Page 81 of The Longest Shot
The truth sits heavy on my tongue—that I made a devil’s bargain with James, traded for contraband equipment, compromised everything for rolls of tape and the pathetic fantasy that someone had my back, and succumbed to temptation that I couldnotgive in to.
“Morgan.” Bri moves closer, her face creased with concern that hasn’t been beaten out of her yet. “If he’s got something on you, we tackle it together.”
“Nothing.” My voice sounds mechanical. “He’s just… undermining female sports because that's his default setting."
Her eyes narrow—it's clear she can smell the bullshit—but she doesn’t push. Maybe she recognizes the expression I’m wearing or that Galloway's power play is a targeted strike aimed directly at both hockey programs, not a general campaign because he's a prick.
“We’ll figure it out,” she offers, though even her idealism can’t quite sell it. “We always?—”
“I always do.” The correction slips out before I can stop it. “This is my fight, Bri, and I don't want you ruining your career over it.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I turn my back and walk to my locker, movements automatic. Because, suddenly, I've got an outlet for all my frustration, a cure to the disease, and a way to atone for all my mistakes. Just like three years ago, when I'd turned heartbreak into a focus that got me to D1 hockey.
I'm focused.
Or so I need to tell myself.
Because if I'mnotfocused, I might think about the way I’d kissed him, like I was drowning and he was oxygen. The way I’d pulled him closer instead of maintaining a safe distance. The way I’d let him breach every defense I’d spent three years fortifying.
And that twenty minutes of chaos—of pleasure—is non-refundable.
And maybe the most expensive mistake I've ever made.
thirty
ROOK
Whose bright idea was this?
I'm standing off to the side of the stage at the Pine Barren University annual athletic fundraiser, having volunteered to give the captains' keynote, the slot that's filled by one of the school's athletic captains. It's a tradition dating back generations, and the hockey captains before me have often been asked to speak.
But the fact I went over Galloway's head to ask to speak makes this an evenworseidea.
And now, as the university president drones on about the importance of the athletic program to the university's culture and future, my hands won’t stop shaking. To worsen it, my rental tux is actively trying to murder me, the bow tie constricting with each swallow like it knows what’s coming and wants out.
Solid game plan, Fitzgerald.
Give the speech of your life, win the girl, and save your career.
Easy, right?
For three weeks, Morgan has been a black hole where a person used to exist, at least as far as I factor in. My phone is proof of that—twenty-seven unread texts, and a few desperatecalls that went unanswered. And, by now, I've opened the message thread enough times to have memorized it.
Morgan, please. Just give me five minutes.
I know I fucked up. Let me explain.
The library meant something. You know it did.
Each message is more pathetic than the last, bouncing off her walls like weak wrist shots. In the hallways, she looks through me. When we’re forced to interact, she calls me ‘Captain Fitzgerald’ in an icy tone. It's like the fortress she had in place isn't just rebuilt, but she's actually made it even more formidable.
But through it all, I've become even more certain that I want Morgan.
So I'm left with one play.
It’s the James Fitzgerald default.
When quiet arrives, go loud.
