Page 50 of The Longest Shot
For thirty seconds, I can pretend everything is fine and that my biggest concern is Mills's damaged equipment, and that I didn't just spend an hour dismantling three years of carefully constructed defenses. But then an email arrives, barely a minute after I'd submitted the request.
The subject line is three words:
Request Status Update.
My stomach drops. This doesn't seem right, because processing takes days.
I open it, even though I already know what it will say:
DENIED
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale, because in a university this size, where the paperwork has paperwork, no one processes requests this quickly unless they're waiting for them. So I click the embedded link with mounting dread, and the memo loads:
Effective immediately, all non-essential equipment requests for the Women's Hockey Program are subject to enhanced budgetary review. This temporary measure ensures fiscal responsibility during the current allocation period. Essential items are defined as those directly related to immediate safety concerns. All other requests will be evaluated after the fiscal quarter.
The fiscal quarter ends in three months, which means three months of making do with damaged equipment and watching my players' frustration curdle into resentment. Suddenly, the taste of copper floods my mouth, and I realize I've bitten my cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Then the truth crashes over me: this timing isn't coincidental.
Less than twenty-four hours after Rook publicly defied Galloway, the retaliation has arrived wrapped in bureaucratic neutrality. Galloway is dismantling my program's ability to function, using Rook's moment of decency as the trigger. And his weapons are memos and budgets and plausible deniability.
Mills's voice cuts through. "What the fuck is that face?"
She's standing in the doorway with Coach Walsh, both wearing expressions of mounting concern. But, this time, Mills isn't poking fun at me based on how I looked entering the locker room, because she can plainly see the smoldering rage written all over my face.
"What happened?" Bri's question is sharp, already calculating damage control.
I turn the monitor toward them, letting theDENIEDspeak for itself.
"Son of a bitch!" Mills slams her hand against the doorframe. "What is his fucking problem? We're asking for skate blades, not a goddamn golden Zamboni!"
"I submitted a travel budget first thing this morning that also got canned," Bri says. "When did the rejection come through?"
"Sixty seconds after I submitted it."
Bri's face hardens. "Everything we submit is getting auto-rejected."
"But why?" Mills asks. "What changed?"
They both turn to me, expecting answers. Expecting their captain to have intel, to fix this. And, instantly, guilt starts to gnaw at me, because a moment of weakness has buried our program. I drill my team relentlessly to avoid that sort of weakness on the ice, and now I've proven myself to be a hypocrite.
Bri's eyes narrow. "Morgan, did something happen in your meeting with him? Did you say something that?—"
"You think this is my fault?" The defensive snap surprises even me, because it's too sharp, too revealing.
"I think Galloway doesn't do anything without a reason," Bri says carefully. "And if he's targeting us specifically, then something triggered it."
She's right, and I could explain that this isn't about my aggression but my vulnerability. That Galloway is punishing us because James decided, for once in his chaos-driven life, to do something serious. But that would mean admitting I'm not in control and that we're probably fucked.
"I'll handle it," I say, the words clipped and final.
"How?" Mills asks. "He's got us in a chokehold."
"I said I'll handle it."
"Fine," Mills says, though nothing about her tone suggests she thinks it's fine. "But we're playing Ottawa in five days, and we need functional equipment."
"You'll have it."
