Page 84 of Fatality on the Field

“Oh, the one who got petrified in my office for being a fucking pedophile,” I say with a dark smirk. “Yeah, that probably didn’t help morale, but it clearly showed everyone where I stand on student abuse.” I turn to Channing again, tilting my head as I look around the room. “Add to your notes for me? No visible safety protocol instructions posted, no work/legal disclosures posted for federal or state level requirements, questionable student oversight during visitor tour, trainers on the clock without actual work being done, full OSHA and compliance review necessary, and review of empty hours for this facility to be done to trim budgetary concerns.”

Channing grins, just a little. “Logged, and timestamped, boss.”

Our guide looks horrified, but she just swallows hard as she leads us more quietly through the sumptuous team lounge, the NFL-style video review room, and the small hospital-esque athletic medicine suite. There’s a whiff of isopropyl and something floral in the last one, but I fixate on the row of medical fridges. My eyes dart to the actual human skeleton on a rolling stand next to the whirlpool, wearing a miniature State U jersey, and I frown again, even harder than before.

This is like a mini-version of the State U Med Center inside our damn stadium.

Nikki bounces ahead, gesturing at the wall of medical supplies. “We’re completely stocked for any kind of injury or incident,” she says, “and the team has a private EMT on site during Bowl week. See?” She points at a closet-sized office where, sure enough, a bored-looking paramedic is doing sudoku behind the glass.

Channing takes a slow lap around the exam tables, then turns to me. “Remember how the law library let us know they haven’t had heating upgrades since the virus year? This place has individually managed temp zones with a rocket ship looking panel in every room we’ve entered.”

“Fascinating,” I say. “Also, the hyperbaric chambers each had to cost as much as the budget for the orchestra for the entire year and they have five of them.”

Des wraps around my left ear, hissing like she wants to free the others and get some justice. I scratch her under the chin, and then shoot Nikki a look. “This kind of resource disparity is not only offensive and entirely illegal, but it’s disgusting that they’re forcing you to defend it when I guarantee your team doesn’t even get enough support to match one of the damn chambers’ cost.”

She nods, but I see a defiant glint in her eyes now that makes me curious to see what she’ll say. “The football team wins big and that’s what the donors want. I never said it’s fair; I’m just saying that’s how it’s always been and no one has ever cared to change it. We have to live in the system that exists sometimes, you know?”

Channing leans in, lowering her voice. “M, they probably get some benefits for all the… extra duties they undertake that she mentioned earlier. There are female teams who are not nearly as comfortable as the football adjacent ones.”

I look at her, my eyes dark as I shake my head. “Neither of those things is okay, Channing. Any athlete who can do a three-twist backflip on national TV one day and show up the next day for twelve hours of unpaid event labor, deserves better than what scraps they’re being handed. I don’t care if it’s not my thing—no one should be treated like free marketing for a boys’ sport because they wear cute skirts. The fact that this is fucking culture here and no one’s ever tried to fix it is vomit-inducing.”

Nikki freezes mid-bounce, turning slowly with her eyes wide. “You’re the first administrator who’s ever said that to my face. Or, uh, at all.”

“That doesn’t make it less true.” I pivot to my friend, my expression angry. “After this Bowl, I want every source of funding for the major male sports tracked by forensic accountants from the Society and through our friend. I want every single penny earned, donated, granted, and spent accounted for with verified proof. This ends now—or as close to it as I can get in the current timeline.”

Channing checks her tablet, scrolling as she pushes things quickly. “I will get that moving and make some suggestions where things could possibly be hiding. I have a lot of ideas that we can check first, that may give us threads to pull.”

“Then it’s fixable,” I say. “Good to know, because the pain is coming and I’m going to be the one doling it out as I make sure all programs and extracurriculars get more balanced funding, especially the ones getting shafted the hardest under the current system.”

Nikki perks up at that, her smile a little less brittle and a lot more calculated. “If you want to talk to the team captain, he’s probably at the practice field. I can take you there, and then show you the VIP boxes.”

Ah, she is as smart as I thought she might be hiding under the bubble bounce personality.

fifty-one

SLADE

It’s the scent of old books and dark incense that sets the mood in Iggy’s office. There’s nothing in here that isn’t at least a little bit dangerous or mysterious, but that’s normal for mage spaces. The desk alone could flatten a sedan; it’s slabby, ancient, and loaded with so much prior spell work residue that the wood occasionally hums. His shelves are fully committed to their overstuffed existence, and every centimeter is crammed with jars labeled in various languages, bundled scrolls, and knick-knacks. I’m pretty sure that two of the things on the closest shelf are watching me. The left one blinks, confirming my theory, and I wink back which makes it go still.

Not my first time hanging out here when there isn’t a crisis, so his weird shit doesn’t freak me out.

Iggy is behind the huge desk, his shoulders squared like he’s defending it from an invading army. His ‘fine detail’ glasses glint in the lamplight as he writes things on a plain legal pad. He’s on page four and is writing with the intensity of a man avoiding something. He hasn’t looked at me once since I came in after my classes. I’ve been sitting here, right in his line of sight, for at least ten minutes and the closest I got to acknowledgement was a grunt when I coughed. His commitment to the pretend work he’s doing is impressive, I’ll give him that.

I fold my hands on my own stomach as I lean back, and make a point of watching him intently. The crazy part is that I could do this all day and he knows it. Most people are afraid of silence; I grew up with a family that could out-silent a mausoleum when they wanted to. But this is a game he’s playing, so I won’t ask him about the things he doesn’t want to discuss.

Unfortunately for Iggy, I’m not going away until he gives it up and we get his head straight.

The pen keeps moving as he checks something in a large tome and then goes back to writing. His jaw is set at that angle it takes just before he calls someone a fucking idiot. The irritation is only confirmed by his left index finger tapping the desk once per paragraph, a little staccato punctuation that is classic pissy professor shit. It’s so predictable that I almost want to take a photo for posterity. I won’t, but this whole ‘college professor’ schtick he’s emanating right now is adorable and I know Morgana will agree.

After the clock ticks off the twentieth minute, I clear my throat loudly, but he doesn’t flinch. I let it hang in the air for a moment and roll my eyes when his gaze doesn’t lift from the pages. Very slowly, I unwind from the chair and start a perimeter tour of his office.

My fingers skim the spines of the reference books—each more esoteric than the last, some with bindings that ripple under my touch. I keep going until I reach a jar of something blue and viscous, the color shifting from navy to neon as I tilt it. There’s a scroll bound with a gold cord; when I brush the cord, it gives me a static zap and then purrs as if daring me to untie it. I don’t though; I go for the little black object on the end of a shelf. It’s a carved stone and when I pick it up it makes a low, resonant sound and the back of my teeth tingle.

“Put that back,” Iggy says, his tone not raised but dense enough to count as a threat. “Please.”

I turn, stone in hand, and arch a brow. “Do you mean the thing that hums like a sex toy, or the scroll that tried to mate with my thumb?”

My friend doesn’t look up, but his lips twitch at the corners. “They’re both warded. I’d rather not have to explain an unplanned magical incident to Morgana.”