Chapter 4: Collateral Damage

Two weeks later, people were still staring.

Not everyone. Just enough.

Enough that I noticed it whenever I crossed campus and enough that conversations occasionally dipped when I walked past. The scandal had stopped being news and settled into something more durable: campus folklore. People traded versions of the story between classes as if they’d been standing there for every second of it.

I adjusted my bag and headed toward the journalism building when my phone buzzed.

Lunch?

Ava.

A smile appeared before I could stop it. Only Ava could text as though the world wasn’t currently trying to chew me up and spit me out.

Sure.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

You look less homicidal these days.

Progress.

I snorted and slipped my phone away.

Unfortunately, Ava was wrong. Things weren’t improving. They were getting weird.

At first, the changes had been easy to dismiss. An athletic campaign I’d already been scheduled to shoot suddenly went in a different direction. A promotional event I’d committed to was canceled with a vague explanation. Emails sat unanswered. People who used to wave me over seemed perpetually occupied by urgent responsibilities. For a while, I convinced myself I was imagining patterns where none existed. Then there were simply too many coincidences.

“Iris.”

I looked up to find Professor Daniels standing outside his office with a folder tucked against his chest.

“Do you have a minute?”

Something in his expression warned me this wasn’t a casual conversation.

“Sure.”

He ushered me inside and closed the door. Five minutes later, I wished I’d kept walking.

“We’re just concerned about public perception.”

I hated the phrase instantly.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“I know,” he said, sounding sincere and uncomfortable at the same time. “But situations like this can become distracting.”

“Distracting?” I leaned back in my chair. “I was cheated on.”

“I know.”

“Then why am I the distraction?”

The silence that followed answered the question more honestly than anything he could have said.

I left carrying a frustration that stayed lodged beneath my ribs all the way to lunch. Ava listened while demolishing a sandwich and letting me vent.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“You literally didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

“Then why are they acting like you’re the problem?”

I stabbed at my sandwich. “Because Mason scores goals and I cry on camera.”

Ava grimaced. The joke landed because there was truth buried inside it. Around us, students flowed through the cafeteria, conversations overlapping beneath the clatter of trays and dishes. Life continued with impressive indifference.

Then Ava lowered her voice.

“What if this is what he meant?”

I frowned. “What?”

“When he told you you’d regret breaking up with him.”

The suggestion hung between us.

“No.”

I answered too quickly.

Ava noticed. So did I.

“No?” she asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “Mason is selfish. We already knew that. But he’s not…”

The word refused to come easily.

Vindictive.

Calculated.

Capable of orchestrating something like this.

At least that was what I wanted to believe.

“I’m not giving him that much credit.”

Ava didn’t look convinced.

Honestly, neither was I.

My phone buzzed against the table. I glanced down and felt my stomach tighten.

Scholarship Foundation Board

Mandatory Attendance Required

Ava saw my expression immediately.

“What happened?”

I handed her the phone. She scanned the email and frowned.

“That’s weird.”

Very weird.

The scholarship board didn’t summon individual students to meetings without a reason, and none of the reasons were good. The knot that formed in my stomach stayed there for the rest of the day and followed me into a restless night filled with increasingly creative disasters my brain invented before dawn.

By the time I arrived at the boardroom the following afternoon, exhaustion had settled behind my eyes. The room looked exactly like every intimidating boardroom in existence: polished wood, expensive chairs, and enough space to make a person feel small. Several people sat around the table wearing polite smiles that never quite reached their eyes.

Then I saw Richard Hart.

Mason’s father.

A chill moved through me.

He smiled when he noticed me, the same smile he’d worn at family dinners and scholarship ceremonies, the same smile he’d worn three years earlier when he’d congratulated me on earning the award that made this university possible. Back then, it had felt warm. Now it made my skin crawl.

The meeting began with funding reviews, budget adjustments, and program restructuring—a parade of corporate language designed to disguise sharp edges. I listened, waiting for someone to stop circling the point.

Eventually, they did.

“We regret to inform you that your scholarship funding has been discontinued effective immediately.”

For a moment, I genuinely thought I’d misheard.

“What?”

The woman across from me folded her hands.

“Due to internal restructuring—”

“No.”

The word came out sharper than I’d intended.

“No, that’s not what I asked. Are you revoking my scholarship?”

Nobody rushed to answer.

The room felt distant, as though I were hearing everything through water.

Finally, someone said, “Yes.”

Three years.

Three years of grades, work, internships, and proving I belonged here.

Gone.

I looked around the table. Nobody met my eyes. Not even Richard Hart. That surprised me more than anger would have. Guilt, at least, would have acknowledged what they were doing. Instead, everyone looked prepared and comfortable, as though the decision had been finalized long before I’d entered the room.

The meeting wrapped up shortly afterward. I barely remember leaving. One moment I was sitting at the table, the next I was outside with my phone in my hand and my thumb pressing a familiar contact.

My dad answered on the second ring.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

That was all it took.

“Dad.”

His voice changed instantly.

“Iris?”

I sat on a bench outside the administration building and told him everything. Somewhere in the middle of the explanation, the tears arrived and refused to leave. Students passed by while I cried into the phone with all the dignity of a collapsing bridge.

When I finally finished, there was a brief silence.

“We’ll figure it out.”

The confidence sounded forced.

We both knew it.

“Dad…”

“We will.” His voice softened. “You hear me?”

I pressed my fingers against my forehead.

The reality was simple. Neither of us had that kind of money. Not tuition. Not housing. Not all of it. But he was trying so hard to sound certain that something inside me cracked anyway.

That evening, after I’d exhausted myself enough to function, I opened my laptop and got to work.

There wasn’t time to sit around feeling sorry for myself.

Applications consumed the next several hours. Part-time jobs. Internships. Campus positions. Freelance opportunities. Anything remotely connected to journalism, media, photography, or communications. Eventually, the listings blurred together. My eyes burned. My neck ached. I was halfway through another application when a new email appeared at the top of my inbox.

I almost ignored it.

Then I noticed the sender.

Easton University Hockey Media Department.

I sat up straighter.

Easton.

Northbridge’s biggest rival.

The subject line read Interview Invitation.

For several seconds, I simply stared at the screen.

A month ago, I would have deleted the email without a second thought. Now my scholarship was gone, my future felt precarious, and Easton of all places—was offering me an opportunity.

It made no sense.

My credentials were strong. I’d worked hard for them. But I was still a college student juggling classes, internships, and freelance work. Why Easton wanted me specifically was a mystery I’d have to solve later.

What I did know was that accepting would make things worse.

Northbridge already treated me like a cautionary tale. If I interviewed with Easton, Mason’s supporters would have all the ammunition they needed. Traitor. Opportunist. Whatever label they wanted to use.

The concern lingered briefly before reality pushed it aside.

None of those people was paying my tuition.

None of them were helping me stay in school.

And none of them had sat in that boardroom while strangers dismantled three years of work.

I moved the cursor over the response button.

Maybe it was a terrible idea. Maybe it would create an entirely new disaster. Maybe I was about to make everything harder.

But standing still wasn’t an option anymore.

I clicked Accept.