30. Review #2
“Third.” He pauses. And I see something in his face that looks almost like empathy, buried deep beneath the institutional armor.
“I’ll be reaching out to the Olympic committee through proper channels.
Transparently. Before they hear it from anyone else.
I’ll frame it accurately. That a social media post has raised questions, that the university is conducting a review, and that Cole’s performance record and evaluation stand on their own merit. ”
“And if they withdraw the invitation?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Too hollow. Too stripped .
“Walsh saw Cole play. Saw Kowalski, too. That tape doesn’t change because of a rumor.
” Calloway picks up his coffee. Drinks. Sets it down.
“But I can’t make promises, Luke. If this becomes a sustained media story, the committee may distance itself to protect its own brand.
That’s a reality we both need to prepare for. ”
The reality settles into my chest alongside the guilt, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who’s been holding up a ceiling that’s been trying to collapse for months.
Emma’s Olympic dream. The thing I helped bring to life with forty hours of footage and phone calls and the desperate, consuming need to give her every opportunity I never had.
It might not survive me .
“One more thing.” Calloway stands. A signal this meeting is ending.
“Until the board review is complete, I need you to limit personal contact with Cole. Don’t discuss the details of this conversation.
Don’t coordinate statements. If either of you are approached by media, the response is ‘no comment’ and a referral to the university’s communications office. ”
Don’t discuss the details with Emma.
Don’t talk to the woman I love about the thing that’s tearing us apart.
Don’t reach for the person who’s been my tether for seven years, the one whose voice in the dark kept me sane, whose hand in mine feels like proof that I'm not broken beyond repair.
Don’t.
“Understood.” The word tastes like every other lie I’ve told this year, except this one’s sanctioned. Institutional. The kind of dishonesty that comes with a policy manual and a logo on the letterhead.
Calloway extends his hand. I shake it. Firm grip. Eye contact. Two men concluding a transaction that will determine the trajectory of multiple careers and at least one relationship.
“And Luke,” Calloway says as I reach the door, “you built a hell of a program. Whatever happens next, that doesn’t change.”
I nod. Walk out. Head downstairs to an office that might only be mine a little while longer.
My practice plans are still stacked on the desk. Written notes on the game for tomorrow I was working on before heading to the men's game.
I sink into my chair. Let the silence settle around me the way it has for months. The good kind of silence. The rink-at-midnight kind that doesn’t judge or demand or ask questions I can’t answer .
Except now the silence is just silence. No hum beneath it. No possibility waiting in the wings. Just a man in a small office staring at a whiteboard full of plays he may not be allowed to call after tomorrow.
Administrative leave. Board review. Limited contact.
The conditions loop through my mind like game film I can’t stop rewatching. Each one reasonable. Each one necessary. Each one a reminder that the institution I serve has priorities that don’t include whether my heart is intact.
Nor should they. I knew the rules. Chose to break them. The consequences aren’t punishment—they’re math. Input, output, and the variable I introduced into the equation the first time I let my hand linger on Emma’s hip longer than a coaching adjustment required.
My eyes drift to the whiteboard. To the play in the upper right corner—the backdoor cut we installed last week.
Emma through the weak-side lane. Jordan cycling low.
Sloane driving wide. The play that won us three games and might win us a championship if the execution is clean and the timing holds and the universe hasn’t decided to collect on every debt I’ve been accumulating since September.
I can’t talk to Emma about the conditions.
Can’t tell her about the administrative leave, the board review, the fact that Calloway is calling Walsh tomorrow.
Can’t prepare her. Can’t warn her. Can’t do the thing I’ve been doing for five months—stand in a corridor or a kitchen or a truck or a bed and tell her it’s going to be okay.
Because the truth is I don’t know if it is, and the man who signs my paychecks just told me to stop coordinating with the woman I love.
But I can't not say anything, either.
I pick up my phone. Open our thread. The last message is from last night telling me to kick BC’s ass. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Me
Spoke with Calloway. We need to talk about what’s going to happen tomorrow
I press send. Set the phone down. Stare at the whiteboard.
Forty-five seconds later, the screen lights up.
Emma
I'll be ready. Will you?
And despite everything, I feel something loosen. Not relief. Not hope. Something more fundamental. The recognition that I’m not carrying this alone. That the woman on the other end of this message has been fighting beside me since before I deserved it and isn’t stopping now.
Me
Always
Then I stand. Walk to the whiteboard. Pick up the blue dry-erase marker.
Because there’s a championship game in twenty-seven hours.
And whatever else I’ve lost today—my best friend’s trust, my professional standing, the certainty that I belong here—I haven’t lost this.
The plays on this board. The team that runs them.
The ability to stand behind a bench and do the job these women trusted me to do.
Tomorrow, I coach.
Tomorrow might be the last time.
I uncap the marker. Start writing.