Page 102 of The Longest Shot
He launches into his PowerPoint presentation without the PowerPoint, all buzzwords and bureaucratic masturbation. I’ve heard this symphony before, different conductors but always the same crescendo:You don’t matter. You never did. You’re a line item I can erase.
My fingers itch to deploy my binder—my beautiful, color-coded, cross-referenced weapon of mass documentation that contains every promise he made to me—but I know it won’t matter. This was always going to be an execution; I just chose to die with witnesses.
Then the door opens.
Andheenters.
My entire nervous system experiences what can only be described as a catastrophic reboot the second James walks in. There's no manic entrance that would make a golden retriever look subtle, no voice that treats volume control as a suggestion.
He moves with the controlled purpose I’ve only seen when he’s locked into a game, reading plays three moves ahead as he guards his goal. The PBU Hockey t-shirt across his shouldersdoes things to my cognitive function that would concern a neurologist.
When our eyes meet across the room, he gives me the tiniest nod and then a small smile, which I know is just for me. Then he melts into the background, rather than stepping up and talking or telling a joke, which is the exact point my brain kicks in and processes the full scope of what’s happening.
The entire men’s hockey team files in behind him. Kellerman and Schmidt first. Then Cooper, looking like he’d rather be getting a colonoscopy. Even Nash and Stiles are here, their usual testosterone-fueled bro-swagger replaced with something that might actually be solidarity if you squint. Then the others.
They'reallhere.
They position themselves along the walls with military precision, crowding the room with dark jerseys and crossed arms. As everyone stares at the spectacle—Galloway and the gargoyles included—I feel the room’s power dynamics shift like tectonic plates.
Because say what you want about athletic administrators, at the end of the day they know their jobs are tied to the athletes. And like a dictator who realizes he's lost his army or a boss who realizes the staff on the factory floor have walked out, a moment arrives when the bean counters must be told…
Enough.
My heart is attempting some sort of complicated gymnastics routine—part shock, part gratitude, part overwhelmed. Because I told James about the situation, and he chose to come and help, but, crucially, he's not stealing the show or making things worse.
He's just… here… silent and supportive… in complete silence.
And he brought an army.
Galloway’s face shifts through the entire pH scale, from smug neutral to acidic purple. “This is highly inappropriate. This is a closed meeting?—”
“We’re not in the meeting,” Schmidt says, his voice as flat as roadkill. “We’re just standing here.”
“In a public building,” Cooper adds in his trademark monotone that somehow manages to sound sarcastic. “During public hours.”
"Unless you've got something to hide, sir," Kellerman even finds his voice. "And… uh… yeah!"
Galloway’s jaw works like he’s attempting to grind diamonds with his molars, then he looks past me and locks onto James. “This is a pathetic attempt at intimidation, and I expected better from you, Fitzgerald. Although, given your recent… academic challenges… perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.”
The veiled threat about James's grades makes my hands clench. But James doesn’t bite and doesn’t fill the space with words. He just stands there, right next to me, as immovable as bedrock, his silence speaking volumes in languages Galloway never bothered to learn.
Then the door opens again.
Coach Pearson enters and moves to stand next to Coach Walsh. The sight of it will stick with me forever, the two coaches standing together, unified in a way that makes Galloway’s purple deepen to a medically concerning eggplant. Because it shows that, no matter how hard he's tried, he hasn't divided or broken us.
“Pearson,” Galloway says, grasping for control like a drowning man clutching razor wire. “Surely you’re not endorsing this circus.”
“I’m endorsing my players’ right to support their fellow athletes,” Pearson says evenly. “Is there a problem with that, Art?”
The temperature drops to arctic. The board members exchange glances that precede emergency meetings and hasty resignations. Steel-Bun clears her throat with the authorityof someone who’s fired bigger men for smaller infractions. “Perhaps we should?—”
The door opens a third time.
My brain experiences what I can only describe as a blue screen of death as the captain of the football team enters. Marcus Washington, a six-foot-four running back who's built like someone asked God for a human tank and God overdelivered, and perhaps the only person on campus revered more than the PBU hockey team.
The basketball captain follows. Then soccer. Baseball. Lacrosse. Swimming. Track. The boardroom that felt spacious twenty minutes ago is now standing room only, and by the time the door closes again, every single captain who represents PBU in collegiate athletics is in the room.
Marcus steps forward with the gravitas of someone who knows his mere presence changes gravitational fields. “Mr. Galloway, we’ve become aware of concerning patterns regarding the squeezing of budgets of certain teams, and we have concerns any one of us could be next if we get on your bad side.”
