Page 114 of The Longest Shot
“Good. Because he’s yours now. No returns, no exchanges."
“Lifetime warranty?”
“With extended coverage and free maintenance.”
She laughs. "James I?—"
"I love you,” I tell her, cutting her off.
She smiles, bright and real, and I think about how three years ago, I ran from this feeling. Now, sitting in her kitchen with ghost-toast still lingering, with her wrapped around me, I can’t imagine being anywhere else. And even if she's not ready to say it back yet, that's OK, because she knows I'm serious.
And I know she's not running.
“Come on,” she says, standing, pulling me up. “Can’t have our starting goalie late because he was celebrating his mediocre sociology grade.”
“B- is above average!”
“For hockey players, maybe.”
I chase her toward the bedroom, both of us laughing, dodging furniture like we’re running drills, and think maybe this is what winning really feels like. Not the roar of crowds or weight of trophies, but this—Morgan’s laughter echoing off the walls, a passing grade proving I’m more than anyone thought, and the knowledge that I’m finally, exactly where I belong.
Comfortable with her, with my team, and with myself.
The quiet one and the ice queen, learning how to be loud together.
epilogue 1
MORGAN
The momentI decide to stay at this barbecue instead of fleeing to my car might be the bravest thing I’ve done all month, which includes facing down Galloway with an army of athletes. And if that's not a testament to how much I'm falling for James, then I don't know what is.
As I stand on the deck, gripping a sweating bottle of Bud Light, I'm watching the Fitzgerald family chaos in full sprawl. Kids are playing, adults are arguing, and smoke from Sean Fitzgerald’s grill mingles with chlorine from the pool, creating a distinctly suburban chemical cocktail that burns my nostrils.
And in the middle of it all, James is the showman entertaining the kids.
“Uncle Jamie! Uncle Jamie! Watch me do a cartwheel!”
“No, watch me! I can do two cartwheels!”
“Uncle Jamie, I can burp the alphabet!”
I must admit, it's more than a little amusing watching him get assaulted by three sugar-fueled children who apparently share the sense of joyful mayhem that's in his DNA. And, right now, he’s flat on his back in the grass, his whole body vibrating with laughter.
One niece hangs off his arm, using him as playground equipment, another sits on his chest, demonstrating what sounds like the alphabet filtered through a garbage disposal, and the smallest—maybe four, with his same brown eyes—is methodically stuffing his pockets with dandelions.
The sheer chaos and volume—kids shrieking, Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting from speakers held to the deck with what appears to be duct tape and prayer, Sean Fitzgerald’s voice booming over everything—should be driving me crazy, forcing me to retreat inside myself.
A month ago, it would have.
But here I stand, making the conscious, moment-by-moment choice to stay.
“Morgan, honey, could you grab the potato salad from the kitchen?” Karen Fitzgerald asks, her voice slicing through my observation.
I nod and set down my beer. "Sure thing."
And as I turn, she adds, “And make sure Sean hasn’t left his beer cans all over my clean counters.”
Inside, the kitchen feels like a shrine to passive aggression. Everything is labeled, and there's a list of “KITCHEN RULES” taped to the fridge that includes gems like “NO WET SPOONS IN THE SUGAR” and “DISHWASHER RUNS AT 8 P.M.—NO EXCEPTIONS.”
