Page 90 of The Longest Shot
I fold into the empty chair, and as I look around, the office feels smaller than usual, all those framed championship photos closing in. Maine’s face grins down at me from last year’s picture, frozen mid-celebration with his arm around my shoulders, both of us holding the trophy like we’d just discovered fire.
Christ, what would he think of this spectacular fuckup?
“I assume you grasp the gravity of your actions,” Galloway begins, his voice dripping with the kind of bureaucratic pleasure usually reserved for DMV employees denying license renewals. “Your behavior at the gala wasn’t merely inappropriate…"
I open my mouth. "I?—"
But my protest dies in utero as Galloway holds up his hand. "It constituted a flagrant violation of the athletic department’s code of conduct. Public humiliation of a fellow student-athlete is something I takeextremelyseriously, and given how Ms. Morgan reacted… well…”
“Art.” Coach’s voice cuts through Galloway’s monologue like a referee’s whistle. “We agreed I’d handle this.”
Galloway’s jaw tightens, but he leans back with a magnanimous wave. "By all means…" he says.
He knows he's already won.
Coach looks at me with that expression that somehow broadcasts bothI expected betterandI haven’t completely written you off yet, and then he lets out a long sigh and leans forward. "James, what you did was wrong, are we clear on that?”
I meet his eyes directly. This time, there's no deflection and no jokes. “Crystal clear, Coach.”
The simplicity catches them both off guard. Galloway actually scoots forward, probably expecting the full James Fitzgerald circus—wild hand gestures, elaborate justifications, possibly interpretive dance—and Coach’s eyebrows climb toward his receding hairline.
“You humiliated another athlete and you humiliated this program,” Coach continues, each word deliberate as a face-off win. “You humiliated yourself.”
Each accusation lands like a direct hit, so I simply nod.
“One week suspension, effective immediately,” Coach says. “You won’t dress for the BC game and your captaincy goes to a team vote when you return.”
The potential loss of the C hits harder than expected. Not the prestige, because I never gave a shit about that, and never thought I deserved it. But the thought of losing it makes me think of all the younger guys who somehow look to me for leadership I’m apparently allergic to providing.
“Additionally,” Galloway interjects, physically unable to resist, practically bouncing in his chair, “your academic standing remains… tenuous. If you fail to lift your GPA or make one more stumble, you’re finished. It'll be no playoffs and no championship defense. You'll be a cautionary tale for future students.”
He’s practically glowing, radiating satisfaction like a space heater set to ‘smug.’ This is his moment, his perfect revenge for my interference with Morgan’s team and speaking up in herdefense. The cosmic joke that I’m being crucified for trying to help while he’s doing victory laps isn’t lost on me.
The old Rook would have exploded and turned this into a one-man show.
But I’m exhausted from performing my own life.
“Understood, sir,” I say, looking directly at Galloway’s ferrety face. “Loud and clear.”
My quiet acceptance short-circuits him. His eyes narrow, scanning for the punchline, the meltdown, the dramatic exit… as if I’m ruining his script. But Coach has seen and heard enough, so he mercifully dismisses me with the nod of his head.
I leave, closing the door with the gentle click of a man who’s finally run out of sound effects, and then trek to the locker room. The moment I enter, conversation flatlines. Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward me, and Schmidt freezes mid-word.
The silence begs for my usual performance. Any other day, I’d already be halfway through a bit about walking in on my own wake, and then asking who brought potato salad. The compulsion rises, bile-hot in my throat, but I swallow it down.
Because Leo’s words echo:You need to sit with this one. Alone.
I don’t claim center stage. Instead, I just nod at the guys, then drop onto a bench near the wall, back against cold metal lockers. The chill penetrates my shirt, anchoring me. It gives the guys an out to ignore me if they want or to actively choose whether they want this conversation.
They do.
One by one, they gravitate closer. Schmidt and Cooper flank me like bodyguards. Kellerman hovers nearby, practically vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear. Even Nash and Stiles drift into range, maintaining their contractually obligated coolness. The rest hover, further away, but still here.
“I fucked up.” The words come out stripped and raw, with no theatrical coating. I look at Schmidt and Cooper. “The gala wasn’t heroic. Wasn’t helpful. It was…” The admission sticks like peanut butter to the roof of my mouth. “It was me feeling scared shitless and out of control and making noise to cover it.”
The confession burns as it comes out, but leaves something almost clean in its wake. It has a visible effect on the guys; while Schmidt’s gray eyes remain steady, something shifts in his expression. Cooper leans forward, elbows on knees.It’s still a show, but one with some goddamn depth for once.
“Week suspension,” I continue, studying the fascinating rubber floor matting." The next words feel like pulling teeth. “Captaincy up for vote when I return.”
