Page 66 of The Longest Shot
Like I've earned it.
He skates away before I can respond, which is probably good because my throat has gone tight. And only then do I turn my attention back to the others, players filing off in small groups,their voices a low murmur. I find myself alone, leaning against the goalpost I've defended for four years.
And this time, the silence doesn't feel wrong anymore.
Morgan's influence is all over what just happened—her methodical approach, her patience with mistakes, and her faith in systems over flash. Two months ago, the thought of channeling her would have terrified me. But standing here, feeling the weight of actual leadership settling into my bones, I realize something:
I'm not becoming Morgan.
I'm becoming my version.
Someone who can joke and kid when the time is right.
But who can handle his shit the rest of the time.
The thought of her—probably in the gym right now, making her players run suicides while looking gorgeous and terrifying—sends warmth spreading through my chest. Not the desperate, needy heat of wanting someone who thinks you're barely house-trained, but something deeper.
Partnership.
She doesn't know it yet—and likely never will—but I'm all in on her.
My phone buzzes from the bench. So, with a sigh and glad I can remove the facade of seriousness I don't wear so well, I skate over and park my ass on the timber. Digging through my bag, I pull out my phone, and when I see Morgan's name on the screen, my heart rate spikes.
Good practice today.
I frown down at the message. It makes no sense, because?—
I glance up toward the upper level of the arena, scanning the empty seats. The nosebleeds are shrouded in shadows, but I know exactly where to look. The third section from the left, backrow, partially hidden behind a support beam. It's the same spot I've been secretly watching her team practice from for weeks.
There.
A flash of red hair as she shifts, just visible in the dim emergency lighting.
She's been watching.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard while my brain short-circuits. She saw everything—the way I pulled Kellerman aside, the patient corrections, the complete absence of deflection or comedy—and she watched me channel everything she's been teaching me, whether she knows it or not.
I reply:
Learning from the best. I could have gotten you seats closer, though. I know a guy…
Three dots appear immediately, then her reply comes:
I like the view from up here…
I smirk, then punch out my reply:
Funny, that's exactly what I tell myself when I watch your practices. Or any time I see you, really.
The dots dance longer this time. Stop. Then start again.
It's a visual illustration of the indecision I hope my flirting message has caused, because we've been at it for weeks, little sideways glances and loaded comments. And I can practically see her fighting a smile from up there, that little twitch at the corner of her mouth she tries so hard to suppress.
Because if she's taught me how to learn, teach, and be serious at least some of the time, I think I've managed to teach her thatsmiling at least once per cycle of the moon is critical to keep undertakers from thinking she's dead, and for keeping unsightly wrinkles from infecting her face a decade too early.
Then, finally, the reply:
Thursday. Library. 10:00 p.m. Your paper still needs work.
