Page 47 of The Longest Shot
The puzzle pieces of James Fitzgerald suddenly all click into place.
"It became my default setting," he continues. "Whenever things got quiet or got real, my brain would scream 'Danger!' and the only fix I knew was chaos. Because I figured out it was better to be a clown than wait for the inevitable explosion. But at some point along the way, it went beyond my parents, and just becameme…"
As he pauses, I realize I'm holding my breath, and I nod for him to keep going.
"That night at the summer camp…" His voice cracks slightly. "You asked what came next, and it was the most terrifyingquestion anyone had ever asked me. Because the silences and heavy moments with you didn't feel like danger, and in that moment you were looking at me like I was worth something—like we were worth something—and I wanted to say yes to everything. But my brain… yeah…"
My throat feels tight. The memory of that night, which I've replayed through the lens of hurt, suddenly shifts, showing me a different angle. It shows me a boy—still a young boy—overwhelmed by the moment and resorting to his default programming. Not an excuse, or excusable, but logical.
"I watched myself destroy it," he says simply. "And as your face changed and you shut down, I couldn't stop. It was like being trapped outside my own body, screaming at myself to shut up, to be brave, and to be what you deserved. But I chose the escape route over the emotions and depth and happiness I didn't trust."
The coffee shop noise filters back in—steam hissing, students chattering, someone laughing three tables over—but between us, there's suddenly a bubble of devastating honesty. It takes all my restraint to stop from reaching for his hand or punching him in the face… I'm not sure which…
"When I saw Galloway corner you," he continues, "that was the first time I chose the serious over safe. No jokes… no diversion… just action. And then, in that stairwell, when you looked at me…" He shakes his head. "And the kiss… well… I never imagined it would happen because I finally did something right."
The words sit between us, heavy and real. He's not asking for forgiveness, merely laying out the broken pieces of himself. It's clear he expects nothing of me and doesn't expect the kiss to turn into anything else, but he's extending an olive branch in the hope it might mend things between us… and maybe heal me?
"You want to know something?" I hear myself say. "You weren't the only one working from a bad script."
His head snaps up.
"Junior year of high school. My best friend, Caitlin. We were inseparable, co-captains, planning our whole future together," I say. "She systematically destroyed my reputation to steal my captaincy, using every secret I'd told her as ammunition."
His eyes widen. "Jesus, Morgan."
"She was jealous of the attention I was getting from college recruiters, so she eliminated the threat." I force myself to meet his eyes. "I should have had the golden ticket to any college I wanted, but instead I spent senior year as a pariah, and I had to work my way up from Division 3."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "You learned that trust was a luxury you couldn't afford."
I nod. "Then I met you at that summer camp. For two weeks, you made me feel normal. Like maybe Caitlin was the exception, not the rule." My voice catches. "And then you turned it all into a punchline, and proved that letting people in was the stupidest thing I could do."
He looks physically ill. "I had no idea."
"How could you? I was eighteen and trying so hard to seem OK." I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Turns out we were both dragging matching wounds around, and that we're a perfectly damaged pair who happen to be good at hockey."
"So what now?" Rook asks, and for once, he looks completely lost.
"Our teams need us working together."
"I know." His voice is rougher now.
"And Galloway's gunning for you now." I shrug. "Welcome to the club."
He pauses. "Worth it though."
The simple statement sends heat pooling low in my belly. I shift in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of him across this tiny table. His eyes track the movement, and I catch myself wondering what those hands would feel like sliding up my thighs, spreading them wide.
What that smart mouth could do if he put it to better use than jokes. The ache between my legs intensifies, and I press my knees together hard, but my underwear is already damp. Christ, I need to get out of here before I do something monumentally stupid like climb into his lap.
"The scheduling," I blurt out, returning to safer ground even though it feels like quicksand. "We split ice time and manage the locker room more efficiently."
He smirks. "You mean time it so we're not running into each other when we're half dressed?"
"Exactly." I pull out my phone like it's armor. "I'll ask Mills to coordinate with Schmidt."
"That works." He's quiet for a moment. "What about… us… outside of hockey team stuff?"
"There is no us outside of hockey team stuff…"
