Page 61 of The Longest Shot
But neither of us moves. We sit there, our knees touching, him talking, me translating his beautiful chaos into structure while trying not to think about how easy this feels. How his voice has settled into something hypnotic as he explains defensive coverage like poetry.
You’re so fucked, Morgan.
“OK.” I force steadiness into my voice as he connects defensive zones to social contract theory. “Keep going. Tell me about the trust component.”
Wonder colors his voice. “You really want to hear this?”
“I really do.”
It’s not a lie. I want to hear everything. I want to catalog every gesture and expression, and I want things I have no business wanting from the boy who walked away three years ago. And judging by the way he’s looking at me—soft and intense and hungry all at once—he knows it.
We’re both absolutely fucked.
And for the first time in three years, I’m not sure if I mind.
twenty-three
ROOK
Tonight,I’m a thief in my own kingdom.
My phone glows like a beacon of guilt in the dark of the men's hockey equipment storage area, a cavernous room filled with everything from replacement 'captain' sew-on patches to a couple of Zambonis and everything in between.
Everything my team has and Morgan's team needs.
Her text message is on the screen, a list of exactly what her squad needs to get through the next few games. We've already completed an order for some new uniforms and other gear that needs to be manufactured and delivered, but this supply run is simply for the basics of existing as a hockey team.
The list isn’t just detailed, it’s forensically precise. Not just tape, but specific brands and widths. She’s itemized everything down to the gram weight of stick wax, complete with acceptable alternatives ranked by preference. Christ, I bet she has a spreadsheet to organize her spreadsheets.
Either she's always like this, or she thinks I'm too dumb to figure it out.
Probably the former, given how the last few days have gone.
Warmth spreads through my chest, slow and inevitable, as the memory of the last few study sessions at the library floodsback. Not just the fact that she helped me, but how she made me feel… not stupid… for the first time in my whole time at college.
She didn’t laugh when I got excited and started sketching hockey plays in the margins to explain Rousseau’s state of nature. And, for the first time since freshman year, sitting in a library didn’t feel like wearing a costume three sizes too small.
“You’re not stupid, Rook,” she’d whispered, almost like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “You just think sideways.”
So now I'm determined to get it right and get her what she needs, so I'm treating the last few items on her list like the difference between life and death. Ah, there it is, athletic tape, 1.5 inches, white, hypoallergenic adhesive… the good stuff that doesn’t leave residue or tear skin when you rip it off.
Check.
The task, although probably illegal or immoral at best, is weirdly soothing. No performance required. No audience to entertain. Just me, alone with the squeak of my sneakers on the polished floor, quietly stealing from my own team to save hers.
“What the fuck?”
The sound almost makes me drop the case of tape, my heart attempting to exit through my throat. Erik Schmidt stands in the doorway, staring at me like I’ve started speaking in tongues. His expression shifts from confusion to suspicion to something that might be genuine concern if Schmidt actually did emotions.
“Are you having a stroke?” He steps closer. “Why are you in the supply closet at midnight?”
Any other time, I’d lean into it and make a joke about developing a tape fetish or spin some elaborate bullshit about Coach wanting everything catalogued by moon phase. But the manic energy that usually fuels my deflections has evaporated, replaced by something heavier.
“Riley’s team is getting squeezed by Galloway," I say, the words coming out low and serious, with no punchline and only truth hanging in the air between us.
Schmidt’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “And?”
I shrug. “So they need stuff, and we have stuff. Too much stuff, if I'm being honest, so I’m fixing it.”
