Page 48 of The Longest Shot
"That's not true, and you know it."
I look up. His eyes are warm and full of something dangerous that looks like hope. It's the same look I recognize from that hockey camp in our senior year, when I'd given him everything and hoped he'd be worth it, and now it has me tempted to be tempted again.
"It has to be true," I say, finally, drawing from the last reserves of willpower I have left. "We both have too much at stake."
He nods, but I can see the effort it costs him. "If you're sure…"
The way he says it makes me want to reach across this wobbly table and grab his hand, but I don't. Because I'm a cowardtoo, who hides away in her emotional fortress, every bit as emotionally stunted as him. Because the last time I reached for something beautiful, it burned me, and I'm not sure if I'd survive that again.
"I should go," I say, standing abruptly. "Team meeting."
"On a Saturday?"
"Yeah…"
He knows I'm lying, but doesn't call me on it. "Morgan," he says. "The camp… with you… it meant everything, even if I was too scared to show it. I'm sorry."
I freeze, my hand on my bag. Three years of anger cracks open, revealing something softer underneath—something terrifying—and so I turn to leave, needing to escape before I do something stupid, like forgive him or admit I already have.
But as I glance back at him and see the look on his face, I realize he doesn't deserve the hurt of me walking away without acknowledging what he'd said. So I turn back and reach out for his hand, taking it for just long enough to say two little words.
"I know," I say quietly.
The contact is nothing—just his hand against mine—but it's electric. The memory floods back: his mouth on mine, his body caging me against the wall, full of desire, and how close we'd been to tearing each other's clothes off right there.
And as my nipples tighten and that space between my thighs throbs, I can see he's remembering too. His breathing has changed, and as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, for a horrifying second I think he might kiss me right here in front of half the students on campus.
For an even more horrifying second, I want him to.
But then I yank my hand away. "Team meeting," I say, breathless.
"Sure," he agrees, sounding equally wrecked.
I flee, weaving through tables too fast, nearly taking out guitar-guy's amp. The bell chimes my retreat, and I practically sprint to my car. Once inside, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, even though my hand still tingles and my whole body feels one breath away from combustion.
This might be forgiveness, but it sure as hell isn't resolution.
So, for now?
Separate schedules. Professional distance. A careful détente.
It's the smart play. The safe play. The only play that doesn't end in pieces.
So why does it feel like I'm already breaking?
nineteen
ROOK
The locker roomdoor closes behind me with its usual ear-splitting squeal of metallic protest—because, apparently, the women's team isn't worth investing in some WD-40—but today the sound echoes differently. Like everything else, it feels off-center, like my whole world has been rearranged.
And the culprit just bought me a doughnut at Pine Barren Bagels.
My body has not stopped humming since I left that wobbly table, and it's not just adrenaline, but something deeper and more cellular. It's the ghost of his touch, the way his voice drops an octave when he said my name, the memory of moments with him that could easily have been so many more.
But can now never happen again.
The familiar smell that permeates our locker room usually grounds me, but today even that smells wrong. And I know that, deep down, what's really making me feel off is that I feel vulnerable. My guard is down, and I opened up to him, and now I'm scared.
