Page 116 of The Longest Shot
“But that’s my business,” James continues, still steady, still holding my hand. “My career, my choices, my life. We’re not dissecting it over burgers anymore.”
Sean’s face runs through rapid recalibration. The criticism script has shattered, making him look like a fool, so he defaults to excessive, performative pride. “Goalie of the Semester!” His boom returns, arms spreading wide. “You hear that, everyone? My son! That’s what I’m talking about! I always knew?—”
“Yeah,” James cuts him off with a small shrug. “It’s nice to have your support as always, Dad.”
That’s it, one little sarcastic quip, and we move on. He squeezes my hand once more, and gives me a smile that’s entirely private, a secret shared in plain sight. The smile makes something in my chest pull tight with recognition, because this feels like thebiggestwin for him.
“Morgan knows all about building success,” James says, smoothly redirecting. “She’s building a D1 program from scratch.”
And just like that, he’s made me part of the conversation without making me the center of attention. I realize he's still managing the emotional temperature, but by choice now, not compulsion. It’s actually kind of hot, watching him work a room with intention instead of panic.
I start talking about the team, letting familiar logistics steady my nerves. Karen’s face shifts from surprise to something that might be interest. Sean looks like he’s choking on his tongue, because his son just set a boundary and his girlfriend apparently has opinions.
“That level of organization,” Karen says, and there’s something in her voice that might actually be respect. “The politics alone…”
“Morgan’s last program went from club to D1 in eighteen months,” James adds, pride warming his voice. “This year, they lead the conference in their first year.”
“But James is heading to the show,” Sean says, like this is an obvious problem requiring an immediate solution. “You planning to, what, follow him around? Or maintain some long-distance thing while he’s traveling with whatever team drafts him?”
The question is designed to create conflict, to undermine my own pro prospects, and to highlight an incompatibility neither of us has figured out yet. The old Morgan would have gone cold, built walls. The old James would have made a joke. Instead, we look at each other, and smile.
“Morgan will get drafted as well,” James says simply. “We'll figure it out.”
“Together,” I add, squeezing his hand, meaning it more than I expected to.
Sean opens his mouth—probably to cite divorce stats—but Karen cuts him off.
“The burgers are burning," she says, voice deadpan.
They’re not, but it breaks the moment. Sean turns back to the grill, cursing, and the party resumes its chaotic rhythm. Kids cannonball into the pool. James's sister arrives with more food and more children. The noise level returns to its previous roar.
But something fundamental has shifted. James doesn’t perform for the rest of the afternoon. When his father tries to bait him into old patterns—like with an embarrassing story about James's first hockey game or jabs about his grades—James just lets them land and dissipate.
He’s not participating in the show anymore.
Later, when the sun paints everything golden and the kids are sugar-crashing across various adult laps, I find myself at the picnic table with Karen. She’s sorting leftovers, and I’m helping because the organization is soothing. We could be friends if she weren’t so terrifying.
“He’s different,” she says suddenly, sealing a container with unnecessary force. “Quieter.”
“Not quieter,” I correct, understanding exactly what she means. “Just more intentional about when he’s loud.”
She considers this, holding a Tupperware lid like it contains classified information. “You did that?”
“No. He did that. I just…” I search for words that won’t sound like therapy-speak. “I just helped him along, and he helped me, too.”
Karen looks at me then, really looks, and for a second I see past her armor to something vulnerable underneath, maybe the woman who fell in love with Sean and hoped she could change him but never could. Or maybe the mother who got so used to relying on her son to put out fires she forgot how to herself.
“I always thought he needed to make noise,” she says quietly. “That it was just who he was.”
“It is who he is,” I say, understanding her fear that she’s lost her son to change. “The difference is now it’s a choice, not a crutch for others.”
She nods, and that's that, and soon after we navigate goodbye hugs and promises to visit again soon, Sean corners James by our car. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to intervene, but James catches my eye and shakes his head slightly.
“Your agent sure about you getting drafted?”
“Yeah, he is, Dad.”
Sean shifts, visibly uncomfortable with this new son who doesn’t need his approval or his criticism to know his worth. “The award. That’s… something.”
