Page 99 of The Longest Shot
Be yourself, but like… the non-shit version that doesn’t set things on fire…
She drops onto the grass beside me, not too close, but not as far as she could have chosen. It's close enough that I can smell her shampoo and close enough that, if I shifted slightly, our knees would touch. The space between us hums with potential energy.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice light but not loud, not performing, just… talking. “Turns out daytime television is a whole world I never knew existed.”
Her lips curve upward in the hint of a smile. “That’s what happens when you get suspended. You discover the dark underbelly of cable programming.”
“I watched three hours of a show about people who are emotionally attached to their cars yesterday. Like,romanticallyattached.” I pick at the grass, needing something to do with my hands before they develop independent ideas. “There was this guy who was convinced his Mustang was flirting with him.”
She actually laughs—quiet but genuine—and the sound hits me like pure dopamine. And it's not a bitter or guarded laugh, but this easy sound that makes her nose scrunch up just a little.The sight is beautiful, and right now, I want to tell her how I’ve been replaying that night in the library in my head.
But I clamp down on the impulse.
No performances. No grand declarations.
Just this.
Wherever it leads.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sun paint the campus in amber and gold. It’s strange, this quiet between us. Not suffocating like my parents’ house, where you can hear the marriage dying one sarcastic remark at a time. Just… quiet.
It feels like summer, a few years ago, on a beach with her.
“I got some news yesterday,” she says eventually, her voice carefully neutral in a way that means it's anything but. “From Coach Walsh.”
I turn to look at her, and something in her expression makes my chest tighten. Weariness, like she’s been carrying something heavy for too long. She's clearly waiting for me to blurt out something, a joke or a deflection, or to reveal I already know what she's about to tell me. But, for once in my life, I keep my mouth shut.
“Galloway’s initiated a formal program review for the women’s team and its viability into next year.” She picks up a blade of grass, twisting it between her fingers. “Framed as a budgetary necessity, of course, all very legitimate and designed to kill us slowly while looking reasonable on paper.”
The words hang between us. I can see what she’s not saying in the tight line of her jaw. It’s a death sentence delivered in bureaucratic language. Because, while Morgan might be graduating in six months and have a league future, a lot of her teammates joined Pine Barren on the promise of a quality program in the future.
Not one that's here for a year and then gone.
My immediate instinct screams at me to jump in and fix it. The words pile up in my throat, desperate to burst out in a tsunami of badly planned heroics. Every fiber of my being wants to leap up, to pace, to outline a seventeen-point plan for saving her team.
But I look at her face—tired, determined, not asking for a savior—and I force myself to swallow every word. Because she's not asking for a hero, she's looking for a partner, and after our truce at the bar it's clear that—deliberate or not—this is a test. And it feels like if I fail this test, I won't get a re-sit.
“That’s complete bullshit,” I say quietly, my voice rough from restraint. “I’m sorry, Morgan.”
She looks at me, surprise flickering across her features like she expected me to already be halfway to Galloway’s office with a pitchfork. And, in that moment, there's a softness to her face that makes me want to be a partner to her through every up and down that life brings.
Because…
Holy fuck,my mind screams at me.You're in love with Morgan Riley.
“Whatever you decide to do about it,” I continue, holding her gaze even though it feels like staring directly at the sun, “I’m with you. Not in front of you, not trying to fix it for you. Just… with you. Like a partner… or a really competent sidekick… and I'm sure they're going to study this sort of elocution in classes…”
The surprise in her eyes deepens into something that makes my heart throw itself against my ribs. She studies my face like she’s looking for the catch, the performance, the moment when I’ll start making grand pronouncements while probably breaking something.
When I don’t, something in her shoulders releases. “Thanks,” she says softly, and it’s only one word, but it feels like absolution.
I take a breath, and because she trusted me with her crisis without me turning it into the James Fitzgerald Chaos Hour, I offer mine. “I’ve got my final tomorrow.”
She shifts to face me more fully, angling her body toward mine with deliberate intention. Her knee brushes against mine, a casual touch that could be accidental, except she doesn't pull away. The contact stays warm through denim, staking out new territory in our tentative peace.
It's such a small thing, this maintained connection, but from Morgan it feels monumental. She's not retreating, not armoring up. She's choosing to stay close, claiming her ground in whatever fragile alliance we're building here. And, as much as me keeping quiet is big, that fact feels even bigger.
"I aced the paper," I swallow and go on. “But if I don’t get at least a B on the final, my GPA drops below Galloway’s new threshold…"
