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big spaces and his own company. He would think of everything and nothing. But not tonight. Tonight he could only think of how hollow the victory had made him feel.
    A hundred miles out from home, he felt his mood begin to clear. He pulled over and checked his cell. The cell with the missing picture. The cell that had been wiped clean by Tromso, as if that would erase what had happened.
    He had a dozen missed calls, and several voicemail messages. He sat beside the highway and listened to them. The first was from his assistant coach, Mike, who was concerned that he was missing out on the fun. The second was from a worried Kim, wondering where he was and asking him to call her straight away. The third was the real surprise. It was from Laird. The chancellor was offering his congratulations and asking to see him in the morning, telling him not to worry, it was good news.
    Malik called Kim back, reassured her that he was fine: he had just needed to clear his head and would see her soon. He got back on the highway, got off at the next exit, then back on, this time heading north toward Harrisburg.
     
     
    The party was still in full swing when he arrived back. It had spilled out from the stadium onto the usually deserted streets. It seemed like everyone in the whole town was there. Young, old, middle-aged, students, faculty, locals.
    Malik told himself he could let the dark stuff go for one night. In any case, Chancellor Laird had known what he thought, and presumably, now he’d had time to think about the seriousness of what had happened and reflect on the consequences, he had come round. Malik would no doubt walk into the man’s office tomorrow to find a prosecutor waiting to speak to him, and real action being taken.
    That was the lie Malik told himself as he hugged his wife and kids, convinced that with victory would come justice.

Eleven
    The next morning Malik was ushered into the chancellor’s inner sanctum without delay. A silver coffee pot and china cups had been laid out on a small table. Laird made a big show of serving Malik. The message was as subtle as a Patrick Ewing charge to the basket.
    ‘Didn’t see you at the celebrations last night, Coach?’
    Here it came, thought Malik. Laird was testing the ground, seeing where his head was at, if he’d calmed down, the win having distracted him.
    ‘I needed some time to clear my head.’
    ‘And?’ said Laird, offering cream from a tiny silver jug.
    Malik wasn’t enjoying this as much as Laird had probably assumed he would. He liked people who were direct. ‘And what?’
    ‘Well,’ said Laird, ‘did it work?’
    Malik watched as Laird, his serving duties done, retreated behind the safety of his desk.
    ‘I guess it did,’ said Malik.
    ‘Good,’ said Laird. ‘I wanted to see you to discuss your contract.’
    Here it comes, thought Malik. He’d signed up for an initial period of two years. The package they’d offered had been surprisingly good. At the time Malik had guessed that they’d already lost out on a few people. A lot of coaches didn’t want to move to a division-two college, and if they did, they usually wanted to go somewhere with better weather, such as Florida or California.
    Of course, there were other factors in play. A successful sports team on campus could be a powerful revenue generator. But to achieve that you needed quality players, and one way of doing that was to hire a coach whose name they’d at least recognize. That was what they’d paid for when they’d hired him, the use of his name. There had even been a clause in the first draft of the contract about image rights.
    Laird shot Malik that shark smile of his, all teeth and gums. ‘As you know, we’ve been without an athletic director for the past couple of months.’
    When Malik had been hired the director had been a guy called Bob Lovitz, who had been around a long time. He was a decent man, keen to hire Malik, and had pretty much left him alone to run the basketball