Page 60 of The Longest Shot
I sit, making it clear I’m not happy about it. "Last chance," I say. "Because I don't have time to waste if you're not taking this seriously, gear or no gear."
“Look.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, the gesture pure anxiety. “I know I’m not academic and my brain doesn’t work in straight lines, but I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say?—”
“You’re thinking it.” No accusation, just resignation. “Everyone does, like I'm a big dumb jock.”
The admission hits a nerve I don’t want him touching, because I did think that, before. Before I saw how he processes the world through connections that aren’t linear but aren’t wrong either. He may not be built for papers and exams and punctual attendance of class, but there's a brain in there.
“Prove me wrong,” I say, softer than intended. “Forget the essay structure and just talk. Tell me what the author’s saying about social disintegration.”
He stares at me, evaluating my sincerity like I'm a bomb with allsortsof complex wires. Then his entire demeanor changes. The fidgeting stops. His body stills with the same laser-focus I’ve seen in the net. Even the air feels different, charged with sudden intensity.
“It’s like…” He pauses, searching. “OK, so penalty kill, right? Everyone has their position. Their job. The system only works if everyone trusts everyone else to be where they’re supposed to be.”
I nod, leaning forward without meaning to.
“But then one guy gets anxious. Maybe he sees a puck he thinks he can win, even though it’s not his zone, so he leavesposition.” His hands sketch plays in the air with surprising grace. “Suddenly there’s a hole.
Another nod.
"Well, the whole box collapses because one person broke trust. That’s social disintegration, where the system doesn’t die from some big explosion but rather dies from a thousand small betrayals of trust.”
I’m frozen, pencil motionless. Because he’s right. He’s absolutely, brilliantly right. He understands the material at a level most students would miss, and he's just given me a perfect example to illustrate it. He knows everything he needs to to ace the paper, which might be a sign of a miracle.
Holy shit. James Fitzgerald might actually be a genius disguised as a golden retriever.
“And the author,” he continues, eyes bright with excitement, “he’s saying that’s happening to communities now, with everyone chasing their own puck instead of maintaining position. The trust is gone, so the whole defensive structure just…” He splays his fingers, mimicking an explosion. “Boom. Chaos.”
“That’s…” I clear my throat, trying to recover from the whiplash. “That’s exactly right.”
He blinks, surprised. “Really?”
“Really.” I grab paper, my thoughts reorganizing to figure out how to translate his hockey metaphor into academic language. “Say that again, but slower.”
“You’re going to write it down?” The question is vulnerable, skeptical. “Just like that?”
“I’m going to translate it into something your professor will recognize as sociology, but the ideas are yours.”
The look he gives me then—soft and grateful and surprised—shows me no one has ever told him his thoughts matter. And, right there, it makes me wonder if the chaos and noise andenergy aren'tjustto avoid silence and emotions, a protective mechanism against the pain in his family's past.
Is it possible he's a hell of a lot smarter than anyone gave him credit for?
“OK,” he says, his voice now focused. “From the beginning?”
I nod, pen ready. “From the beginning. And James?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep the chips on your side of the table.”
He grins, warmer now, more real. “Yes, ma’am. Very professional. Should I also stop doing this?” He stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal his abs.
My mouth goes desert-dry. “That would be helpful.”
“What about this?” His knee presses against mine, deliberate, warm through the denim.
“Especially that.”
