Page 84 of The Longest Shot
Her hands grip the tablecloth hard enough to tear.
But her eyes.
Fuck, her eyes.
They show the exact moment she decides that I haven’t elevated her, but instead I’ve violated her. And as she looks at me, I can tell she thinks I’ve taken her most private moment and turned her into exactly what she’s fought against becoming: a sob story.
Her eyes aren’t cold. They’re nuclear.
But underneath the rage is something worse.
Betrayal.
The montage ends, but I stand there, watching Morgan, because nothing else exists. She doesn't create drama or make a scene. Instead, she simply places her napkin down with surgical precision and rises with a grace that breaks what’s left of my chest. Mills reaches for her, but Morgan shakes her head once.
She doesn’t look at me.
She doesn’t acknowledge my existence.
Instead, she turns, spine military-straight, shoulders squared against the weight of three hundred stares, and walks toward the exit. Her heels click on marble as she exits with the dignity that makes my grand gesture look exactly like what it is: a child’s tantrum in borrowed clothes.
It's exactly like what happened when I sprayed her with the ice.
The last time I tried to make a grand gesture to fix things.
And this time?
Three hundred people watch her leave in absolute silence.
There's not a single sound as Morgan Riley walks out of the ballroom, out of the gala, and out of my life. The door closes with a click that echoes like a gunshot, and I’m still at the podium, broken but vertical, not quite sure what to do now that everything is lost.
My grades.
Hockey.
The girl I want.
The crowd murmurs, but it’s just white noise. The spotlight burns, making sweat pour down my back. I've never been more alone. Not during my parents’ wars. Not after my teammates graduated. Not on the ice, staring up at that championship banner, feeling like an imposter.
Not even after she left me in that library.
Because, at least then, there'd been hope.
This is different. This is knowing with perfect clarity that you’re the bad guy. That every good intention was false. That she needed protection from you most of all, and instead you caused more harm and, in the process made the biggest mistake in your whole life.
I fucked up the serious situation and made a mess.
Like every goddamn time.
thirty-one
ROOK
Schmidt’s carreeks of pine air freshener and barely contained rage.
Sitting in the passenger seat, I keep pulling at the seatbelt, trying to find a position where it doesn’t feel like it’s slowly strangling me, but there’s no escape. Schmidt’s grinding his teeth so hard I’m waiting for one to crack. In the rear-view mirror, Leo Cooper is just staring out the window.
But I don't care about them.
