Page 82 of The Longest Shot
When private doesn’t work, you go public.
My entire childhood was training camp for this moment. When Mom was giving Dad the silent treatment, it was time for little James to “accidentally” break something expensive. If the dinner table was ready to explode, I'd tell a joke, good or bad, it didn't matter.
It always worked.
Tension would shatter, they’d focus on me, and kick the issue down the road.
This is just that, but bigger.
Go for gold with Morgan, or flame out trying.
All gas, no brakes.
The event coordinator—a woman whose face suggests she’s perpetually disappointed in everyone, but who has her job because she's probably really-good at shaking down richassholes for money—gives me the two-minute warning that it's almost my time to speak.
"Tonight, I’m a fucking hero," I say, quietly, trying to convince myself.
My plan is simple.
Galloway upped the ante on Morgan and me, squeezing her team even tighter and putting even harsher academic conditions on me and my guys. But tonight, all I'm thinking of is her. So I'll go over Galloway's head, work these boosters like a power play, and inspire them to open their wallets for her program.
And then, she’ll finally see me.
Not as the guy who ruins everything.
Not as the coward who hides behind jokes.
But as the guy who came through when nobody else would.
The guy worthy of her trust, her friendship, and maybe more than that.
It'll cost me with Galloway, because he'll be pissed, but what’s left to lose? My GPA is exploring previously unknown depths. That 2.5 GPA requirement might as well be demanding I cure cancer. My captaincy, my senior year, everything that makes me me—it’s all circling the drain anyway.
Might as well gamble on one last roll of the dice for her.
“Thirty seconds, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
The tux fights me as I smooth it down, bunching in places that suggest it’s allergic to my body type. But I know I'm cool, because when you've survived hundred-mile-an-hour slap shots and been boarded by future NHL defenders, you can handle a bunch of suits.
"And you're on," she says.
I walk through the curtains, the stage lights hit me, and, for a second, I’m swimming in white while my eyes scramble. Then the room materializes in the form of three hundred of PineBarren University’s biggest donors, watching me with the mild interest of people well into their third martini.
And there, three tables back on the left, is Morgan.
The sight of her hits me hard. She’s wearing black—high-neck, knee-length, all business—but on her it scrambles my brain completely. Her hair is scraped back in that vicious ponytail that always makes me want to mess it up, to see it wild while she?—
Focus, you hormonal trainwreck.
But even from here, I can read her body language: shoulders locked, sitting rigid. She’s flanked by Mills and Coach Walsh, who are both wearing neutral expressions. It's clear they're all pissed at having to be here at all, given Galloway has gutted their program, and they don't want to give him any more ammo.
The room waits, heavy and expectant.
Fill the silence before it eats you alive.
“Good evening, everyone. I can confirm this tux is a rental, and yeah, I YouTubed the bow tie situation.” I tug at the noose around my neck. “Three tutorials later, still not sure if I nailed it, so if it gives up mid-speech, just… pretend it’s intentional.”
Real laughter ripples through the crowd.
