Chapter 1 The Weight of Infamy (Brynn POV)
ONE YEAR AGO
"You're nothing without that scholarship," she hissed during a face-off, close enough that only I could hear. "Poor little charity case."
Something inside me snapped.
I don't remember moving. One second, I was standing there, stick in hand, and the next I had her pinned against the ground. My hands were around her throat. Someone was screaming, maybe me, maybe her, maybe everyone. Her face turned red, then purple, and I couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.
It took four people to pull me off.
The video went viral within hours. Two million views by morning. National news by afternoon. "Violent Athlete Attacks Opponent in Unprovoked Assault" read the headline, accompanied by a freeze-frame of my face twisted in rage, barely recognizable as human.
They never showed what she said. Never mentioned the targeting. Just me, looking like a monster.
PRESENT DAY
"Brynn? Are you listening?"
Dr. Reeves's voice yanked me back to her office, beige walls, inspirational posters about "growth" and "resilience," the smell of lavender essential oil that made my nose itch. The same sterile environment I'd been forced into every Thursday at three-thirty for the past year.
"Yeah," I lied, shifting in the uncomfortable chair. "Listening."
She leaned forward, her expression radiating that practiced sympathy they must teach in counselor school. "I asked how you've been feeling this week. Any instances of heightened aggression? Difficulty controlling your temper?"
Your temper. Like it was some wild animal I kept on a leash.
"I'm fine."
"Brynn." She removed her glasses, which meant we were entering the serious part of the conversation. "I can't help you if you won't be honest with me."
"I am being honest. I go to class. I do my homework. I work out in the gym at night when nobody's around. I keep my head down. What more do you want?"
"I want to know you're processing what happened. That you're developing healthy coping mechanisms..."
"It's been a year." I cut her off, my hands curling into fists on my lap. "How much longer are these sessions going to continue?"
Dr. Reeves sighed, setting her glasses down on the desk with deliberate precision. "Until I'm confident you're no longer a risk to yourself or other students."
"A risk." The word tasted acrid on my tongue. "You mean until you're sure I won't embarrass the academy again."
I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor. "You sent me a birthday card last month. A birthday card, Dr. Reeves. Like we're friends. Like this is normal."
Her expression softened, which somehow made it worse. "I sent that card because I care about your wellbeing, Brynn. You're not just a case file to me..."
"Then let me stop coming to these sessions."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
She stood too, her voice taking on an edge I'd never heard before. "Because if you have another incident, Ashford Heights will have no choice but to expel you. And no other school will take someone with your kind of record. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Behave, or your future ends here.
"Crystal clear," I said, grabbing my backpack. "Are we done?"
"Brynn..."
I was already out the door.
The hallway was mercifully empty, most students still in afternoon classes. I took deep breaths, trying to calm the rage simmering just beneath my skin. It always felt like this after sessions with Dr. Reeves—like I was a pressure cooker with a faulty valve, seconds away from exploding.
No other school will take someone with your kind of record.
I rounded the corner too fast and collided with something solid.
"Whoa, sorry, I..."
The apology died in my throat.
The guy I'd crashed into was tall, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and eyes the color of amber. He wore the academy blazer like it was tailored specifically for him, and he moved with the kind of easy confidence that came from never having to question your place in the world.
But it wasn't his appearance that made me freeze. It was the feeling.
Electric. Magnetic. Like every cell in my body suddenly oriented toward him like a compass finding north. My skin prickled with awareness, and for a terrifying second, I couldn't breathe.
"You okay?" His voice was deeper than I expected, with a slight Southern drawl that softened the edges of his consonants.
"Yeah. Fine. Sorry." I stepped back, trying to put distance between us, but the hallway felt too small. Too warm.
His gaze held mine for a beat too long.
"No harm done." He moved past me, and I caught his scent. It made my head spin.
I stood there like an idiot, watching him walk away, until Harper's voice shattered the moment.
"Oh my God, was that Jaxon Hale?"
My roommate appeared at my elbow, her dark curls bouncing as she practically vibrated with excitement. Harper Dixon had been my assigned roommate since freshman year, back when the administration thought I needed "positive influences." We'd grown close despite, or maybe because of our differences.
"I don't know who that was," I said, still feeling off-balance.
"Jaxon Hale. New transfer. Junior, but he's already the lacrosse team captain." Harper's eyes were wide, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Brynn, he's completely out of our league. Like, astronomically out of our league. His family basically owns half of North Carolina."
The mention of lacrosse sent a familiar ache through my chest. I'd loved that sport once. Been good at it. Before I ruined everything.
"Good for him," I muttered, starting toward our dorm.
"Did you feel that?" Harper grabbed my arm, forcing me to stop. "The way you two looked at each other? That was chemistry, B. Serious, combustible, probably-illegal-in-some-states chemistry."
"Don't be ridiculous..."
My phone buzzed. Then Harper's. Then, like a domino effect, every phone in the hallway started chiming with notifications.
Harper pulled out her phone, her expression shifting from excitement to dread. "Oh no."
"What?"
She turned the screen toward me. A message from the Dean's office, sent to every student:
MANDATORY ASSEMBLY. MAIN AUDITORIUM. 4:00 PM. ATTENDANCE IS NON-NEGOTIABLE.
My stomach dropped. The academy only called mandatory assemblies for one reason: someone had screwed up badly enough that the administration needed to make an example of them.