Whatever Bodie had been expecting me to say, it definitely wasn't that.

To be fair, I also hadn't anticipated my outburst. It was like I'd been spontaneously possessed by the spirit of the spitfire, whiskey-chugging family matriarch in a telenovela—there didn't seem to be any other logical explanation for how I'd suddenly acquired the cojones to tell a Division I football player to, and I quote, eat a dick.

Bodie blinked at me in disbelief.

Then he flushed maroon, from his hairline to the collar of his shirt, and I tried to steel myself for whatever verbal hellfire he might rain.

But all that came was, "Sorry?"

There was a little crack in his voice.

I had the sudden and deeply inappropriate urge to laugh.

Bodie was half a foot taller than me, a hundred pounds heavier, widely adored, and wearing a suit that did wonderful things for his biceps. I had two friends, the upper body strength of a stale Cheetoh, and was dressed like my next class was an intermediate seminar on dumpster diving.

There was no way I'd actually hurt his feelings.

Besides. I was determined not to apologize, despite the fact that confrontation made me feel a tiny bit like I might burst into tears, because I wasn't about to let Bodie St. James accuse me of taking a shot at Vaughn just so people would know my name.

I hadn't realized that was a metaphorical bruise of mine, so it wasn't my fault I'd yelped when he prodded it.

I tipped my chin up and met his gaze, unflinching, and doubled down.

"I said eat a dick."

Bodie huffed and rolled his eyes, a bit too theatrically.

"Yeah," he grumbled, "I heard you the first time."

"Everything in that article has been fact-checked," I elaborated, channelling Ellison's professionalism. "We printed it because we know it's true. If you have a concern, you can email the editor-in-chief, but I'm not—"

"Oh, c'mon," he snapped. "That's bullshit."

I growled low in my throat.

Was he really so dense that he saw merit in Fogarty's theory? Did he honestly think that the Daily writers had somehow just made up an extensive series of first-hand accounts and specific details to implicate Truman Vaughn for multiple instances of misconduct?

I opened my mouth to make a counterargument, then caught the hint of someone's conversation behind us—something about gonorrhea—and remembered that we were sitting in the middle of a lecture hall.

"I'm not doing this right now," I told Bodie.

He ignored this and leaned over his desk so his eyes were level with mine.

"Vaughn is innocent," he insisted. "That article—"

"Did you even read it?"

"Yes, I read it," he snapped, so indignantly you'd think I'd accused him of being illiterate.

"Okay. Then you realize there are first-hand accounts from—"

"People can lie!"

The twinge of desperation in his voice made me hesitate.

It would've been so easy to pretend that Bodie St. James was just some neanderthal white boy with his privileged head wedged too far up his ass to see the world for what it was. But he looked up to his coach. He'd even told me during our interview that he considered him a father figure.

Bodie had trusted Vaughn to be a good leader and a good man.

Of course he'd choose to believe him, in the face of our article.

The alternative was too horrifying.

"Look," I said, reaching out just far enough that my fingertips brushed the soft sleeve of his navy blue jacket over his forearm. His eyes dropped to my hand. My heart hiccuped. "We wrote it because we had to, okay? Not because we wanted to."

None of us had enjoyed finding out that a man loved by so many had done such horrible things.

Bodie's eyes searched my face.

And then, quite suddenly, his eyes went soft with concern.

"Did Notre Dame put you up to it?" he asked, voice lowered. "If they're blackmailing you guys to try and knock us out of the playoffs or something, you can tell me, Laurel. I can help you."

Bodie was looking for an antagonist. Someone who cackled malevolently as they plotted his team's demise, and who'd have a clear motive to lie about Vaughn. He needed me to tell him that person existed.

But my dad didn't raise a liar.

"Nobody forced us to write it," I said. "And I know because it was me. I was the one who pushed for this story."

Bodie tugged his arm out of my reach, the color draining from his face.

He turned towards the front of the auditorium, that muscle in his jaw ticking again, and clenched his hands into tight fists in his lap. His chest rose and fell in quick, sharp heaves. I thought I saw him blink a little too quickly, but then Nick dimmed the lights to play a video clip from the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, and it was too dark for me to be sure.

"Bodie," I whispered, trying to get his attention before the video started. "I had to do the right thing."

He didn't even flinch.

It was like he hadn't heard me.

Like I was invisible.

It stung to have his kindness offered up and then so abruptly yanked out of my reach. The cold shoulder act, though? That hurt. But if Bodie could shove aside rational thinking in order to avoid emotional destruction, so could I.

I could choose anger, too.

He didn't look at me again for the rest of the lecture.

I folded my arms over my chest and returned the favor.

Unfortunately, my rage was an exhaustible thing. As class went on, I began to feel a lot like I'd felt after the Art House's Pollock party freshman year, when I'd woken up in my dorm room covered in blacklight paint and had spent three consecutive hours clutching a toilet in the communal bathroom as what felt like a gallon of whiskey, vodka, and Jello-O shots made a reappearance.

It'd been the most disastrous hangover of my young life. I'd been feverish and weak for three whole days.

This adrenaline crash felt a lot like that hangover.

By the time Nick finally clicked onto the references slide, signaling the end of the lecture, I was hollow.

My notes for the day were pathetically underwhelming. I'd only written down my name, the date, and Unit Three: STIs and STDs. A quick glance at Bodie's desk told me he hadn't even gotten that far. There was just a small collection of rudimentary doodles of lopsided sunflowers scattered across the bottom of an otherwise blank page of his notebook.

Bodie let out a heavy sigh and scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

I closed my notebook and tucked my swivel desk away.

But Nick wasn't quite finished with us.

"Okay, guys, we've got about five minutes left here, so I want to talk about the final project."

All around the auditorium, students paused, then resumed packing up their things, but more slowly (like that somehow made it less rude).

"As I mentioned when we went over the syllabus, the final will consist of the fifteen-page research paper and the thirty-minute in-class presentation. I know some of you have friends in the class who you'd like to work with, since this is a project you'll be doing in teams of four—"

I saw it coming a mile away.

Don't do this, Nick, I thought. Not today.

"So I'm going to go ahead and partner you guys up with the people sitting next to you. Our lovely grad students will come up the rows to take down your names, just so we can make sure everyone's accounted for!"

It felt like a joke.

It had to be a joke.

Beside me, Bodie scrambled to shove his notebook into his backpack and fold his swivel desk back between our seats.

He wasn't quick enough.

"Hey, Bodie, right?"

It was the boy two seats to my right. The tiny one with the perfectly fluffed black hair, like he'd just come from an audition to be in the next inevitable rip-off of One Direction. He'd leaned forward so he could see around the girl between us, who was aggressively typing out a very long text I was glad not to be on the receiving end of.

"You're the, uh—" Boy Band pantomimed throwing a football.

Bodie smiled at him. It looked so sincere I almost believed it.

"That's me," he confirmed.

Bodie tried, once more, to turn and slip out of his seat.

Boy Band barreled on, oblivious to his discomfort.

"I'm Ryan! Nice to meet you, bro. I'm a really big fan. This is my friend—" he glanced at the girl between us, who sent off her monologue of a message and then slapped her phone face-down on her desk.

"Hi! Hi, sorry," she said in a flurry. "Olivia."

She reached out to shake my hand.

"Laurel," I murmured in introduction.

Olivia had bold eyebrows and was wearing a long-sleeved bohemian dress (like something you'd wear to Coachella, if it was chilly out) and brown ankle boots. I could tell she was still heated from whatever argument she'd been having on her phone, but she played it off well.

"Great to meet you Laurel," she said, then reached across me to shake Bodie's hand, too. "Sorry, I don't watch football. Which one are you?"

I held back a snort. Just barely, though.

"Quarterback," Bodie replied without flinching.

He was perched on the very edge of his seat.

"Should we add each other on Facebook?" Ryan interjected. "So we can keep in touch and work out when to meet about the project?"

Bodie pursed his lips, like he was trying to think of a good excuse that wouldn't pulverize Ryan's enthusiasm.

"Yeah," he finally ground out. "Of course."

And so we exchanged names. I knew it was just a formality. Bodie would inevitably go to Nick and demanded to be moved into another group—one without me in it—and some random kid who'd skipped lecture today would take his place.

But Ryan didn't know this.

He kept asking Bodie questions about their upcoming game that weekend at the University of Washington. Was Quinton's ankle recovered? Did they think he'd be able to play? How was the defensive line looking without Greene and McNeil?

I tapped open Facebook to check my notifications.

Ryan Lansangan. 5 mutual friends.

Olivia Novak. 2 mutual friends.

When people finally started to filter out of the lecture hall, Olivia elbowed Ryan in the ribs, giving him the signal to shut up and let Bodie leave.

Ryan smiled sheepishly and wished him luck at the game.

Bodie, who couldn't seem to get away from me fast enough, shot Ryan and Olivia one last smile before he stood, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and stepped into the aisle. While a stream of students headed for the doors, Bodie marched down towards the stage at the front of the room where Nick and the grad students were gathered.

Knew it.

Anger bloomed in my chest, a welcome relief from the hollowness I'd been feeling.

Ryan would be crushed when he heard Bodie had asked to be moved into another group.

I gritted my teeth, tugged my backpack onto my shoulders, and rose from my seat just as Andre stopped at the end of the row, arms folded over his chest and eyebrows pinched with worry.

"You good?" he asked, giving me a quick once-over.

He'd worn his sweater I hated—this big, bulky one with wavering stripes of gaudy colors like teal and magenta and orange—and cuffed light wash jeans. He looked like the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

I could've roasted him. I had so much frustration I needed to channel, I'd probably get some kind of sick relief out of it.

But Andre didn't deserve that.

"Can we just get out of here?" I mumbled instead.

Andre nodded and trailed at my heels as I trudged towards the doors.

"You wanna hit up Pepito's and tell me what went down?" he asked.

I said yes, because I didn't want Andre to worry too much, but the truth was that I had no appetite (a novelty, for me).

With the media attention our article had been getting, it seemed inevitable that someone with a bit more authority would investigate our claims and corroborate them. Maybe the Daily would never be taken all that seriously by Garland's student body, but the Los Angeles Times was certainly capable of making sure Vaughn faced the ramifications of his actions.

Bodie had made it clear that, no matter what I said to defend my journalistic integrity, he and I stood on opposite sides of a chasm I wasn't sure either of us could bridge.

Half of me worried what would happen to him when his side crumbled under his feet.

The other half couldn't wait to watch him fall.

❖ ❖ ❖

Hi. I wanted to post this Wednesday, but had a pretty bad anxiety attack and instead prioritized eating an entire bag of honey roasted peanuts (as one does, in times of stress). I've never posted on a Thursday before, but I'm happy with the chapter and you guys never fail to brighten my day with your comments, so why not.

(four rewrites later, I finally think I hit the right dynamic between B and L) (it's really hard not to have them apologize and come to an understanding right away) (I love slow burns) (but I am so soft for these two)

Some good news: I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo this year!

I've had my NaNo account for like six years (username ToastedBagels, feel free to add me as a buddy) but I've only participated once. And I barely hit 10k words. But I'm really on a roll with this book, so I'm gonna try and crank out drafts of another 15-20 chapters during November. I probably won't make it to 50k words because I'm the worst kind of perfectionist, but it'll be a fun experiment anyway.

Your friendly author,

Kate