Page 38 of The Longest Shot
Erik Schmidt sits beside him, close enough their shoulders almost touch. Not talking—because Schmidt treats words likestocks, hoarding them for maximum value—but his presence is intentional. He's reading what looks like an economics textbook, but his eyes haven't moved across the page once.
He's standing guard and holding James up all at once.
On his other side, Leo Cooper mirrors the position. The chemistry genius who once told a reporter that human interaction was "an inefficient use of cognitive resources" has planted himself there. His chemistry textbook remains closed, a man who treats study time like church choosing proximity over productivity.
A cluster of other players maintains a loose perimeter, orbiting him, maintaining gravitational pull even as his light dims. They're tossing a football in lazy arcs, and I see Ben Kellerman catch a wobbling pass and start to celebrate, until he remembers and scales his enthusiasm down to library volume.
The satisfaction inside me curdles.
Because they haven't abandoned him.
Even broken, even stripped of his entertainment value, they're here, with him, because they actually give a shit. He fucked up and got eviscerated for being exactly the coward I knew he was, and now he's surrounded by people choosing to stand by him anyway.
When was the last time someone stood by me when I was hurting?
The answer lands hard.
Never, my mind chimes in.Because you've never let anyone see you bleed.
Suddenly furious at the shift in my mood, at having the sight of James's devastation being turned into self-doubt, I turn sharply. Ponytail whipping against my cheek, I stride toward the campus coffee shop with purposeful aggression that makes freshmen scatter.
But the image follows.
The broken jester and his loyal court.
The coffee shop is a sensory overload—violent espresso machine hissing, the barista's overwhelming enthusiasm—and students pack every corner, their biggest worry whether their Philosophy TA will round up their 89.4 to an A-minus.
"Good morning! What can I get you?" The barista's name tag readsMadison!with a heart dotting the 'i'—because ofcourseit does.
"Black coffee," I say, my voice sharp. "The largest size you're legally allowed to serve."
"Venti it is!" She rebounds from my tone like those inflatable clowns that always pop back up. "Can I get a name for that?"
I almost say Morgan, but what emerges is, "Morgue."
If the shoe fits, right?
Her marker freezes mid-air. "I'm sorry, could you…?"
"Morgue," I repeat. "Like where they keep the bodies."
To her credit, Madison only pauses a beat before scrawling it on the cup. "That'll be right up. And badass name. Very Wednesday Addams."
That's… actually not terrible.
When she calls "Venti black for Morgue?" with the confidence of someone announcing the next heavyweight champion, I grab my cup and escape to outdoor seating, suddenly self-conscious because there's a bunch of people looking for the girl with the weird name.
There's a corner table, partially hidden by a plant that's given up on life. It feels highly relatable, so I claim it, wrapping my hands around the cardboard cup like a life raft. The heat burns through, too hot to drink, but I like that the pain is quantifiable and real.
At the next table, girls explode into laughter over someone's phone. One—blonde, wearing a PBU Hockey sweatshirt that definitely started the night in some player's room—collapses against her friend's shoulder. They touch constantly, unconsciously, a hand on a forearm, a head against a shoulder.
Casual intimacy, as natural as breathing. "Did you see his face?" one of them gasps between giggles. "Like someone told him Santa wasn't real!"
"Stop," her friend manages, wiping tears away from her eyes as she laughs. "I can't breathe."
They're probably talking about some frat boy's epic fail at a party last night. Nothing that matters, or so I try to tell myself. But the way they lean into each other, creating their own gravity,thatmatters. The blonde reaches over to steal her friend's croissant without asking, and the friend just shifts her plate closer.
When was the last time someone touched me without calculation?
