The Inspection

8:00 AM.

A sharp, authoritative knock echoed through the room. I was already standing by the window, dressed in my formal team polo, my hair perfectly gelled. Jax was at the small table, nursing a cold coffee, his face a blank, stony mask.

"Come in," I said, my voice steady.

The door opened, and Dean Milton stepped in, followed by a proctor with a clipboard. They didn't look like they were here for a friendly chat.

The Dean’s eyes swept the room, lingering on the single bed, then the desk, then the closet. He walked over to my desk and picked up a framed photo of my father and me at the NHL draft last year.

"A legacy to uphold, Mr. Simpson," the Dean said. "I trust everything in this room reflects the high standards of Northwood Athletics?"

"Always, sir," I said, offering the practiced smile that had won me every trophy since I was six.

Jax didn't look up. He just stared at his coffee.

The Dean moved toward the closet, pulling the door open. He looked at the rows of jerseys, the organized skates, the heavy winter coats. He reached into the back, his hand brushing against the extra pillows I had shoved there the night before.

My breath hitched in my throat. My heart was a drum in my ears. Please don't look closer. Please.

"It seems..." the Dean started, his hand lingering on a black hoodie that I knew belonged to Jax, but was tucked behind my own jackets.

"Is there a problem, Dean Miller?" a voice asked.

It was Jax. He had finally looked up. He wasn't smiling.

"We share the closet space. His stuff is on the left, mine is on the right. It’s tight, but we make it work for the team."

The Dean looked from Jax back to me. He stepped away from the closet and straightened his suit jacket. "Very well. Conduct and housing are the backbone of our program. We expect our leaders to be beyond reproach."

He turned to the proctor. "Mark them as compliant."

As the door closed behind them,I slumped against the wall, my legs finally giving out. I was shaking so hard I had to grip my knees to stop.

"We did it," I whispered. "We're safe."

I looked over at Jax, expecting to see relief. Instead, he was standing by the window, watching the Dean’s car drive away. "Yeah," Jax said, his voice hollow. "We're safe, Liam. But at what cost?"

He grabbed his gear bag and headed for the door without looking at me. "I'm off to the rink.”

******

I spent the rest of the morning moving like a machine. I went to my classes, I nodded at the right times, and I even managed to laugh at one of Toby's jokes in the hallway. But every time I saw my reflection in a window, I didn't recognize the guy looking back.

"Liam! There he is!"

I froze. That voice didn't belong in the hallway of the Athletic Wing. I turned around to see my father, Robert Simpson, walking toward me. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car, his face was beaming today. Beside him was Coach Mike, looking uncharacteristically small.

"Dad?" I stammered, forcing a smile as he pulled me into a brief hug.

"What are you doing here? I thought you had meetings all week."

"I did," he said, pulling back to clap a hand on my shoulder. "But Mike called me. He told me about the inspection. Clean as a whistle, he said. Not a single conduct mark on the Captain’s record. I couldn't let that pass without a celebratory dinner."

"It was just a routine check, Dad," I said, my heart starting to thud against my ribs again.

"It’s never just routine at Northwood, son. Especially not now, with the board looking for any excuse to pull funding."

He looked around the hallway, his eyes sharp.

"Where’s that roommate of yours? Miller? Coach says you’ve really taken him under your wing. Mentoring him, he called it."

"He’s at the library," I lied quickly. "Studying for the ethics mid term."

"Good. Character building," my father nodded, satisfied.

"We’re going to The Gilded Oak tonight. Six o'clock. Invite Chloe. I want to hear all about the trade prospects."

****

The dinner was a nightmare dressed in white linen and fine china.

Chloe sat next to me, looking radiant in a dark blue dress. My father sat across from us, holding court with the Chicago scout who had been at the game. They talked about legacy,marketability, and the Simpson brand.

"Liam’s always had a head for the game," my father told the scout, swirling his wine. "But it’s his discipline that sets him apart. He knows the rules. He follows the playbook. That’s what makes a Captain."

"To the Captain," the scout said, raising his glass.

I raised mine, but the wine tasted like vinegar. I looked at Chloe. She was smiling.

"So, Liam," my father said, leaning forward. "Coach tells me you and Miller are getting along in that small athlete apartment. Bit cramped for two big guys, isn't it?"

"It’s fine, Dad," I said, my voice steady. "We spend most of our time at the rink anyway."

"Good," he nodded. "I was worried a guy like that, from a program like East State, might be a bad influence. But Mike says you’ve kept him on the straight and narrow. I knew I could trust you to handle any liability.”

I felt a flash of heat behind my eyes. I thought of Jax standing in the quiet room of the library. I thought of the way he smelled like laundry and coffee. I thought of the way he had looked at me when he said he had nothing left to lose.

"He's not a liability," I said. It came out sharper than I intended.

My father paused, his glass halfway to his lips. "Excuse me?"

"He's a good player," I said, lowering my voice but keeping it firm. "And he's a hard worker. The team is better with him on the ice."

My father watched me for a long moment. Then, he let out a short, booming laugh. "Spoken like a true Captain! Defending your men, even the rough ones. That’s the Simpson way."

He went back to talking to the scout.

Chloe reached under the table and squeezed my hand. Her palm was cold.