Page 88 of The Longest Shot
“He's not.” She forces me to slow at the next intersection, her hand shooting out to grab my elbow when I try to blow through the red light. Her fingers are surprisingly warm against my ice-cold skin, and I realize I can’t feel my fingertips. “He'snot, Morgan…"
I scoff and shake my head. "Bullshit."
“Process the information, Morgan,” Mills says, and then she’s peeling off.
Her footsteps fade down the path toward the east campus dorms, leaving me alone with logic that’s dismantling my entiredefensive system. But I don'twantto process everything she's trying to tell me, so I just push myself harder, running fast enough that cognitive processing becomes impossible.
The familiar landmarks of campus blur past—the science building where I hid from him and spied on his friendships, the library where everything went sideways, the rink where I’ve built my entire identity around being untouchable, invulnerable, andsafe.
But I can’t outrun the truth, and each footfall brings another memory.
The way his hands shook—actuallyshook—when he showed me his final paper, like my approval mattered more than the grade itself, even though the grade determines his hockey future. The way he looked at me in that library study room, right before he kissed me and fucked me like a lover.
No.I push harder.Those were manipulation.
Except… except effective manipulation requires strategic planning. Calculation and consistent execution. And James Fitzgerald, for all his other flaws, hasneverdemonstrated strategic thinking. He’s chaos in human form, a wrecking ball without a demolition plan.
Every stupid joke, every deflection, every moment of unbearable noise…
The realization hits with the force of a hip check at full speed.
They’re not weapons. They’re armor.
My legs give out without warning. One moment I’m running, the next I’m stumbling, barely catching myself before I face-plant on the asphalt. My quadriceps are seizing, hamstrings locked in full cramp. I make it to the stone bench at the overlook near the astronomy building through sheer will.
As I collapse onto the bench gracelessly, the stone is ice against my overheated skin, shocking enough to make me gasp.My heart rate is still redlining—probably 190-plus—and I can feel my pulse in my temples, my throat, and my fingertips.
My heart.
The horizon is bleeding pink now, that moment before dawn when the world recalibrates. I’m completely depleted—no energy reserves, no defensive structures, no carefully maintained firewalls—with nothing but raw nerve endings and a cardiovascular system pushed too far.
My hands are shaking violently as I try to check my pulse, and I give up when I can’t count fast enough. My sports bra is soaked through, the wet fabric like ice against my ribs. And in that depletion, the truth assembles itself with the ruthless efficiency of a system diagnostic I can’t abort.
Initial hypothesis: Trust is a strategic error. James Fitzgerald will always choose the performance over authentic connection.
Evidence supporting: the summer camp betrayal and a documented pattern of deflection.
Defensive action taken: complete emotional withdrawal post-library incident to prevent inevitable betrayal.
Result: The subject performed exactly as predicted last night. Public humiliation achieved. Hypothesis confirmed.
Except.
Except.
New data requiring integration: the look on his face when he realized he'd hurt me.
Supporting evidence: The genuine, visceral recognition of someone watching their best intentions detonate. And the past he revealed about his family.
My chest constricts with something that has nothing to do with oxygen debt.
Wait.
No.
No.
Final conclusion: James Fitzgerald doesn’t betray trust. He panics in its presence. He doesn’t break beautiful things for entertainment, he breaks them accidentally while attempting to do the right thing. He doesn't act like the loudest guy in the room to get attention, he does it to deflect from anything serious.
