Page 8
He looked up at me, slightly surprised. “Yes?”
“I’m Dakota Hayes,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m new at the Herald and have been tasked with following the team for the season.”
A flicker of recognition passed over his face. “Oh yeah. New season, new coverage. The guys should be happy about that.”
That was an interesting statement, and I couldn’t help but wonder what would make him say that. Was Penny that bad as a reporter? Or did they just despise our kind from the get-go?
“I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about this weekend’s game?”
He hesitated for a second and then nodded. “Sure, but be fast about it.”
He wasn’t willing to give me enough time, so I wasn’t going to waste any of it. I dove right in.
“There have been multiple reports across various college programs involving academic misconduct tied to athletic eligibility,” I started. “Grade inflation, administrative interference, donor influence. What safeguards are in place to prevent that here at Havenport?”
Coach Harris blinked, clearly surprised, but his reaction didn’t slow me down. It was exactly what pushed me forward.
“At Westlake, athletes were given adjusted grades to maintain eligibility. At North Ridge, donations were linked to recruitment decisions. And these aren’t isolated cases.”
“What does any of this have to do with the game?” Coach Harris asked, drawing the attention of a few nearby players.
The guys slowed to listen, but again, I wasn’t dissuaded and kept pushing forward.
“What I’m trying to understand is whether there’s any oversight here to ensure that kind of thing doesn’t happen.”
Coach Harris studied me for a good long while, and then his walls shot up for whatever reason. He even looked a little annoyed with me.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Miss Hayes, but all you’ll find on my team is a bunch of good kids who want nothing more than to play football.”
I opened my mouth to push my point, but the next voice I heard froze the depths of my soul.
“I hear they swapped out broccoli for brussels sprouts in the cafeteria.”
My body turned before I could give the command, and I saw a group of players a few feet away. One of them was slightly closer than the rest, and his attention was fixed on me. The recognition was instant because… how could it not be? The way he drew me in on the field, the collision he’d caused and stopped, and that insult that still tingled my nerves.
“That seems to be a more fitting story for someone like you,” he added.
The guys started laughing. They were easy and unbothered by the way he was treating me, but I most definitely didn’t feel the same way. Once again, he managed to start a fire within me, and it wasn’t the good kind. I was so frustrated I could burst, but I wasn’t going to play his game.
I held his gaze and committed his face to memory before turning my attention back to Coach Harris.
“Thank you for your time,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Coach Harris nodded, but he kept his eyes on me. The players seemed a little disappointed, but they moved on and their voices faded down the path. I waited until they were out of earshot before asking my final question.
“Who the hell is that guy?”
Coach Harris looked after them, and a faint hint of amusement played at his lips.
“That, my dear, was Trace Prescott. He’s the one who saved our game this weekend.”
I could feel the color draining from my face as my notebook all but shattered with the force of my grip. Of course he had to be the man of the match, and the best part was that I didn’t even have to be there to see it. This article was already writing itself, and I was just coming along for the incredibly infuriating ride.
4
Trace
I adjusted the strap of my helmet as I stepped onto the field and jumped up and down to release the built-up tension. Practice hadn’t started yet, but the energy was already building. Some guys were stretching and calling out to each other while cleats began cutting into grass that still had patches from the soccer season.
