Page 39 of The Longest Shot
Not glove-taps after goals or professional handshakes. Real touch. The kind that saysI choose proximitywithout strategic reason, the kind that tells me another person considers my company pleasurable and worthy of time investment outside of what they get out of it.
The coffee has cooled enough to drink, but now tastes like liquid regret.
This is victory, apparently. I destroyed James Fitzgerald, but I didn't finish the job. Because, already, his teammates have caught him in a giant net of support, and are holding him suspended in place until he's strong enough to climb out and walk again.
My team respects me. Fears me, probably. They execute plays with military precision and never question my decisions. They work with me because they benefit. But would they sit with me if I couldn't function? Would they form protective circles if I showed up broken?
Mills would try. She's as loyal as they come, and she'd stand there, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to another, wanting to help but having no blueprint for doing so. Because I've trained her—trained them all, trained everyone—that Morgan Riley is a self-sufficient ecosystem.
As my mind turns over, I watch the blonde show her friends a video of something. They lean in, forming a circle that excludes the world without malice. One casually fixes another's smudged mascara without being asked, and the small gesture lands like shrapnel.
James is a coward. A professional deflector and certified bull in the emotional china shop. But he's also surrounded by people who witness his worst moment and stay. And I'm here, alone, with cooling coffee and the empty chair across from me that might as well have neon signage.
"This Space Intentionally Left Vacant."
I drain the coffee in one bitter swallow that burns all the way down.
And just a second before I stand to leave, the table of girls I've been watching breaks up. The blonde calls "Love you, bitch!" as she leaves, and the rest of the friend group responds with casual "Love you too!" and "Text me when you get home!".
It's connection, warmth.
And here I am, cold and alone.
Dead inside.
The Morgue.
I toss the dregs of my coffee in the trash, then head home, where my apartment greets me with perfect silence, everything exactly as I left it. Keys in the ceramic dish by the door, shoes on the rack and organized by purpose, kitchen counters clear and a single mug drying on a dish towel.
Like always, there's no roommate to disrupt order with chaos and I won't receive any surprise visitors. Hell, there's no oneto notice if I didn't come home at all. Everyone in my building would probably need a week to realize I was missing, and my players would only notice because I missed practice.
I stand in my living room and listen to silence that used to sound like safety and control. But now it sounds exactly like what it is, the absence of everything that makes noise worth tolerating, a total and crushingalonenessthat never relents.
This is what three years of perfect defense earned me.
An impenetrable position with nothing inside worth protecting.
A fortress so secure that there's nothing alive inside.
A trap I can't escape.
sixteen
ROOK
Every squeakof my sneakers on the marble floor echoes through the athletic complex lobby like an accusation. The sound bounces off the vaulted ceiling, multiplies in the hollow space beneath the championship banners, and comes back to mock me.
And what does it sound like?
You’re a jester, Fitzgerald. A court jester for a creep.
Morgan’s words from a week ago have taken up permanent residence in my brain, playing on repeat like the world’s worst Spotify playlist. I hear it everywhere, all the time, even when there's silence. The worst part is that she nailed it, and I’ve been hemorrhaging confidence ever since.
We’ve dropped two games since she carved me up in that hallway, and both were the kind of sloppy, undisciplined disasters that make ESPN highlight reels for all the wrong reasons. And I've been performing the worst out of my guys, letting in goals I'd usually save with ease.
Meanwhile, her team has rattled off two wins through pure determination and textbook execution. The only surprise is thatherperformance has been a little off as well, but her down gameshave been more than compensated for by the discipline and effort of her teammates.
The contrast makes my teeth ache.
