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 practi
