meeting is one thing, but to be on campus and to send security to fucking escort me like I might run away? She could have just called me. My hand moves to the pockets of my green sweats, but they’re empty. I left my phone on my desk.

“Come with me, Doug,” Brad says, gesturing toward the exit.

Helpless to do anything but follow, I glance over my shoulder to find Masters already behind us.

“What’s going on?” he demands. “Where are you taking him?”

“President West wants him,” Brad says, the same notes of apology in his grumbling tones. “I’m just the messenger.”

“Run the rest of practice,” I say to Masters. “I won’t be long.”

I can tell from the quiet that the team has stopped their laps and I almost bark the order to keep swimming, but I don’t want to look at any of them. Especially Blake and Rossi. So, I hold my head high and follow Brad out through the locker rooms.

“Any idea what it’s about?” I ask, as we hit the corridor.

Brad shakes his head. “No idea. You done something to piss her off?”

Fucked two students?“No.”

Maybe it’s to do with the meet. I suck in a steadying breath, bracing myself as we step outside into the cool morning air. It might be almost spring, but six a.m. still packs a punch when you’re in just a t-shirt.

I exhale slowly. Yeah, it’s probably just to do with the final meet. I’m overreacting. Her assistant likely tried to call me but couldn’t get hold of me, so they sent poor old Brad to fetch me. That’s all it is. I repeat the fact over and over in my head, but my trembling fingers still curl at my side regardless.

We reach Franklin West Hall and every step I take toward the second floor is like walking through quicksand. Brad stays a step behind, and I realize that if he was just a messenger, he could have left as soon as I started on my way. The fact that he’s still here . . . Well, it can’t mean anything good.

My concerns only grow as we step into the large office rarely used by the president, to find her, the HR lady from our video call, and Hannah the provost, sitting around the large mahogany conference table looking various shades of awkward and unimpressed.

Fuck.

“Thank you for joining us,” President West says, gesturing to the only empty chair. “Brad? Could you please wait outside?”

My skin is cold and clammy as I pull out the chair and sit before what can only be described as a firing squad. I swallow painfully, itching to make a joke, to flash them a charming smile, but West’s stormy expression has me pressing my lips together and wiping my sweaty palms on my joggers.

“Coach McMann,” West says, peering at me over the top of her designer glasses. “We met almost two months ago regarding your conduct. At that time, you had been witnessed physically assaulting a member of staff.”

My heart hammers in my throat as I force myself to hold eye contact as shame heats my skin.

“I’m extremely disappointed,” West continues, “to discover that you have progressed from assaulting members of staff, to fraternizing with students.”

I blink. “Fraternizing?”

The woman from HR, whose name I can’t remember, slides some photos across the table toward me and my heart drops into my stomach with an acidic splash that has me swallowing bile.

“I was trying to be discreet.” West sighs deeply. “As you can see from the evidence I’ve been provided, it’s much more than fraternizing, Coach McMann.”

My hand trembles as I spread the photos out in front of me. There’s one of me sitting with Rossi, Masters, and Blake at the table at the wedding. My hand is clearly on Blake’s thigh beneath the table and I’m talking in her ear, a lot closer than I should be as her coach. But perhaps I could explain my way out of it . . .

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