Page 35 of The Longest Shot
Three summers ago, the last time we were alone together.
My feet carry me back to the team study room on autopilot, muscle memory navigating while my brain tries to compute the damage assessment. Schmidt looks up from his color-coded notes when I stumble in, no doubt looking like I've returned from four years of war.
Schmidt is the kind of guy who meal-preps on Sundays, has a meditation app with a forty-seven-day streak, and actually reads the terms and conditions. And his expression shifts from concentration to something I've never seen directed at me before: disappointment.
Not the angry kind.
The tired kind.
The kind that says he's been waiting forthisand wishes he'd been wrong.
"You look like death," he says, voice flat as roadkill.
I need him to tell me Morgan's crazy.
I need validation wrapped in bro-code loyalty.
"Had a spirited chat with Captain Riley," I announce, my voice ricocheting off the walls like I'm trying to fill Madison Square Garden. "Everything's so fuckingseriouswith her. Nobody's allowed to crack a smile. It's like—fuck, we're playing a game, not performing open-heart surgery."
Schmidt's pen stops its meticulous journey across his study notes. He's watching me with those eyes that never seem to blink at regular human intervals, and I can feel the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out how much he wants to say.
"It's like yesterday," I barrel on, not comfortable with silence. "Yeah, we lost, but everyone's acting like someone died. We need to loosen up. Stop overthinking every little thing. Have some fun out there. Remember why we started playing in the first place, before it all got so fucking serious."
A few seconds of silence follows, then Schmidt sighs. "I don't think she's wrong…"
Five words that hit like a combination I never saw coming—jab, jab, cross, uppercut, goodnight.
"What?" My voice cracks like I'm thirteen.
"We need a captain, Rook." Schmidt starts packing his bag, meticulously sliding each color-coded notebook into its designated pocket like he's performing surgery. "Mike would've benched Kellerman for that shit he pulled in the second period."
"That's not true—" I start, but he's already standing.
"It is," he says, and for the first time since I've known him, Erik Schmidt sounds genuinely sad. "And we both know it."
"I—"
He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, and cuts me short. "You know what the worst part is? You're actually a great goalie. Elite, even. But you're a shitty captain, because you're so busy being everyone's friend that you forgot we already have friends. What we need is someone to make us better."
Then he shoulders his bag and leaves.
I sit there, staring at the door like it might apologize for what just happened. And, as I close my eyes, Schmidt's statement spreads through my brain like spilled ink on carpet, staining everything it touches, unable to be washed away.
I don't think she's wrong…
Last night's game floods back in IMAX clarity. Being in the locker room twenty minutes after Kellerman's fuck-up cost us the game, Kellerman slumped in his stall, practically vibrating with anxiety, waiting for the axe to fall, and twenty pairs of eyes waiting for me to address it.
And what did Captain Fitzgerald do?
Made a joke. Avoided the tense moment. Ignored the teaching moment.
This isn't an isolated incident.
This is my entire leadership philosophy.
I rifle through my mental filing cabinet of recent practices, team meetings, and crucial moments where actual captaincy was required. Moments where fixing shit that's broken would require actual confrontation, some tense moments, or some moments of silence that make everyone uncomfortable.
And every single time, I chose the easy laugh over the hard conversation.
