Page 83 of The Longest Shot
OK, I can work with this. So far, so good.
“I know what you’re thinking: why is the goalie up here?” I pause when there's more laughter, and I grin when someone actually snorts. “Well, just your luck that, while our last four captains are cashing NHL checks, you’re stuck with the guy gunning for a D in sociology….”
There are more laughs, and even the walking jewelry displays crack smiles.
Holy shit. I’ve got them.
“But here’s the thing.” My voice drops, gets serious. “Being a Devil isn’t just about reaching the NHL and hanging banners, although seven championships looks pretty good.” I pause,because these people get hard for winning. “Being a Devil is about the stuff that nobody sees."
I pause, let a few nods wash around the crowd, then go on. "It's the 5:00 a.m. practices when your body’s already spent or the moment you’re down three with two minutes left, and you find something extra. Because you’re not playing for yourself. You’re playing for each other and for this school.”
The room’s gone church-quiet now.
I risk a glance at Morgan. Still frozen, but something’s shifted.
She's looking less like a brick wall, and she's… listening?
“And that’s why I’m up here,” I push on, momentum building. “Because there’s another group of Devils who embody everything I just said, but who’ve been treated second-class and who’ve had to fight for every piece of tape, every minute of ice, every ounce of respect.”
Everyone’s locked in now.
“I’m talking about our women’s hockey team.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd, and Galloway’s face is going from smug to stroke-risk purple. Perfect. He tried to get me pulled from the speakers' list, but the university president insisted, and not even he can fuck with me when the big man upstairs insists on something.
“Those women are warriors.” The conviction in my voice is as strong as steel. “They practice at hours that shouldn’t legally exist. They buy their own gear. They drive themselves to games, burning gas money they don’t have, living on Red Bull and gas station hot dogs.”
I lock eyes with Morgan, but I can't read her expression.
“Tonight, I want to show you what I see, and why these women deserve more than table scraps and why they’re already champions.” I signal the tech guy in the booth, and the lights dimand screens ignite. "Meet the real Devils, the ones fighting in the shadows while the guys party in the spotlight.”
Music starts and the first images appear: the women’s team in beautiful, violent motion, with bodies colliding with controlled fury and the gorgeous chaos of hockey at its purest. The footage is crisp, every frame a work of art, and suddenly the cost of bribing the visual-arts student to make it seems cheap.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
The crowd leans in. Phones disappear. They’re hooked.
The montage continues. Practice at dawn, breath visible in the frozen rink. The timestamp—5:07 a.m.—sells it. These aren’t just athletes; they’re soldiers. Then there's weight room footage of pure determination, and the team huddled before a game.
The music shifts to something emotional, and the images become more intimate. There's one of a player grinning through blood, another taping definitely broken fingers and then skating anyway, and another of Mills on the bench, gasping, then forcing herself up because her line needs her.
This is where Morgan sees that I get it, that I?—
The image changes.
My heart doesn’t stop. It explodes.
It’s Morgan. Alone.
She’s crying.
Not movie crying. Raw, ugly, broken crying. The kind that comes from so deep it leaves scars. Her face is unrecognizable with grief. Shoulders shaking with each sob. One hand pressed against her mouth, trying to contain sounds that escape anyway. The other fisted so tight there’s blood on her palm.
The music swells, turning her private agony into entertainment. The image holds for five seconds. Five seconds of Morgan Riley, the Morgue, shattered and served up for consumption. And I want it to be the emotional kill shot thattells Morgan I get it and to get these bastards to open their wallets.
As the montage continues, I look at her, my stupid face still wearing triumph, waiting for gratitude. But instead, I watch her die in real time. First, there's that little crease between her eyebrows, like she's processing. Then her lips part, and the color drains from her face.
She goes corpse-pale, every muscle locking.
