Page 17 of The Longest Shot
"Why is itchunky?"
The door slams open and Coach Pearson storms in. He's not usually an angry guy, but right now his face is cycling through colors I didn't know human skin could achieve—white, to red, to purple, to something that probably has a German name and requires immediate medical attention.
"WHAT THE ABSOLUTE?—"
"Coach Pearson."
Art Galloway's voice cuts through the chaos. He stands in the doorway, immaculate in his tailored suit, somehow projecting calm while standing at the edge of our biblical plague.
Pearson's mouth snaps shut so fast I hear his teeth click, and the power dynamic shifts instantly. And when Galloway raises a hand, the room goes silent except for the steady gurgle of our new indoor swamp.
"Gentlemen," he says, his voice carrying that particular quality that makes you lean in even when every instinct screams to run. "It appears we have a situation."
A situation. We're standing ankle-deep in whatever came out of the building's colon, and he calls it a situation. We're a week away from the opener and we suddenly don't know whether we have a locker room or any gear that's not soggy.
He steps forward. "This is unfortunate timing, indeed. But adversity, gentlemen, is opportunity."
I see it coming before he says it. The slight upturn of his mouth, the way his eyes are already calculating something that has nothing to do with plumbing. My stomach drops somewhere below the sewage line, while at the same time I wonder if Galloway has seen even a bit of adversity in his entire life.
"We'll need to get this fixed. It could take weeks." He pauses, letting that sink in. "However, we are fortunate to have alternative facilities available."
No. No, no, no?—
"Effective immediately, you'll be temporarily sharing the women's hockey locker room."
The reaction is instantaneous and deafening. Whoops and hollers bounce off the walls. Kellerman actually chest-bumps Martinez, immediately slips in the sewage water, goes down hard enough to create a splash that hits three people, and then comes up grinning.
They have no idea we're about to invade the lion's den.
Galloway's eyes find mine across the chaos, his expectation clear. "Captain Fitzgerald," he says. "I trust you'll help coordinate this transition?"
Every instinct I have screams at me to deflect. Martinez would smile and charm. Cooper would approach it with the emotional range of a spreadsheet. Hell, Kellerman would probably apologize our way into peaceful coexistence, one stammered "sorry" at a time.
But twenty-something pairs of eyes are on me now, expecting their captain to lead the charge into this glorious newopportunity. Galloway's watching with that paternal expectation. Pearson's watching with the barely concealed frustration of a coach who just got benched in his own locker room.
And somewhere nearby, Morgan doesn't yet know that her sanctuary is about to be violated by the exact person she's worked so hard to delete from existence. But as the silence stretches, the water continues to gurgle, brown and chunky, and I realize there's no real choice.
We need somewhere decent to get ready for practice, right?
My face splits into a grin. "Co-ed locker room? Well, boys, looks like Christmas came early!"
The cheer that goes up could probably shatter windows. I'm already moving, already performing. A glance at Galloway reveals he's smiling the moment before he turns and leaves, his work done. For his part, Coach Pearson just shakes his head and retreats to the office. And the guys?
Well, they're my army to command.
"Schmidtty, you're in charge of making sure nobody's junk touches anybody else's junk. Equipment, I mean. Get your mind out of the gutter." The laugh is automatic. "Cooper, you're on logistics because you're the only one here who knows what that word means."
"I know what logistics means," Kellerman protests, his voice cracking slightly as he realizes he should have just kept quiet.
"You thought it was a type of yogurt until last week, buddy," I say, patting him on the back. "Remember? You asked if it came in strawberry?"
"That was lojistics! With a J!"
More laughter. More noise. All gas. No brakes.
"Now, ground rules for the invasion—I mean, the temporary relocation." I'm pacing now, splashing through the water with enough force to create small tsunamis. "We're going to be gentlemen. We're going to show the ladies that we can share space like mature adults who definitely didn't just slip in sewage."
"But what if they're changing when we—" someone starts.
