I firmly believe there are few things a good night’s sleep can’t fix. I’m one of those people who won’t necessarily feel tired, but then will end up weeping at a grocery store commercial or something because I’m slightly overtired. Obviously, the whole situation with Sebastian Slate— no, Dennis Slate’s Son— is a lot more serious than a grocery store commercial, but I still wake up feeling better about the entire thing.

It was just a crazy accident, that’s all. My aunt would understand— she was easily dazzled by football players. That’s why she had the affair with Dennis Slate, after all.

And that’s how she ended up dead long before her time. And that’s why, eventually, the bastard’s going to go to jail for what he did to my sweet aunt, no matter how fancy and expensive his lawyers are, and no matter how innocent his family keeps insisting he is.

So, sorry, Dennis Slate’s Son, but I am not going to think about your lips or your body or your jersey or anything else to do with you.

I decide to absolve my remaining guilt by attending the campus advocacy group meeting tonight. It’s the first meeting of the semester, and I wasn’t totally sold on joining since my schedule is already pretty intense— I’m pre-law, and if I want to get into a decent law school academics have to be my number one priority.

The advocacy group is pretty cool, though, and is a great résumé builder (in addition to being a great guilt absolver): Pro bono lawyers— good ones, who sometimes hire former advocacy group members— work with Berkfield students to find and rectify problems at the university. Last year, they made national news for proving that the pre-vet program was biased against minority applicants, and the year before they managed to get same-sex partner protections added to the retirement plan, even though that isn’t a requirement in our backward-ass state.

My aunt would have wanted me to focus on the law school dream, and she’d have also been pretty into the campus advocacy group. She was always the person going to marches and pickets and sit-ins, and had about fifty thousand shirts with clever feminist phrases on them. She had a thing for football players, but that didn’t mean she was vapid— she was one of the smartest women I knew. The fact that some meat-head like Dennis Slate killed her—

Nope, nope, I’m not thinking about the Slates. I’m thinking about my aunt. I hug my cardigan close even though it’s still summery outside, then shoulder my way into the student center. Signs lead me to Room 413, a large conference room that, by the time I get there, is already standing-room only. My eyes widen as I slide into the room. There have to be at least fifty people in here. Plenty look older than me— probably juniors and seniors— and a few are freshmen I recognize from one place or another.

“Is this the right room? The campus advocacy group?” I whisper to a pretty Asian girl beside me.

She nods, looking grim. “Right? How are you supposed to stand out in a crowd like this? My sister said it wasn’t this popular when she was in school. She got hired to Shannon’s firm right out of law school, but I mean, it can’t have been hard to stand out when there were only seven people in the group. I’m Sarah, by the way.”

“Ashlynn— nice to meet you. Maybe people will drop,” I say hopefully.

“Let’s hope so,” she answers.

I wonder what the hell is wrong with us, hoping that people drop out of a student advocacy group, but whatever— the dream is law school and working with the ACLU, and cool as the advocacy group is, I don’t think I should devote a crazy amount of time to it if it’s not going to help me achieve those dreams.

More people cram into the room, and finally, the lawyers arrive. There’re two men and three women, and while they’re all smiling and generally polite-looking, they also have serious, cutting eyes and Italian leather briefcases. They sit down at the conference table and introduce themselves, remarking on just how large the group has grown in the last few years.

“But this is a good thing! Even though clearly we’re violating the fire code, cramming all of you into this tiny spot,” the oldest of the men says with a small chuckle. The rest of the room laughs a little too hard, likely because the man looks to be the one in charge— he’s seated at the center, and has done most of the talking. He goes on in an old Southern drawl, “We have a few different issues we’d like to tackle this year, based on student feedback over the last few years. Let’s go ahead and split into groups, maybe nine or ten people per?” The other lawyers nod at him in agreement, and immediately rise, waving their folders above their heads as they move to different areas of the room. The students hustle and fritter around, darting to follow their lawyer of choice.

I have no idea how they’re choosing which lawyer to go after, but when I see Sarah frantically rush toward the guy who was speaking earlier, I know he must be the best— she seemed pretty in-the-know, after all. I clamber along behind her, at one point nearly vaulting the conference room table to get to him. I shoulder my way through the other students orbiting him, just in time for his hand to light on my shoulder—

“And, you’re ten! Perfect— let’s go outside, yes?” the lawyer says. Other students rush away to their second choice, and Sarah gives me a warm smile, seeing I made it into the headcount. We follow the lawyer outside and into one of the unoccupied adjacent group study rooms. We take seats across from him at a large round table— despite the circle shape, no one dares to sit directly beside him, so it’s still clear that he’s at the “head”.

“Alright, alright. I’m Rickson Farrow, of Farrow and Associates, and I’m excited to have you all on my team this year,” he says with a smile that’s friendly, but a little scary too— like he might give you that smile while he destroys you in a courtroom. “My team is going to be taking on a particularly tough project, because it deals with a school tradition that goes back decades. Too many decades, if you ask me. New Recruits Week.”

Heads nod all around me, but I barely know what he’s talking about. I seem to remember someone mentioning New Recruits Week in passing. Maybe? Is everyone else faking understanding this too? I hope so. This is what I get for locking myself in my bedroom and studying most nights.

“Now, you look like a nice collection of students,” the man says with a smile. “And I know most of the time, those wishing to advance themselves by being a part of something like the student advocacy group would not partake in such a tradition. So perhaps you aren’t familiar— let me explain. New Recruits Week is when the school allows high school players being scouted for the football program to attend Berkfield for a week, ostensibly to become familiar with the program and the school. But, as is so often the case with young men unleashed, the reality is a week filled with sex, drinking, parties, and debauchery.” Farrow’s eyes harden, like he’s telling us the deepest, darkest secret he knows.

“The problem with New Recruits Week is twofold— one, it is bribery, which is against conference rules. Secondly, these players use their power and influence at the school to break laws, engage in clear violations of the student code of conduct, and persuade good young ladies to act against their more proper instincts. It’s a mess, and this year, we aim to stop it.”

A quiet snicker travels the room— Farrow is super old school, apparently. The fact that he said “more proper instincts” in that thick Southern accent only makes him sound more like a 1950s senator. Farrow begins to hand out folders and discuss all the available positions within the project. I blank out for a moment, staring at the folder in my hands, thinking about my aunt. Thinking about myself. Football players really do seem to be able to convince women to act against their instincts— “more proper” or otherwise.

I knew I shouldn’t be with Sebastian, yet there I was last night, wearing his clothes. My aunt surely knew Dennis Slate was trouble, but she still couldn’t get out of the relationship before he killed her. How many girls at Berkfield sleep with players at New Recruits Week because they’re hypnotized by the charm of a popular athlete who’s always gotten whatever he wants?

Farrow might be old school, but he isn’t wrong. New Recruits Week is more than just good old fashioned “boys being boys.” It continues a tradition of victimizing women, girls as innocent in their way as my aunt was.

And that innocence is exactly what these people prey on.

I feel burning anger in my chest as I picture Sebastian with his easy confidence, good looks and entitlement.

And to think, I was actually charmed by a Slate boy.

He’s a chip off the old block, no doubt.

“And let’s see, who’s left?” Farrow is saying, just before his milky blue eyes slide to me. “Ah! You, darling— would you be interested in doing some more in-depth research for the team?”

Research? I am a star at research— I consider it an actual super power that I know how to cite my sources without plugging them into an internet bibliography machine. I nod eagerly. “Absolutely. Whatever I can do to help.”

“Perfect!” Farrow says, and scribbles something down on his notepad. “Now, do you already know any of the football players? Or will you need to set up an introduction, somehow?”

My eyes widen. “Um, I—“

“One of the cheerleaders lives on my floor,” Sarah jumps in helpfully. “She could probably introduce you.”

“Sure,” I say weakly. “Do you need any library-based research, though?”

“Oh, no, we’ve got that covered,” Farrow says, tapping his pencil at the names on his list. “We just need some hands on research within the football player community, particularly during New Recruits Week later this fall. Make sure you bring a pencil and paper to write down everything you see there.”

“Or a phone with Evernote installed,” someone says under their breath.

“Sure,” I stumble. “So— you need me to go to New Recruits Week?”

“No, I need you to learn more about the football community,” he says. “The problem with the football players at this school is that they’re seen as gods. We need someone who can prove they’re using that status to engage in unbecoming behavior— which means we need someone who can get into their world, but doesn’t care about burning the bridge either. And believe me, I intend to burn some bridges,” Farrow says with a dire, but excited, look. “Are you not up to the task?”

I nod, trying to keep my jaw from dropping in confusion and surprise. “No, that sounds— I can do it,” I say quickly. I have no idea if this is true or not— but I know this much: I need to do it. I need to do something to remind not only myself, but the football players— Sebastian Slate and family included— that they aren’t kings, immune to laws and rules and common decency. I need to do it, even if that means going deep into enemy territory.

And, I’m making no mistake this time: Sebastian Slate is definitely the enemy.