"Of course, sir. Just a minute."
I enter my password and hand the phone back to him, who taps at my screen. I don’t know what this proves, though. I could’ve easily just erased my browsing history. Instead, the Dean's face goes more pinched a minute or two later, and he sets the phone down to look at me. "Mind explaining this?"
I pick up my phone and see that the Dean's pulled up my data usage statistics for the phone with some app. The log shows . . . data usage during the test? What the fuck? "I . . . I can't explain this, sir. I didn't use the phone during that time, except what I've told you."
"Well, your data logs show that you accessed over twenty megabytes of usage on the day of the test," Dean Friar says. "Did you happen to use the phone to browse the web during that day?"
"No. I have my laptop, and my data plan doesn’t cover anywhere near that much.”
"Well, let's check your browser history then," Dean Friar says, taking the phone back and tapping away. How in the hell does this man know how to pull up all this stuff on my phone? I don't even know how to do that.
"Trust me, there's no—"
"Access of the course notes and lectures in your browser history?" He asks, showing me the phone. His wintry smile has totally disappeared, and Vladisova is looking like she's about to burst a blood vessel, she's so pissed off. "Miss Mittel, you seem to be digging yourself a deeper and deeper hole."
"No. There must be a mistake. I didn't cheat, I—I studied." That sounds pathetic, even to my ears. I might as well have Liar & Cheat on my shirt.
"I hope that’s the case. Miss Mittel, based on this, I still have to notify you of your rights under the Western University Honor Code . . ."
I'm in a daze as I walk back to my room, my fingers numb, and twice, I trip over random things in my path.
I get back to my room without killing myself and sag into my chair, still trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. I reach into my pocket to call Coach Taylor. He's always been sort of a mentor, but then I remember that I left my phone with Dean Friar. He said that the Honor Board would return my phone to me by Tuesday. I could have fought that, but what's the point? I'd look even more guilty than I do right now.
My computer beeps, and I see that I'm getting a call. I don't want to, but I get up and go over anyway, hoping that maybe this day could have at least some good news in it. I see that it's Mom and Dad, and I open the call. "Hey guys."
"What's wrong, sweetie?" Mom asks immediately. That's Mom. I can't put anything past her. She's always been able to read me like a book. "You look upset."
I think about lying but decide against it. I mean, what's the point? "I've run into some trouble, Mom."
"What kind of trouble, Carrie?" Mom asks. She turns her head and hollers over her shoulder. "Vince! Come here!”
"Mom!" I protest when she turns back around. "I'm not in preschool any more."
"No, but you don't need to repeat yourself either. Might as well let him hear you the first time,” she counters, and I can't argue. Mom works as an office manager, and she's always been a person who focuses on efficiency. Then again, when you have to measure your family time in blocks between your husband disappearing on the road for a week or more at a time driving a truck, and you're balancing a full-time job and a young daughter, efficiency is important.
"What's this about trouble?" Dad says, coming into the room on the other side, and he takes a seat. "What happened?"
"I've been accused of cheating on my Organic Chemistry mid-term," I said, trying to control my emotions. "The Dean of the Honor Board asked me some questions today."
"What? I mean, I assume you didn't cheat, but why would they think you did?” Dad asks, and I take a deep breath, trying to think of what to say.
“Of course I didn’t cheat. I got a single text message and stepped out to call Duncan back, then went back and took my test. But they're saying that I was pulling up course notes and lectures during the test time. My phone apparently even says so—it says I cheated. All I did was talk to Duncan for like . . . two minutes."
"Duncan," Dad says. “That’s the football player you were seeing, right?"
“He is, but he didn’t have anything to do with it. Another student, a girl I thought was a friend, accused me, and my professor went to the Board. Now I'm in deep shit, and I don't know why she’d accuse me.”
Dad gets angry, and I can see he's about to go off. His face is getting red. "I can tell you exactly how. I’ll bet you anything that slime ball had something to do with it.”
I try to force myself to stay calm, but it’s getting increasingly difficult. “I think I know him a little better than you do. I’ve been on the training intern staff for a year and a half now, remember? I've been working with him daily since June. We took a long time before we decided to start seeing each other."
Well, that's on pause right now, but I'm not going to tell you guys that, but that’s beside the point.
Dad, though, is already in full-on rant mode. "That may be true, Carrie, but he's scum. After you called, I checked up on him—just Google him, and it’s like a bad tabloid story. Parties, off-campus incidents, and a list of girls on his arm that stretches for pages. I thought I raised you better than that!"
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a few seconds before I look at the screen again. "I understand you want to protect me, but I’m an adult, and I know what I’m getting myself into with Duncan. But let’s get one thing straight—Duncan had nothing to do with this. He isn't the one accusing me of cheating . . . so let’s just stop talking about him.”
Dad turns redder, and I get a little worried about him. The last thing he needs is something to run his blood pressure up. Mom looks at him, and then interjects before any more stress can be built up. "So what happens now, Carrie?"
"Well, effective immediately, I'm suspended from the training staff and all my extracurricular activities," I say, which is probably the most painful part of what has happened. If I could at least go down to the training room or weight room, I could talk it over with Coach Taylor, maybe release some stress on the floor. "So that's going to give me a lot of free time that I really don't want."
"What else?"
"I can still go to class so I won't fall behind, but all my grades and GPA are in limbo until the Board has its full hearing. That's in a month."
"What? Why a month?" Mom asks. "That's a long time to keep someone in limbo.”
“Supposedly, they want to make sure that things are done right.”
Dad fumes, calming enough that he's at least not turning purple any longer. “If you get found guilty, I assume that means you lose your scholarships?"
I nod. "I know you guys can't pay for a school like Western, but I'll make it happen, even if I have to take out student loans or get a part-time job.”
"Damn right, we can't pay. You realize I just signed the papers on a new truck?" He asks, and I wince. Dad drove an old Mack for years, and by now, it has to be at least twenty years old. God knows how many miles he's put on it. “Now this."
"Dad, stop," I beg, trying not to cry. "I'll get through it. I didn't cheat, I swear to you."
"It's this Duncan's fault," Dad repeats, his voice dropping. "I just know it. Somehow, it's his fault. Of course it is. He's a Hart, right?"
"What's that mean?"
He shakes his head and gets up, leaving the camera view while Mom looks up and watches him. "Sweetie, we'll talk later," she says, looking back at me. "I'm sorry you're having trouble. Make sure you keep us up to date.”
“You know I will. Take care."
I hang up the call and lean back. Great. Just great. Like I need anything else in my life right now. The only relationship I’ve had in far too long to admit is on indefinite hiatus, I'm accused by a supposed friend of an Honor violation, and now, my parents are stressing too.
I can't even go talk to Chelsea about this, because I was told by the Dean that I’m not allowed to approach her until the hearing. Wha
t am I supposed to do?
The only other thing I can think of right now. Duncan.
Chapter 13
Duncan
Post-game activities, including a meeting with Coach Bainridge and the Athletic Director, took until nearly eleven o'clock, so I didn't get back to my apartment until midnight. I thought about calling Carrie then, but I decided against it. She was probably already asleep, and besides, what I needed to tell her, I wanted to be well-rested and ready for it.
Waking up now on Sunday, I stretch, wincing when my elbow sends out a wave of pain. I remember that last hit from the Southern Nevada safety. His face mask hit me right in the elbow, and now, I can barely move it.
I grab my phone from off my table and pull up Carrie’s number. I notice that it's already noon. I guess I was more tired than I thought. "Come on, pick up, pick up."
Carrie's phone rings twice, then a mechanical voice cuts in. "The number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable. Please leave a message at the beep."
"Hey, Carrie? It's Duncan. Listen . . . we need to talk. I have something I want to tell you. I need to go down to the Pavilion. I dinged up my elbow and could use some ice and maybe a whirlpool on it. If you get this message, could you give me a hand? If not, let's talk later. It's important."
I hang up and grab my bike keys. The ride to campus is painful, but I take it slow and pull into the parking slot without a problem. I go inside and downstairs, where I find Coach Taylor going at it with his own personal workout.
The barbell comes crashing down as Coach T hits his limit for that set, and after he takes a few deep breaths, he sees me in the mirror. "Duncan. Thought you'd be chowing down on some pizza or still sleeping. Whatcha need?"
"Took a shot to the elbow. I thought I'd get some treatment. You got anyone who can see me today?"
He turns around, his hands and shins nearly ghost-white with lifter's chalk, and shakes his head. "Sorry, nope. But give me about forty-five minutes to finish this up, and I'll take a look. Where'd he hit you?"
"The facemask hit me right in the funny bone. I thought it was just that, but I woke up this morning and had a lot of problems moving it. Figured some contrast or ultrasound might be good."
Taylor nods and puts me out of his mind as Pantera thunders through the speakers and he gets back into his workout. I take a seat on a machine and watch in amazement as 'DT' Taylor goes into an intense, focused fury on the weights, battling them like they're his worst enemies, until finally, with a primal scream that would intimidate your average male gorilla, he drops his dumbbell on his last set of rows.
"Damn, hope I can do that when I'm your age."
'DT' is gone, and Coach Taylor is back, and he laughs as he kick-rolls the dumbbell back to its place in the rack. "If you get to my age, here's some advice. Take up bike riding, do some yoga, and sit back and enjoy life. Don't be middle-aged and crazy like I am. Give me five to change shirts and mop up."
"I'll help out with that," I say, going over and getting the sponge mop in the corner and bringing it over. "Besides, middle-aged and crazy sound like where I'm headed. Too many inner demons I'm fighting."
"I've heard," Coach Taylor says. "You seem to have done a good job with it so far this past week, though.”
"I have a good reason to," I reply. "For her."
Coach goes into his office while I get the ghost of lifter's chalk up off the floor and put the bucket back. I follow him into the training room, where he flips on the heating element for the whirlpool and pours ice into the bucket.
"She’s worth it," he says simply. "Now, show me the arm."
We're both surprised by the bruise that's grown in my elbow. It looks bigger and darker than when I woke up this morning, and Coach whistles. "And you didn't drop the ball?"
"Lucky, mostly. Had it in two hands at the time."
Coach has me flex and bend my arm a few times, then nods. "Okay. Let's get it into contrast for thirty minutes, two-minute switches. Then when you get home, take a few Tylenol." He sighs. “I’m going to recommend to Coach Bainridge that you go no-contact on Tuesday. Run your ass off if you want, but you should avoid hits on that arm for a while. Why wasn't it taped this past game?"
"Carrie wasn't there," I said simply. Coach Taylor raises an eyebrow, but he only nods at what I say.
"Well, next Saturday, when she does tape you up, make sure you wear a neoprene sleeve on top of that elbow as well. The equipment guys will get you what you need. You good?"
"Yeah, I guess," I say. "Thanks."
With no contact, I didn't worry about taping at all, instead running routes and reviewing tape with everyone and getting used to my new elbow sleeve, which, to be honest, I don't like but will at least pad my elbow some for a while. We actually have a strange game this week, a Monday night game, so Coach Bainridge gives us a lighter workload. I'm still sweating, though, after ninety minutes of running routes and some light blocking, so the early stop is nice.
The only dark cloud over the day is that Carrie still hasn't returned my calls. I tried two more times yesterday, and today, I couldn't find her at all. I think about stopping by the training room, but decide instead to do what needs to be done. I can soak my elbow at the apartment later. I climb on my bike and ride to her dorm, pulling up outside. I look up to her room and see the light is on, so I go inside, ducking up the stairs and heading to the third floor, making my best guess as to which is her room.
Knocking, I feel nervous. "Carrie? It's Duncan. Please, open up."
It's a scene that I never thought I would be in, standing outside a girl's dorm room and asking nervously to be let in. My fears evaporate to be replaced with concern when Carrie opens the door and her eyes are dull, lifeless. "Duncan. Come in."
I walk in, leaving the door open like you're supposed to in the dorms, a rule I have routinely broken, but this time, I’m not worried about following. Carrie's in some sort of trouble.
"Carrie, what's wrong? I tried calling you the past two days, and you didn't pick up. I thought you were mad at me or something."
Carrie sits on her bed, more like flops onto it really, her head hanging and her blonde hair hanging limp—and it looks unwashed. She's still beautiful, but not the Carrie I'm used to seeing. "Sorry. I don't have my phone. I got a call from the Honor Board yesterday. I've been accused of cheating."
"What? You'd never cheat! You're too damn smart!" I protest, and Carrie looks up. "It's true. What did they say you did?"
"When I called you during my orgo mid-term, they said that I was looking up test answers on my phone," Carrie says, taking a deep breath. "I—I don't know how, but my phone has a data trail that says I cheated."
"No way," I reply, taking her by the hands and helping her up. “What can I do to help?”
"Duncan . . . I'm suspended from the Pavilion because of this. I can't even get within fifty yards of Chelsea, since she made the statement against me."
"Chelsea?" I ask. "You mean Chelsea Brown? She's involved with this?"
Carrie nods, and I'm pissed. Not at Carrie, but at myself. "I—I have to apologize to you, Carrie. Chelsea and I had a little history a long time back. She didn't take it well at the time, but it seemed as if she’d gotten over it. My guess is, she’s jealous and trying to hurt you.”
"But the phone? Her lies may have started the ball rolling, but my phone . . ."
I stroke her chin. "It doesn't matter. Chelsea’s clever. She probably found some way to make it look like you cheated. Don't sweat this. We’ll get through it. Besides, we’ve got time before the hearing, and there's a lot to do between now and then."
"Like what?" Carrie asks, and I give her a kiss on the forehead.
“Let’s get off campus for a little while—try to get your head right before you go back to class tomorrow. And we've got us to talk about."
Carrie nods. "Where do we go?"
I push back and look down at her frumpy shorts and oversized t-shirt. "First, how about we get you dressed in something m
ore appropriate, then we'll figure it out?"
For the first time, Carrie smiles and nods, snapping me a mock salute. "Yes, sir!"
She grabs some clothes from her dresser and runs off down the hall to the bathroom, coming back with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, a light green sleeveless blouse, and some jeans on. "Better?"
I pull her close and kiss her, letting her know exactly how I feel. "Much. Anything else you need?”
"Let me grab a few things, throw them in my backpack, grab my jacket, and let's go," Carrie says. "Duncan . . . I'll go anywhere with you. I really do need to get out of here.”
I nod. "Let me go get the bike ready and grab your helmet.”
"Okay. I'll see you down there. And Duncan?"
"Yeah?"
Carrie kisses me, and I’m tempted to change plans, to close the door to her room and take her to bed, but I don't, slapping that inner demon away and just returning the kiss. Man, sometimes, I regret trying to be a good guy. “Thank you."
I head downstairs in a haze, waving at the few people who call out my name. When I'm in the parking lot, I see Chelsea Brown walking toward the entrance to the dorm, and I set Carrie's helmet aside. "Yo, Chelsea!"
She turns her head and smiles, walking over. "Duncan! How are you?”
"That's close enough," I say when she's about ten feet away.
I pull out my phone and turn on the video camera. In this world of accusations and campus culture, I'm not going to fuck around any longer. She’s obviously a vindictive bitch with how she’s lying on Carrie. "I'm just letting you know that I know what you accused Carrie of. I don’t understand why you decided to result to such lies, especially something as damaging as that . . . but I’m not going to let you get away with it.”
Chelsea sees my phone, then looks at me and turns, stomping off without a word. I turn off my video and put the phone back in my pocket. A few minutes later, Carrie emerges and she's smiling. Her backpack is stuffed, and I give her a questioning look. "I don't plan on coming back here tonight," she says simply. "Think you have space for me at your apartment?"
Over the Middle: A Sports Romance Page 11