Page 79 of The Longest Shot
Are you OK?
No, James. I’m leaking while my vagina campaigns for round two.
I’m the antithesis of OK.
It lights up again:
Morgan, please. Just tell me you got home safe.
Thepleasealmost works.
Almost resurrects the girl who believed in happily-ever-after.
One last time:
I know I fucked up before, but… I just don't understand, okay?
I shut the water off hard enough to rattle pipes. Then, once I'm out of the shower and dry (though still shivering from the cold blast), I delete the notifications and block his number withthe efficiency of someone who’s practiced this mental drill for three years.
Our entire text history.
Gone.
If only the real thing was as easy.
On autopilot, I dress in my pajamas, desperately needing to sleep before a punishing day of practice tomorrow. But my apartment feels contaminated and chaotic, like his molecules have somehow infiltrated my hermetically-sealed environment, and I know sleep will be elusive.
The kitchen gleams under surgical lighting, every surface already sterile from this morning’s routine. But that doesn't matter right now. I attack the already spotless counters, pouring chemicals onto granite that could already host open-heart surgery.
The fumes make my eyes water.
Definitely the fumes.
By the time I’m on my knees attacking immaculate grout with a toothbrush, I catch my reflection in the oven door. Here’s Morgan Riley: captain of a D1 hockey program, currently scrubbing imaginary contamination at 2:00 a.m. because she let James Fitzgerald past her lines and he scored.
The bruise on my neck is clear as day, reminding me that tomorrow requires a turtleneck. My players will know anyway—hockey players can smell sex like sharks smell blood—but they won’t dare comment. They recognize the facial expression that saysmention this and I’ll make you regret it.
Because that’s my brand.
I sit back on my heels, surrounded by enough toxic fumes to strip paint. My hands are raw and my knees bruised from the tile, a matched set with the bruises he left on my thighs. The apartment smells like a crime scene, which tracks, becauseI murdered three years of control, and now I’m just the cleanup crew.
After more cleaning and a few hours of sleep, the walk to the rink the next morning presents a tactical challenge. I’ve mapped out three different routes, considering the probability of encountering James based on his schedule, his usual paths, and the places where our worlds might intersect.
Route A takes me through the main quad—thirty percent chance of contact. Unacceptable. Route B passes the library—absolutely not, that entire building is now enemy territory. Route C, through the eastern academic quad behind the science buildings, adds seven minutes but reduces probability to five percent.
Perfect.
It's the only thing that's perfect about this whole mess.
As I walk, hands balled into fists and giving off my bestdo-not-talk-to-me-under-any-circumstancesvibe, the November air stings my face. Each breath comes out of me in small puffs that dissipate into nothing—there and gone, like they never existed, like last night should never have existed.
The entire time, my peripheral vision stays on high-alert while I maintain a brisk, purposeful pace. Every tall figure makes my pulse spike, every head of dark hair triggers muscle memory I haven’t deprogrammed yet, and every group of guys raises my threat alarm because he might be the ringleader among them.
A group of guys emerges from the physics building. My body locks, ready to execute evasive maneuvers, but their laughter rings too high to be his. Still, I take a sharp left, adding anotherdetour. And as I walk, I try to convince myself that this isn’t avoidance, that it’s strategic excision, cutting James out like a growth.
Finally, after taking much longer than usual, I reach the women's locker room.
Or, I should say, thesharedlocker room.
