Page 80 of The Longest Shot
And, thankfully, there are no guys—and no James—around right now.
But what I find instead is Coach Walsh, standing frozen, holding a single sheet of paper with the delicate grip of someone handling live ordnance. I've seen her in plenty of stressful situations in the last few months since we started working together, but nothing quite like this.
“He just gutted us, Morgue.” Her voice has that dangerous quietness that precedes detonation. “The bastard actually went too far this time.”
I close the distance between us and take the memo, my mind shifting into analytical mode with the relief of a dislocated joint popping back into place. Becauseanythingis better than thinking abouthimandthatandwhat the hell happens now?
University letterhead.
Athletic Department.
Galloway’s signature slashed across the bottom.
The first cuts are predictable brutality. Our travel budget has been slashed to the bare minimum. And, worse, we've had our travel funding and fees to attend the Winter Showcase—where actual scouts show up looking to learn more about prospects—“suspended pending review.”
Translation: Your girls can forget about being seen.
My stomach clenches thinking of players who transferred here from lesser programs in the hope that it would get them to the pros. There's still a chance, sure, but in an ecosystem whereevery single ounce of attention and effort can be the difference, this might keep some of my girls from their dream.
But that's not all.
Equipment budget: frozen.
Who needs tape or sticks or pucks, anyway?
Facility access: 5:00 a.m. ice time each day is our only slot.
The zamboni gets priority…
Coach Walsh’s hours: capped at twenty per week.
Work yourself to death for free, ladies. We’re counting on it.
This is more than just tying up purchase requests in red tape. It's reducing our ability to be a viable team at all. It's death by a thousand paper cuts, each one deeper than the previous set of conditions he put on our program, which necessitated teaming up with James.
Then I see it.
Buried at the bottom:
"New institutional guidelines regarding inter-team resource allocation and academic support services."
The words crystallize into meaning with slow-motion clarity:
"To maintain integrity… unauthorized inter-team resource sharing, including equipment, training materials, or academic tutoring services, is strictly prohibited…"
The memo continues its bureaucratic masturbation, but I’ve stopped processing. My blood turns arctic, freezing me from the inside out, because the references to inter-team resource sharing and academic tutoring services tell me he knows.
Hefuckingknows.
About the stolen gear and the sociology tutoring.
About James and me working together to overcome his bullshit.
“Morgan?” Bri’s voice sounds underwater. “You’ve gone very pale.”
“He knows.” The words scrape out raw.
“Knows what?”
