Whistleblower ✓

33 | lime juice

The training facility was closed off to those of us who weren't student athletes, barricaded behind a row of turnstiles you had to swipe an ID card to get through. Commoners were expected to use the main gym, where the combination of crowds and poorly maintained equipment meant half-hour lines just to use a squeaky elliptical.

The gatekeeper of this elite portion of the fifty-million-dollar shrine to athletic achievement was a polo shirt clad freshman with chlorine-bleached hair and an enormous pimple on his chin.

He glanced up from his phone as I stormed up to the front desk.

"I'm with the Daily," I snapped.

"Do you have—"

I tore my student ID out of my wallet and held it aloft.

"Laurel Cates," I announced.

The freshman was familiar with my work. His eyes bugged wide and he fumbled behind the desk, smacking his keyboard frantically.

The nearest turnstile swung open.

"Thank you," I growled as I blundered forward into the unknown.

The architect who'd designed Garland's training facility had to be big on space movies, because the whole complex looked straight out of Star Wars. The walls were smooth, dark concrete. The floors were a black marble so polished they reflected everything clear as mirrors.

It felt like a fun house. A really, really overpriced fun house.

I passed an open archway through which I could see athletes sitting at round tables and lounging in far plusher beanbag chairs than the ones we had at the media center. One of the volleyball players who'd complimented my Garland University Daddy hat was filling up a cone from the soft-serve machine.

The deeper I wandered into the labyrinth of hallways and work out rooms, the more idiotic I felt.

Eventually I found myself in a hallway lined on one side with floor-to-ceiling windows. They overlooked a full-sized indoor football field nestled one story below. The turf glowed neon green under the rafter lights.

There were two assistant coaches and a handful of players out on the field running drills.

Bodie wasn't among them.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Andre had texted me a string of question marks.

I hiked the straps of my backpack up on my shoulders, wishing I'd come in with a better game plan than wandering around. I shouldn't have left class. I should've waited for Bodie to reach out to me, instead of chasing him down like a complete stalker.

I turned to head back the way I'd come.

And I made it all of five steps before Chester Gordon, the interim coach, came around the corner, whistling to himself and frowning down at a binder propped open in his arms. He was badly sunburnt on the bridge of his freckled nose. Wisps of his copper hair had gone nearly white from all the afternoon practices.

He glanced up, looked back down at his binder, and did a double take.

His whistle trailed off like a falling piano in a cartoon.

"Laurel Cates," he said, coming to a stop five feet from me. It wasn't a question, but I felt the need to nod in confirmation regardless. "Jeez. Okay, uh—" Gordon sighed and scratched at the nape of his neck. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be here."

"I needed to pick up a field pass," I said, feigning ignorance.

Gordon's eyebrows pinched and he looked up and down the hall, like he was worried someone would see him talking to me.