Page 49 of The Longest Shot
But fuck if I'm going to tell anyone else that.
The sound of metal scraping against metal cuts through my spiral. Mills is at her stall, running a whetstone along her skateblade. She looks up as I approach, and her eyes narrow with that particular brand of perception that makes her dangerous.
“OK, what the hell happened to you?" Mills sets down the whetstone, cataloging every one of my micro-expressions like she's collecting evidence for a prosecution. "Did you accidentally smile this morning? Is your face broken? Should I call medical?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, but the words come out flat.
"You look… weird…" Mills says, then squints at me like I'm a puzzle missing half its pieces, or like she's seeing a totally new person for the first time. Which, to be fair, she might be. "Actually, no. You look like you just got laid. Or punched. Or both. Honestly, with you, I can't tell the difference."
"Fascinating analysis," I manage, but my voice catches. Shit.
Mills's jaw actually drops. "Oh my God. Youdidget laid."
"I did not?—"
"You totally did! Holy fuck, Morgan Riley has feelings and working lady parts! Alert the media! Stop the presses! The Ice Queen has melted!"
"Mills—"
"Was it good? Please tell me it was good. You deserve good. After three months of watching you eye-fuck the playbook instead of actual humans?—"
"It wasn't sex," I snap, and immediately regret it because that's basically an admission that it wassomething.
“OK…" Mills goes perfectly still, gesturing at the concrete behind me. "But now you're just staring at the wall behind you…"
I force myself to focus, to summon the cold, analytical persona that has kept me safe for three years. "Your observational skills are truly groundbreaking."
But the words lack the bite I was aiming for. They're hollow, distracted. I sound like I'm reading from cue cards writtenby someone who's only heard of sarcasm secondhand. And, in response, Mills freezes midmotion, a slow smirk spreading across her face.
"Holy shit," she whispers. "You didn't bite back."
"What?"
"You didn't deliver one of your signature, soul-crushing dissertations, or give me a glare that could melt steel. You just gave me store-brand sarcasm, generic and uninspired." Her grin widens. "That's how Iknowsomething is really, truly up. Spill. Now. Or I'm texting the entire team that you have a crush."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me. I've got the group chat open right now." She waves her phone at me, her thumb hovering dramatically over the screen. "Three… two…"
She's right, and that's the worst part. My usual defense mechanisms are malfunctioning because my brain is still processing the way James's whole body changed when he talked about being his family's emotional crutch, his shoulders pulling inward, that manic energy draining away like someone pulled a plug.
Abort mission. Change the subject before she figures out you're having feelings for him.
Before I can scramble for a deflection, Mills clearly sees I'm uncomfortable, and pivots, holding up her skate like evidence in a murder trial. A deep nick runs along the blade's edge, and I know those skates have reached the end of their life and probably aren't even safe to skate on. Yet here she is, sharpening them.
"Look at this shit," she says. "I'm out there skating on butter knives while the men's team gets new steel every time someone sneezes on theirs."
The familiar territory of institutional injustice is solid ground, and I grab onto it like a lifeboat. "It's not fair, but I'll handle it."
"Right." Mills's voice is weighed down by twenty or so pounds of skepticism. "Because that's worked so well before. Remember when we requested practice jerseys and Galloway sent us men's large-size leftovers that looked like dresses on all of us?"
I retreat to Coach Walsh's desk before she can probe further, grateful for the physical distance. The PBU procurement portal loads with glacial slowness on the ancient desktop—probably running on software older than some of our freshmen, another sign that we get only the finest…
Focus. Steel blades. Two sets. Standard replacement request.
The form is simple, and I know it like the back of my hand. Setting up a hockey program from scratch means alotof purchase forms. I type in the item description, quantity, and a justification, each keystroke helping me to reassert control over my chaotic thoughts.
Then I click submit.
