Page 40 of The Longest Shot
I’ve been a ghost haunting my team.
During practice, I go through the motions, my voice hollow when I call out plays. The puck sounds different hitting my glove, duller somehow, like even the equipment knows I’m phoning it in. In the locker room, my jokes land flat, and the guys keep looking at me with a mix of uncertainty and concern.
But here’s the thing that guts me: they haven’t bailed.
Schmidt shows up at my apartment every morning with a black coffee. The cup is always slightly too hot, the way he knows I hate it, because it means I have to wait, have to slow down. He just sets it down and goes back to his day, creating a bubble of normalcy I don’t deserve.
Leo drags me to the library every night and doesn’t say a word when I stare at the same sociology paragraph for twenty minutes. He just sits there, his highlighter squeaking against glossy textbook pages in a rhythm that’s almost meditative if my mind wasn't all gas, no brakes.
Even Kellerman, ever anxious and desperate for approval like a golden retriever in human form, has been leaving PowerBars in my gear bag. They’re always the peanut-butter-chocolate ones that taste like cardboard, but he includes these little notes.
“You got this, Cap!”was today's special.
I’m a train wreck, but I’m asupportedtrain wreck, and I'm grateful for it.
Which makes me think about Morgan. When was the last time someone left her a coffee? When was the last time someone just… sat with her while she studied? Who’s her Schmidt? Her Leo? Her overeager Kellerman? Who picks her up when she's down?
Does she evergetdown?
The thought follows me as I navigate the lobby, dodging a group of basketball players. They’re arguing about something that involves a lot of hand gestures and the word “bro” deployed like punctuation. I’m just here to grab travel paperwork from the admin office, in and out, and?—
A championship photo catches my eye from the Wall of Fame. There I am, next to Mike, who's hoisting the trophy overhead. I've got a massive grin across my face, my hair is plastered to my head with sweat and champagne, and Maine’s arm is slung around my shoulders.
That guy looks invincible, whereas I feel like a failure and a fraud.
I shake my head and resume walking, when movement stops me cold.
It’s them.
Galloway and Morgan.
They're inside one of the glass-walled meeting rooms of the sports admin wing. That's not an unusual occurrence in and of itself, but Galloway has her cornered against the doorframe, using his body as a wall between her and freedom.
He’s standing too close, at a calculated distance that’stechnicallyprofessional but is creepy as all fuck. His belly strains against his golf shirt like it’s trying to make a break for freedom, and even from here I can see the damp patches under his arms.
Morgan stands with her spine so straight she could be teaching a posture class. Her ponytail is pulled back severely enough to give her a face-lift, and her jaw is clenched tight enough to crack molars. Everything about her radiates get-the-fuck-away-from-me energy.
But she can’t actually say it and can’t actually leave, because he controls her ice time, her equipment budget, and herprogram’s entire existence. I mean, sure, she could complain to university admin, but women complaining about sexual predators on college campuses has a pretty low success rate.
And it'd ruin herandher team.
Galloway’s voice carries across the lobby, that patronizing rumble that sounds like disappointment and condescension had a baby. “And I’m just telling you, Morgan, your approach is a little aggressive for the boosters. They expect a certain… warmth from our female players," he says.
The wordwarmthcarries a load of connotation so heavy it could end wars, whilefemalecomes out of his mouth like he’s describing a different species. Both make my skin crawl, like they had in the locker room, when he'd locked his eyes on her in nothing but a towel.
When you said nothing…my mind reminds me, helpfully.
He continues, clearly warming to his theme, “Frankly, I don’t see the engagement or the on-ice results to justify any budget increase right now, Morgan. A few wins is nice, but maybe if you were a little more… friendly… we could come to some sort of arrangement…”
His hand comes up to pat her arm, and his thumb makes a slow, deliberate stroke along her bare forearm, skin-to-skin, the kind of touch that’s designed to remind her who has the power here. At the sight, my hands curl into fists, knuckles cracking like ice under pressure.
But Morgan’s face doesn’t change.
Not a flicker.
But there are still signs. Subtle ones. She’s become so good at being marble that even I, who’ve been watching her like she’s game tape I need to memorize, almost miss the way her breathing goes shallow or the way her fingers curl just slightly against her thigh.
She’s trapped. By his position, by his power, and by the whole fucked-up system that says she has to stand there and take it because making a scene would be “unprofessional” and “difficult” and all the other coded bullshit they use to keep women in line.
