Page 53 of The Longest Shot
The language is formal, bureaucratic… a knife wrapped in silk. Each word has been chosen with surgical precision to cut deep while maintaining plausible deniability.
Recent midterm evaluations have brought to my attention that several members of our men’s hockey team are performing below the university’s established academic standards…
My eyes skip ahead, searching for the kill shot.
As a proactive measure, I am formally recommending the immediate and consistent enforcement of this policy for the men’s hockey program, effective immediately.
I have identified three students who would serve as appropriate case studies for this enforcement: James Fitzgerald (1.9 GPA), Mason Nash (1.9 GPA), and Bradley Stiles (1.9 GPA).
The numbers blur as the ramifications sink in.
I believe demonstrating our commitment to academic excellence, particularly within our most visible athleticprogram, will send a clear message about Pine Barren University’s values…
The word “respectfully” at the end makes me want to vomit. There’s nothing respectful about this. This is a targeted assassination disguised as administrative concern. And the worst thing is I know exactly why he's doing it.
I look up from the paper. “He can’t… can he actually do this?”
Pearson’s laugh is bitter, devoid of humor. “He’s not inventing rules, Rook. He’s asking them to enforce what’s been on the books since before you were born. We had an understanding—we win, we bring in money, and they look the other way as long as you boys eventually graduate—but Galloway has changed it.”
“OK…" I say, voice trailing off, because I'm not sure what to say or do.
He sinks into his chair with a groan that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. “I don't know why, but Galloway has suddenly decided to flex on us, and it takes my captain and two of my best young players off the ice. It's a catastrophe, and I don't know why he's doing it…"
I do, but I don't tell him that. Instead, I scoff. “But the team?—”
“Will be gutted.” His voice is flat, defeated. “Nash is one of our best scorers. Stiles, for all his mouth, anchors our blue line. And you…” He looks at me with an expression that makes my chest cave in. “You’re the captain and the heart of this team, not to mention the goddamn goalie.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, but not the kind that knocks you down, rather the kind that knocks something loose inside you that's been stuck for months. My throat tightens, and I have to look away from Pearson's face because the raw sincerity there is too much.
For the first time since Maine and Mike graduated, since they handed me this C and basically said "don't fuck it up," I don't feel like a fraud wearing a letter that doesn't belong to me. Pearson sees something in me worth fighting for, worth protecting, and that means everything.
Because Coach Pearson doesn't blow smoke up anyone's ass.
He's a father figure, quiet and contemplative, but he doesn't talk shit.
But as the warm feeling rushes through my body, it's chased by a poison. Because this isn’t just about me. Galloway is going to decimate our season because I stood between him and Morgan in that lobby, stopping him from being a creep and feeling her up.
“When?”
“Albright’s already scheduled an emergency committee meeting for Monday." Pearson shrugs. "The policy says you'll first be given a warning and thirty days to turn around your grades, and if they're still subpar after that, then you'll all be benched…"
Thirty days to learn what I should have been learning for three years
Thirty days to score a C-plus average?
For most students, it would be easy enough, but I've never been the brains of the operation. I know my limitations, and I hit those at about the third week of the first semester of junior year. It's lucky I can hold a stick and catch a puck once in a while, because otherwise I'd be doing something much harder for a buck.
And, now, that might be my future anyway.
“Coach, I?—”
“I can't fix this, James,” he says, his voice tired, all the fight drained out of him. "I tried speaking to Galloway and to Albright, but they're not budging, so you and the others have tofigure it out. I don’t care if you have to bribe your professors or study all fucking night, you'll need to make the grade to stay on the ice.”
We talk for another few minutes, then I stumble out of his office, legs feeling disconnected from my body. I lean against the wall, cold concrete seeping through my shirt, trying to process what just happened. The D-plus that seemed funny twenty minutes ago now feels like a death sentence.
But it’s a death sentence for Nash and Stiles too, and they're guys who didn’t do anything except have the misfortune of having shit grades and being on the team of someone who deliberately riled up the athletic director of the entire university.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to pull it out, thumb scrolling through contacts. Because I need help from someone who's shown a deftness for working through academic bureaucracy, or at least someone who's smart enough to help me learn a semester's worth of sociology in four weeks.
