Chapter 9: On Record

The integrity office was a conference room on the fourth floor of the league building with no windows and a bowl of mints nobody ate.

The chief sat at one end.

At the other end sat a man in a gray suit from integrity, with a laptop and a face.

I had my own laptop in my bag and the letter in a folder.

My hands were sweating so badly the folder stuck to them.

"Ms. Raynor," the integrity man said. "You're married to a player in this league."

"Yes."

"You didn't disclose that when you applied for reinstatement."

"I did."

He looked up.

"I emailed the chief on April eleventh," I said. "Before anybody knew. Before the fitness test, before any match. It's all in there."

The chief slid a printout across the table.

The integrity man read it.

He read it again.

"This is time-stamped," he said.

"Yes."

"A month before the gala."

"Yes."

He closed the folder.

"Then I don't have anything to talk to you about," he said, and he sounded almost disappointed.

The whole meeting took barely ten minutes.

In the elevator the chief spoke to the doors.

"You're barred from Front Range matches while you're married," he said. "That's the rule."

"I know."

"And you're too hot in Colorado right now. I'm sending you out of state. Assistant, not center, until it settles."

"Assistant."

"You'll run a line in Tucson next Saturday and El Paso the week after."

I opened my mouth.

"Raynor," he said. "Ten minutes. You know what saved you?"

"The email."

"The email." The doors opened. "Keep doing things the right way. They'll hate you anyway, but they'll have to hate you on the record."

They hated me anyway.

By Saturday the videos from the gala had been cut a dozen ways.

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