Page 68 of The Longest Shot
But part of me also wonders if they've noticed the change in me.
It's undeniable even to me at this point. Because, for the couple of weeks I've been 'allied' with James—him getting me gear and me getting him a decent grade—I've felt myself beginning to lighten up just a little. In fact, instead of my walls going back up, it's like they've been replaced by a nice little garden and sunshine.
I felt it in small, deniable ways at first. A little smile or a wry shake of my head at a joke. But the others are clearly noticing as well. I—we—are still professional as hell on the ice, but there has also been a fractional easing of the tension around the team, like I had everyone on edge and afraid to screw up.
And our play has become even better because of it.
We're a team with an edge, uncompromising on the basics, with more flair.
Sometimes you just need to turn your brain off and be an idiot for an hour.
James's voice echoes unbidden, a memory from our last study session, when I’d been wound so tight about his paper that he’d physically taken the red pen from my hand, his fingers brushing mine just long enough to make my brain forget what a thesis statement was.
But even as I lighten up a little, I can't swimtotallyto the deep end. So, instead, I look for the logic and the way to emotionally hold onto the side of the pool. And it's clear: team cohesion requires shared experiences, and controlled vulnerability can strengthen unit bonds, so going out is a reasonable option.
“Fine.” The word tastes like surrender mixed with battery acid. “I'll come out for an hour, because not doing so would be bad for team morale.”
Mills whoops, the sound bouncing off concrete walls. “The Down Low, an hour from now, and don’t you dare bail on us, Captain.”
They scatter before I can change my mind, leaving me alone with my whiteboard and the terrifying realization that I just agreed to enter a social situation voluntarily without an exit strategy.
The Down Low assaults every sense the moment I walk through the door.
The bass rattles my bones, the air is thick enough to chew, and as I walk through the place looking for my team, there's so muchtouching. Someone’s elbow clips me, a girl’s hair whipsacross my face, and when two frat bros won't get out of my way, I have to restrain myself from hitting one.
I find my team at several high-tops near the bar, already a few drinks deep judging by their volume and Sarah’s flushed cheeks. Rachel is demonstrating some kind of defensive maneuver that looks more like interpretive dance, and when Mills catches my eye, she raises her beer in triumph.
They look… happy.
Young.
Like actual college students instead of the warriors I’ve been forging.
After a trip to the bar, my club soda sweats in my grip. I run threat assessments on every backwards-hat-wearing bro in the vicinity: a table of football players, drunk enough to think they’re charming; a cluster doing shots, eyes scanning for targets; and one lone guy who’s been staring at Mills’s ass for thirty seconds?—
Then a familiar laugh cuts through the noise, and my body goes on high-alert.
James.
He’s at a corner table with Schmidt and Cooper, head thrown back in laughter. Here, in his natural habitat, he’s magnificent. The cramped bar that makes me feel like I’m drowning seems to energize him. He transforms chaos into something magnetic, drawing people into his orbit without trying.
His head turns, and our eyes lock across the crowded room.
The smile doesn’t leave his face, but it changes, softening into something private, something that exists only between us. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second—long enough for me to know he’s thinking about the stairwell, about the desperate press of my body against his…
… and about that night on the beach.
I’m thinking about it too. About his hands on my waist, fingers splayed possessively. About the sound he made when I bit his lip… half gasp, half groan, all want. About how badly I wanted to let him lift me against that wall and fuck me right there where anyone could have caught us.
A month ago, this moment would have sent me running. But tonight, I give him the tiniest nod. His smile widens, and it's slow and cute and charming and devastating, because now I know this man is capable of depthandkindness. He raises his beer slightly to toast me, then turns back to his friends.
“Captain!” Mills materializes at my elbow, face flushed with victory and Bud Light. “Stop being a wallflower and dance with us!”
“I don’t dance.”
“Bullshit. Everything is dancing. Hockey is dancing. Fighting is dancing. This is just dancing to shitty music.”
Before I can list the tactical differences—no protective equipment, no clear objectives, the disturbing amount of grinding—she grabs my hand and pulls. I could resist her, planting my feet and maintaining my position where it’s safe and controlled, but then I glance over and see James watching with that smile.
