[Maddie’s POV]
The hearing room is smaller than I expected. Not the grand courtroom from TV dramas but a cramped conference room with fluorescent lights that buzz like angry wasps and cheap paneling that probably hasn't been updated since the eighties.
The whole setup screams "budget cuts" and "administrative efficiency," which doesn't exactly inspire confidence in the justice-dispensing capabilities of the institution.
Jenna, Carol, and Sophie sit at a table across from us, flanked by a lawyer in an expensive suit that probably costs more than my tuition. The three of them look like they're attending a particularly boring lecture—bored, annoyed, vaguely put out by the inconvenience of having to answer for their actions.
The lawyer's got that sharp, predatory look that makes my stomach clench. This is the guy who's going to try to make us look like the villains.
Emily and I sit at our own table, parents arranged in chairs behind us like some kind of moral support squad.
My father's hand rests briefly on my shoulder as we sit, a silent gesture of solidarity that makes my throat tight. My mother's expression is unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line that could mean determination or disapproval. I can't tell which.
The panel consists of three administrators—two men and one woman—who introduce themselves with titles I immediately forget because my heart is hammering too loud in my ears to process anything beyond "Dean" and "Associate Dean" and a bunch of other words that mean "people who hold your entire future in their hands."
They explain the process in that monotone administrative voice that makes everything sound equally important and unimportant. Evidence will be presented, testimony will be given, cross-examination is permitted.
We're not to interrupt—standard procedure. My hands are sweating against the table surface and I have to resist the urge to wipe them on my dress pants.
Jenna's lawyer stands first, his movement fluid and practiced. He's done this before—torn apart teenagers' credibility for a living. "My clients are being unfairly targeted," he begins.
His voice is smooth as oil and twice as slippery. "These allegations are nothing more than exaggerated reactions to normal competitive dynamics. Young athletes competing for positions, for coach's attention. Some friction is inevitable. What we're seeing here is an attempt to criminalize standard team interactions."
I want to stand up and scream that sabotaging equipment isn't "standard team interaction," but Emily's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once in warning. Stay calm. Don't give him ammunition.
The panel calls Emily first. She stands with a composure I can only admire, walking to the witness chair like she's heading to the ice for a performance. Her voice is steady as she describes the parking lot confrontation, the comments about us being "too close," the jacket incident where they destroyed her property.
She's methodical, laying out facts like she's reading from a textbook. No emotion, just data.
The lawyer approaches her with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Miss Harper, in any of these incidents, did you perhaps provoke your teammates in some way? Say something that might have been taken as confrontational?"
"No," Emily says simply, her voice flat and final.
"Did you and Miss Reyes display behavior that made your teammates uncomfortable?" He tilts his head, faux-concern written across his features. "Behavior that crossed boundaries of normal teammate interaction?"
Emily doesn't miss a beat. "Coach Marquette paired us for a skating routine. We had to work together closely. That's how pair skating works. If being assigned to work with a partner makes people uncomfortable, that's a problem with their professionalism, not ours."
"And outside of skating?" The lawyer leans forward slightly, scenting blood in the water. "Your behavior in dorm settings, social situations?"
"We're roommates," Emily says, her tone suggesting he's an idiot for not already knowing this. "We study together sometimes. We eat meals together. Normal roommate behavior. Unless you're suggesting roommates shouldn't interact, in which case I'd question your understanding of basic housing arrangements."
A muscle twitches in the lawyer's jaw. Score one for Emily. Then it's my turn. I stand on legs that feel like they might give out, cross to the chair that's still warm from Emily's body heat.
I describe the same incidents Emily outlined, my voice not quite as steady as hers but holding together. Then I add the shower assault—Carol shoving me, my ankle twisting, the pain that's still a constant companion months later.
The lawyer practically lunges at the opening. "Miss Reyes, you fabricated your family's wealth for months, created an elaborate lie about your background. You're a proven liar. Why should this panel believe anything you say?"
My father stands up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor. "That's completely—"
"Mr. Reyes, please sit down," the female administrator says firmly. "Outbursts are not permitted."
Dad sits, but I can feel his anger radiating from behind me like heat from a furnace. I force myself to stay calm, to keep my voice level even though I want to scream.
"I exaggerated my background due to insecurity about fitting in. That doesn't make the assault less real. That doesn't make the medical reports, the security footage, or the physical therapy sessions disappear." I stare the guy right in the eyes, as if hoping they could feel my conviction and pain.
The lawyer's expression shifts, calculating. "Why do you think you were specifically targeted, Miss Reyes?"
"Jealousy over my captain position," I say, the answer rehearsed until it's smooth. "Resentment of my skating ability. I was getting attention from Coach they felt should be theirs."
The lawyer's smile widens, showing too many teeth. "Or perhaps because you and Miss Harper displayed inappropriate intimacy that made your teammates uncomfortable? Behavior that crossed boundaries?"
My heart stops. Just completely stops beating for what feels like an eternity. I can feel my parents' eyes burning into my back, twin laser beams of attention I absolutely do not want right now. The room suddenly feels airless, like someone's sucked all the oxygen out through a vacuum.
The lawyer continues, his voice taking on that false sympathy tone that makes my skin crawl.
"Multiple witnesses report that you two were excessively close, defensive about your relationship, and spent unusual amounts of time together. More time than typical teammates or even typical friends."
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe, but somehow I manage to make words come out. "Emily and I knew each other as children. We're childhood friends who reconnected at Lakeview. If people are uncomfortable with women supporting each other through a difficult situation, that says more about them than us."
The lawyer reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a stack of printed papers. Screenshots, I realize with growing horror. Social media posts with highlighted sections, printed in damning black and white. Derek's posts from recent weeks—speculation, innuendo, observations. My stomach drops through the floor.
"These posts claim you're in a romantic relationship," the lawyer says, laying the papers on the table where the panel can see them clearly. "Multiple sources. Multiple witnesses. Is this true?"
My throat is tight. The room feels airless. I open my mouth but no words come. Nothing. My brain has completely short-circuited, every rehearsed deflection evaporating like morning mist. I'm frozen, a deer in headlights, while my entire future hangs on whatever comes out of my mouth next.