Page 55 of The Longest Shot
And, after what happened in that stairwell?—
Thankfully, I'm prevented from accessing that particular memory by the sound of footsteps. His silhouette fills the doorway, andfillsis the only accurate word because James doesn’t simply occupy space, he colonizes it with the oblivious confidence of someone who’s never met a room that didn’t want him in it.
“Hello?” The word cracks slightly, vulnerability leaking through.
I don’t move, because I've rebuilt my defenses enough to know that it's better to let him seek me out and be on the back foot. And as he steps forward, I track his movement with predator focus, and when his eyes finally find me, he actually stumbles back, one hand flying to his chest.
“Jesus Christ, Morgan," he gasps. "You trying to give me a heart attack?”
His hand scrambles for the light switch with the desperation of someone who needs to see what’s hunting him. The fluorescents assault us both, but I'm surprised by how bad he looks, dark shadows cratering beneath his eyes and his usual hurricane energy seeming heavier.
Something has grounded him.
Is that why he asked to meet?
He’s pacing before I can catalog all the damage. Three steps left, pivot sharp enough to squeak, three steps right. The silence stretches between us, but still I let it go on, because I know it's the one thing he can't stand. He breaks in under thirty seconds, and I feel a small surge of pride.
Amateur.
The piece of paper he pulls out of his pocket is already destroyed—crumpled and re-crumpled—and he slides it across to me with the exhausted manner of someone pushing their last chip across the poker table. Whatever is on the page, it has crushed him and led him to me.
“He’s going to get me kicked off the ice,” he says.
Thewhois clear—Galloway—but thehowis a mystery.
I pick up the paper and find it's still warm from his pocket and slightly damp with anxiety sweat. Before I look down at it, I look at his face, but it's clear he wants me to read it. And I can understand why, because the header alone makes my threat radar light up.
FROM: Arthur Galloway
TO: Dr. Marjorie Albright
CC: Coach Tom Pearson.
My eyes devour the bureaucratic brutality.
It’s genius. Horrible, vindictive genius.
Galloway isn’t creating some new rule out of the ether or cooking up fake disciplinary grounds for benching players. He’s simply enforcing rules that have been dormant since PBU Hockey became the darling of the athletic program decades ago. And, suddenly, guys who never had to study now do.
“He’s punishing you for the lobby.” My assessment is as clinical as a coroner’s report. “For the transgression of treating me like I matter.”
His laugh is as bitter as burnt coffee. “Yeah, no shit. I guess having a spine comes with a price tag I can’t afford.”
No self-pity, just exhausted recognition, and something in my chest tightens unexpectedly. Because I know hisexactfeeling—I discovered it two hours ago, staring at a budget freeze designed to strangle my program—and suddenly we're two captains staring down the barrel of countless losses.
Which means less money, less attention, and fewer scouts in the building. And less of a shot at a hockey career for the players on our teams. For him, it's a top-of-the-league team that faces decapitation. For me, it's a program that will die in its infancy of starvation.
“Sit,” I say.
He collapses into the plastic chair, and suddenly we’re at eye-level. This close, I can see everything—how exhaustion has carved itself into his face, the way his jaw keeps clenching and releasing—and my lizard brain whispers inappropriate biological observations about how I could be the one to make him feel better…
“He's making sure my program is being systematically starved,” I begin, shaking off the physical attraction. “He's put a budget freeze on all purchases, so we can't buy tape, can't replace broken laces, and can't sharpen skates because replacement steel requires a purchase order.”
“So we’re both fucked because of Galloway.” He slumps further, somehow making the totally normal-sized chair look even more ridiculous under his not-normal-sized frame. It's like watching a Great Dane try to fit in a cat bed. “Great. Awesome. Love this journey for us.”
“We’re not fucked, we’re under siege," I say, feeling more angry with each word. “There’s a significant difference.”
I stand because I need the height advantage back, and need to move before my body does something stupid like notice how his eyes track my movement with an intensity that makes myskin feel too tight. And I definitely didnotjust notice his glance flickering down to my chest and back up again.
