Whistleblower, page 6
“Let me just get dressed and I’ll meet you out front?”
“Yeah! Yes. Definitely. Hit the showers, or whatever.”
I spent the next fifteen minutes sitting by myself on the front steps of the training center and reliving every awkward second of our interaction in my head. When Bodie finally reappeared, his hair damp and a backpack slung over one shoulder, it occurred to me that I should’ve been using my alone time to prep some small talk for the short walk to the campus center. But it soon became clear that even if I’d thought of a great anecdote to share or a handful of softball questions to get my source loosened up, I wouldn’t have had time to get a word in.
Bodie couldn’t make it twenty steps across campus without someone reaching out to him. Hand slaps, those little bro hugs with lots of back patting, shouted greetings from across entire quads. It was an unrelenting siege of camaraderie and networking. Nobody paid me much attention, since the clipboard tucked to my chest made it clear that Bodie and I weren’t just hanging out, so I just hovered in wide-eyed shock and experienced, secondhand, what it was like to be recognized. To be known.
Thankfully, the breakfast crowd at the food court on the first floor of the campus center was calm. Bodie marched straight past Panda Express and Five Guys to get in line at the little booth tucked in the back corner—a less popular chain known for their overpriced artisanal soups and salads.
I fell into line with him, figuring a little food might help soak up all the caffeine currently burning holes in my delicate stomach lining. Bodie ordered the salmon, which came with a scoop of quinoa and a side of steamed broccoli. I asked for the same. I wish I could say this was a mirroring technique to make my source more comfortable around me, but really I’d just panicked when the girl behind the register asked what I wanted.
While Bodie got caught by a really tall kid wearing a Garland volleyball T-shirt who wanted to know if he’d also thought that the econ homework was stupid, I grabbed a tiny table in the corner and tried to stop myself from fidgeting with my hair. It didn’t feel like an interview. It felt unnervingly like a first date, if it was socially acceptable to bring a clipboard of prepared questions and record the conversation for later analysis.
I reached for my biodegradable fork, eager for a distraction. The first mouthful of salmon nearly made me choke.
“You good?” Bodie asked as he set his tray down across from mine.
I shot him a thumbs-up and discreetly scanned the tables around us in search of salt and pepper shakers, or soy sauce, or ketchup, or something with some semblance of flavor.
“Not a fan?”
“No, it’s good!” I cried, wide-eyed with embarrassment.
“It’s great, it’s really—”
“Bland. You can say it.”
His eyes twinkled with humor, but I still felt like a wimp.
My mother hadn’t raised me to be a picky eater. She’d fed me the entire spectrum of human cuisine—from cottage cheese to habanero peppers—before I’d started kindergarten. I was stronger than this slab of unseasoned fish. I skewered another bite on my fork, committed to proving I could handle the diet of a Division I athlete. Bodie took mercy on me and tossed a pair of tiny packets of sriracha onto the table.
“Oh, god, thank you.”
He snorted and dropped into the seat across from me while I tore open a packet of sriracha with my teeth and smeared it over my salmon. Which, now that I thought about it, was a weird thing to be enjoying at nine o’clock in the morning.
“Is this the kind of stuff you usually eat after practice?”
Bodie nodded. “Every day. It’s got lean protein, whole grains.” He sounded like he was trying to talk himself into it.
“Good fuel.”
The idea that food was just gas for the engine—not an art form, not an expression of self and community—was, frankly, laughable.
“Don’t you guys burn thousands of calories?” I asked.
“If I worked out that much, I’d have the most self-indulgent breakfast I could think of. Like half a chocolate cake.”
“Breakfast burrito.”
“Hm?”
Bodie’s cheeks pinked. “Most decadent breakfast I can think of. My dad made me breakfast burritos in high school when we had morning conditioning, and they were so over the top. I mean, scrambled eggs, hash browns, hot sauce. Way too much cheese.”
“No such thing,” I chided. “My mom does these chile rellenos with about ten pounds of queso fresco on them. I could eat my body weight.”
Bodie smiled and ducked his head. “Yeah, that was me with the breakfast burritos. I had to cut myself off when I started getting serious about football.”
“When was that?”
“Summer before senior year. That’s when Coach Vaughn first reached out to me, said Garland was seriously considering me.” Bodie cleared his throat. “So you guys are running a profile on him?”
“Oh, yeah. We’re—oh, wait, sorry.” I fumbled for my cell phone. “I’ll be recording our conversation, if that’s all right with you. I’m probably the only person who will ever listen to it, so it’s okay if you’re chewing and stuff.”
“Do what you need to do.”
The full brunt of Bodie’s smile was blinding. I looked down at my phone, glad for the excuse to avoid eye contact, and started an audio recording. Then I cleared my throat and read off the first question that Mehri and I had co-authored.
“How has Vaughn influenced you as a player and as a man?”
Bodie let out a low whistle. “Right to the heavy stuff, huh?
Um, I think Vaughn’s just—he’s a good leader. He knows the game really well, and he’s really good at passing on what he knows.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Sorry,” Bodie said sheepishly. “I feel like I’m using the same three words over and over.”
“It’s all right. I’ll redact all the ums.”
He beamed at me. I had to look down at my clipboard again.
“Is Vaughn optimistic about this season?”
“We’re looking really strong this year,” Bodie said, his eyes drifting off to the side, like an invisible teleprompter had appeared somewhere beyond my shoulder. “Our offensive line has been working really hard to pick up some of the slack we saw last season, and we’ve developed a lot of new plays that I think are going to put our strongest players—Fogarty, Torres, McGrady—in a position to do what they do best. I think we’re championship contenders this season, for sure.”
Ugh. He was giving me the typical media spiel. Someone had trained him well.
“Yeah, I saw you guys practicing,” I said, trying not to betray my disappointment. “You looked good. I mean, like, the whole team looked—the team looks really talented. Have there been any hiccups yet? Any drama in the locker room?”
“No. We argue sometimes, but”—he shrugged—“brothers argue, I guess.”
This was going nowhere. Bodie seemed so stilted, which was odd, given that he probably did interviews all the time.
Maybe I’d thrown him off with too heavy of an opening question. Or maybe my anxiety was transferring via osmosis, not that I would know. I wasn’t a chemistry major.
I looked down at my list of questions again—bland, predictable questions about performance and coaching strategies that would inevitably lead to more stilted responses. With one swipe of my hand, I shoved my clipboard to the side.
“What’s Vaughn’s favorite snack?”
Bodie blinked, bemused. “What?”
I propped my elbows on the table. “Favorite snack. Go.
Quick-fire round.”
“Uh, I guess celery sticks and peanut butter.”
“Favorite drink?”
Bodie shook his head. “He’s sober.”
“I know,” I said, mortified. “Oh god, I didn’t mean—”
Bodie’s face flushed. “Gatorade. The red one.”
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”
“No, no, you’re fine. That was my bad,” Bodie insisted, reaching for his fork again and stabbing at his quinoa. “I’m just used to reporters asking about his sobriety and how it affects his coaching. A lot of people like to drag up his past.”
I nodded, because I did know about that.
“Favorite movie?” I asked, eager to get us back on steadier ground.
“Oh, easy,” Bodie said with a relieved smile. “The Godfather. He loves those movies. Like, to an embarrassing degree. Quotes them all the time—you know, ‘I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.’”
I snorted, surprised he’d gone for the full impression.
“What’s wrong with my Sicilian accent?” Bodie demanded, sitting back and folding his arms over his chest. I knew, logically, that he wasn’t flexing on purpose, but my eyes snapped to his biceps anyway.
I arched an eyebrow. “Is that what that was?”
“Now you’re just being unprofessional.”
“My sincerest apologies, Mr. St. James.”
The corners of Bodie’s mouth twitched up. It was an easy thing to give him shit, like I was joking around with Andre or Hanna. I got it then—why everyone adored him. He made you feel like you were his friend. Like you were in on the joke together.
“What does he see in those movies anyway?” I asked. “I mean, I know one of them won the Oscar for best picture, but they’re so violent and—I don’t know. Macho.”
Bodie shrugged. “I guess he likes the whole brotherhood thing. I’m not saying that a football team is, like, the Mafia, but I think there’s something there about loyalty and watching out for each other. And he thinks that main guy is badass.
Vaughn actually goes sailing a lot, so he bought this boat last year and named it after—you know, what’s his name—the guy, the Godfather?”
“Vito Corleone,” I offered.
“That’s it, yeah. Sorry. I’m bad with names.”
He sounded highly apologetic for such a small blip in trivia. His eyes lingered on mine for a second longer than was strictly necessary, and it struck me that he was explaining himself. He hadn’t forgotten me from the elevator. Just my name.
Heat bloomed in my chest. I tried, fervently, not to grin like an absolute moron.
“What kind of speeches does Vaughn give in the locker room?” I asked. “Does he ever whip out the Sicilian accent?”
Bodie laughed—a full, stomach-deep laugh. The fact that I’d been the cause made pride bloom in my chest.
“Actually, yeah.” He straightened in his chair, suddenly inspired. “That’s one of the best things Vaughn does as a coach.
I know people say he’s a stone-cold asshole on the sidelines, but that’s his game face. He’s really animated in the locker room. And the speeches he gives are just—” Bodie shook his head. “He can be pretty funny.”
“Why do you think he’s different when the cameras aren’t around?”
“I don’t think he’s a big fan of the media,” Bodie said, shooting me an apologetic glance. “It’s not that you guys aren’t great and really important to the program. I think he just feels more comfortable when it’s just the team. And he definitely says some stuff I don’t think female reporters should hear.”
And there it was—the sexism Andre had mentioned. The same sexism Mehri had uncovered in our binder of tips.
I tried to sound casual as I asked, “Really? What kind of stuff?”
“Just dumb shit.”
“Sexist shit?” I pressed.
Bodie winced and shifted in his seat. “It’s not like—it’s just stupid. Outdated jokes. It’s nothing genuinely awful, I promise. We’ve all had consent and harassment training. The school sends in someone during the first week of classes to talk to us and make us take this quiz, and everybody does it.
Coaching staff too. Vaughn flew back a day early from his charity trip to San Diego just to make it this year. He was sunburned as shit.”
My stomach lurched. “What kind of charity trip?”
“For the Vaughn Foundation. They do a lot of fundraising for high school athletics all over Orange County, so they were down there to meet with some prospective donors.”
“Did anyone else on the team go with him?” I asked. “Or coaching staff? Anyone affiliated with the university?”
“I’m not sure,” Bodie said. “I’d have to ask him.”
I waited a moment, hoping he’d elaborate, but he didn’t.
Instead, he picked up my unused sriracha packet and worked it between his fingers, like it was suddenly his life mission to smooth every crease in the plastic.
“And the Vaughn Foundation,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Bodie’s fidgeting hands, “when they’re networking, what kind of events do they usually do? Auctions? Dinner parties?
Cocktail hours?”
Or bar crawls, because clearly Vaughn had penciled in time between fundraising functions to stop by the Alvarado Resort and get plastered. Bodie pressed his lips together and glanced between me, the people eating a few tables away, and my phone where it sat between us.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No. But could we—” he began, then cut himself off with a huff.
I didn’t think. I just reached over the table and tapped my screen, ending the recording.
“We can talk off the record,” I said.
The tension in Bodie’s shoulders eased fractionally, but it was a long moment before he leaned over the table and spoke again.
“I helped out at Vaughn’s charity over the summer.”
“What kind of work did you do? I didn’t—” See that on your LinkedIn profile. I’d done my research, of course, but I didn’t want to be too creepy about it. Although Bodie’s résumé looked like just about every other business major’s at Garland, so it wasn’t like I’d uncovered anything secret or deeply personal. “I didn’t know they hired students.”
“I was just doing paperwork and other administrative stuff.
I was just an intern. But they had me helping with the books, and I—” He cut himself off with a grimace. “Off the record means you won’t run it in an article, right?”
“No, you’re good,” I said quickly. “This is totally between us.”
My hands were shaking. I sandwiched them between my thighs. Bodie was quiet for a long moment, during which I dreamed up about a thousand reasons why he would want to speak off the record about anything.
“There were discrepancies in the books.”
“What kind?” I asked, hunching over the table. We were insulated at our little table in the corner, sheltered from prying eyes and ears by a structural column and a trash station, but this felt like the kind of conversation that called for a lot more privacy than a college food court could offer.
“So, in July, for example, we received about eighty-five thousand dollars in donations. Most of that went straight to buying wholesale sports equipment and shipping it to schools, but sometimes we have to cover fundraising expenses. I was batching up all our receipts for that, and like ten grand was unaccounted for.”
I really wished I’d taken the business class Hanna had tried to rope me into last year.
“Unaccounted for like you didn’t have the receipts or like it went missing?”
“We didn’t have any receipts. I asked my supervisor, and he sent me this invoice for some LLC I’d never heard of. I couldn’t find any info about them online.”
I lowered my voice to a near whisper. “Do you think someone might be embezzling? Because if you do, you should talk to the police.”
Bodie sat up straight, whiplashed by my sudden sense of urgency. “I have to get to class,” he announced, popping the lid onto his half-eaten salmon. He stood, pulling his backpack onto one shoulder as he went. “Sorry. Did you get everything you need?”
“I think so.” Hard to say when I was still clawing my way out of the avalanche of information he’d just dumped on me.
Bodie turned to go. “St. James?” He stopped reluctantly, and met my eyes. “It was off the record, okay. I’m not repeating what you told me to anyone.”
He offered me one last smile, clearly grateful but not entirely comforted.
“It was nice talking to you, Laurel.”
Then he turned and was gone, a mountain of a boy weaving through the growing prelunch crowd with surprising agility. He was, as Andre had phrased it, the nicest guy.
And maybe a good one too.
Chapter 6
On Saturday morning, before it was even light outside, someone in our building with an impressively loud speaker started blasting Garland’s fight song—a frustratingly catchy cacophony of tubas and cymbals and every wind instrument I could name. I rolled over in my bed, checked the time on my phone, and pulled my duvet up over my head with a groan.
The first home football game of the season was usually something I looked forward to. I loved the thrill of being part of a crowd. I loved standing shoulder to shoulder with fifty thousand other people and feeling like we were family as we cheered and chanted and chugged watery beer under the heat of the midday sun. Hanna and I had made a pact freshman year that we’d get to the stadium early, every game, so we’d be somewhere in the first five rows of the student section. That way Andre could always find us in the crowd. I loved game day.
I probably would’ve jumped out of bed whistling our fight song if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d spent four consecutive nights staring at the ceiling and imagining all the ways this Vaughn story might blow up in my face.
Distantly, and muffled through my duvet, I heard Hanna’s mattress creak and groan on the other side of the room. Two footsteps thudded against the floor, and then there was a weight on top of me and my blankets were yanked back from my face.
“Rise and shine!” Hanna bellowed. “It’s game day!”
I stared up at her, disgruntled and half-asleep.
“Your breath is heinous,” I said.
“Yeah, well, yours isn’t too hot either. C’mon. Only five hours until kickoff. Can you help me curl my hair?”
—
I’d never been to Vatican City, but I could only guess that the crowds at Garland University on the morning of a home game must look an awful lot like those at Easter Mass in Saint Peter’s Square. Except I don’t think anyone would be doing keg stands outside the basilica. Then again, I’ve never been the best Catholic, so what do I know? The point was, campus was crawling with people, from baby-faced freshmen to wrinkled old alumni, all of them gathered under pop-up tents and shady oaks trees with their coolers and portable grills. As soon as Hanna and I set foot outside our apartment, we became two more specks in the sea of green.
