Page 67 of The Longest Shot
The subject change is so classically Morgan that I laugh out loud, then reply:
I'll bring coffee. The good stuff from that place you pretend you don't like.
She fires back:
It's overpriced and pretentious.
I smirk, then reply:
You literally moaned when you tasted their cinnamon latte last week.
A long pause. Then:
I didn't moan…
I hesitate, then decide to go for broke:
I know your moans…
And there it is, my attempt to cross that line to direct flirtation that we've both hesitated to do for weeks now. The dots appear and disappear three times. I watch the shadows in the nosebleeds shift—she's definitely squirming up there—and then raise my hand in a small wave.
But it's clear no reply is coming, so I send one last message:
Enjoy the rest of your day thinking about me…
Even from this distance, I swear I can feel her eyes roll.
I grin, pocket my phone, and stand up from the bench. And, as I head towards the locker room, I glance up at the championship banner above me and feel worthy of it for the first time, not like a total imposter. Because for the first time in my life, I led.
I took the hard path, not the easy one.
I taught without deflecting and held my team to a standard that was about excellence, not entertainment. It felt like being the captain I'm supposed to be, the one who might be worthy of the woman who sees through all his noise to the man desperately trying to emerge from underneath.
And the thought of it—of her—makes my smile go wider.
twenty-five
MORGAN
I’m staringat my whiteboard—yes, whiteboard, because we can't afford iPads and the men's program doesn't have any surplus—like it has the meaning of life. But instead, I'd be happy to find the meaning of the breakdown in our defensive zone from tonight's game, which cost us a goal and almost cost us the win.
We're not flashy and high-scoring. We're disciplined and tough, and that means one goal can sink us. Luckily, tonight we scraped home, thanks to a nice little piece of work by our second line, but I'm still feeling annoyed that it came down to that at all. I made a mistake, so we made a mistake.
But before I can figure it out, or at least keep punishing myself, Mills steps in front of the whiteboard. Which is ironic, given Mills is the one who missed the defensive assignment and let in the goal. But now her arms are crossed, while nearby, Sarah and Jen are grinning like conspirators who just pulled off a heist.
“We’re going out, Captain.” Mills’s voice carries that same fuck-you-I’m-not-moving energy she brings to zone defense. “And you’re coming.”
“No.” My reply comes out flat and automatic, because going out means a bar, and a bar means grabby-handed idiots. "Have fun though."
Mills doesn’t budge. If anything, she lowers her center of gravity, as if I might actually shove her aside. “When was the last time you did something fun?”
“I find film review and analysis of defensive breakdowns satisfying," I say. "And there's some leftover Chinese in my fridge with my name on it. Quite literally."
Sarah actually snorts. “We just won. We executed every drill you hammered into us, and now we want to celebrate with you.”
The hope in their eyes hits harder than any bodycheck, because normally they're more than happy with the captain,me, and team,themdynamic. They joke around among themselves, then stiffen up when I'm around, whether out of respect or fear.
This is the first time they've sought to include me.
