Page 62 of The Longest Shot
The silence stretches between us, sticky and uncomfortable. Erik Schmidt has known me for a couple of years. He’s seen me at my absolute worst—so drunk and crying after a heartbreaking loss that I puked on his shoes (twice)—but I'd bet he’s never, not once, seen me this serious about something.
“This about the girl?” he says, the question careful and clinical.
“It’s about doing the right thing.”
“Since when do you—” He stops himself. “Galloway or Pearson know?”
“What do you think?”
Another silence, but this one’s different… more thoughtful… and then he nods.
I watch as Schmidt walks over to the composite stick rack and pulls down a brand-new Bauer Vapor—top-of-the-line, the kind with the holographic logo that catches light—and adds it to the bag with the care of someone handling explosives.
His voice is flat, practical. “The serial numbers are tracked, so don't give them any of the PBU-purchased sticks," he says. "But they can have that one. It's a birthday present from my parents, so if anyone asks, I gave it to you for your cousin or something.”
“Thanks, Schmidty.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Good job.”
The gesture—both the stick and the praise—hits me harder than expected. Schmidt doesn’t do gestures. He does logistics and systems and brutal honesty, so this quiet act of sharedrebellion means more than any drunk bonding session ever could.
I don't ruin it by telling him that I—we, the team—are getting something back.
Besides, he’s already heading for the door. It's clear he's not going to say anything to anyone, but he doesn't want to be all in with my grand theft hockey spree. The door clicks shut with finality, and I’m alone again with my phone and my stolen goods and the memory of Morgan's face.
When she's looked at me like she was seeing something new.
Like maybe I wasn’t just a disappointment waiting to happen.
I zip the bag and then test its weight, satisfied it's light enough for her to carry without looking suspicious. My thumb hovers over my phone screen, and I have to retype the message three times because finding the right balance between casual and friendly and collegiate is tough.
In the end, I settle on brutal efficiency:
Service exit. Ten minutes.
I head down to the service exit behind the Devil's Cauldron, where the hockey programs hide all the ugly necessities—the ice resurfacing equipment, industrial compressors, and the dumpsters where broken sticks and blood-stained jerseys go to die.
It’s perfect for a clandestine exchange between two people who can’t figure out what they are to each other.
The November air has teeth tonight, biting through my hoodie hard enough to make my ribs ache. I could’ve grabbed my team jacket—the nice one with the fleece lining and our championship year embroidered on the back in gold thread—but that felt wrong somehow.
Like bragging in front of a girl who has to beg, scrape, and steal hockey tape.
The bag sits on my shoulder like a guilty conscience. Not the theft—that barely registers on my moral radar, which admittedly isn’t calibrated for much beyond don’t get caught and don’t be a complete asshole—but the quiet simplicity of it that feels foreign.
No grand gesture.
No public display.
No audience to measure my worth by their applause.
Just me, in the dark, trying to be the kind of person who doesn’t need a standing ovation to know they did something right. Novel concept, really. My therapist would be so proud, if I had one, which I probably should. Add it to the list of adult things I keep meaning to do, right after learning to cook something.
I wait a while, and right on time, a figure emerges from the steam.
Morgan.
Even in a simple gray hoodie and black tights that do nothing to hide her figure, she moves with that same coiled energy as always. Her hood is up, casting her face in shadows, but I can see her eyes darting around the alley, cataloguing exits and threats.
