Page 104 of The Longest Shot
He meets my eyes then, steady and clear and absolutely nothing like the scattered boy who turned that gala into a disaster movie. And, yet again, he's letting the two of us exist in the silence, comfortable in the moment. He's not filling the silence with gags, and I'm not running from the seriousness of it all.
I don't think about it. I just move.
I collide with his chest, my arms wrapping around his torso before my brain catches up with my body. He freezes for half a heartbeat, probably because me initiating physical contact with anyone is about as likely as Galloway developing a conscience.
Then his arms come around me, solid and warm andthere, and something inside me that's been clenched tight for three years just… releases. I press my face into his shoulder, and for once I don't analyze why I'm doing this or what it means or how vulnerable it makes me.
I just let myself be held and feelusstarting to take root in soil I thought was too damaged for anything to grow. Because he’s right. We are learning. Learning to trust, to lean, to be partners. Instead of him thinking he has to fill every silence and me being convinced I'm better off alone.
Learning that sometimes love isn’t grand gestures or perfect words or spotlights and speeches. That sometimes it’s just showing up and standing still, or letting someone else—or, to be precise, a whole campus full of athletes—stand next to you.
Finally, I look up at him. "We did it," I say.
"Yep." He grins. "Now, I just need to ace my final…"
I frown, surprised. "But Galloway said the?—"
"I want to ace it, Morgan." He rests his head on my chin. "I need to."
Suddenly, I see. He's been so focused on doing the right thing by me, he's suppressed what he wants—and what heneeds—for days now. He'd clearly known there'd be a chance that Galloway would overturn the draconian academic requirements he'd placed on the men's team, but he doesn't want to succeed based on that.
He wants to do this.
He wants to prove he's not the dumb jock.
He wants to prove he's a worthy captain who rises to the challenge.
And I want to help him.
I smile up at him. "When's the final?"
"Tomorrow morning…" He sighs, suddenly sounding defeated.
"Well, we better prepare." I pull away from him, then smirk. "Are you coming?"
thirty-eight
ROOK
The doorto Morgan's apartment clicks shut behind me with the finality of a cell door.
The space is exactly what I expected. It's sterile, organized within an inch of its life, and every surface is gleaming. There's not a single stray sock or empty water bottle to break the militant perfection, and none of the chaos that makes my apartment look like a hurricane’s vacation home.
I hover near the door, arms hanging awkwardly at my sides while my fingers drum a nervous rhythm against my thighs. Every spotless surface seems to judge me, and I’m genuinely terrified that my mere presence is somehow contaminating her perfect ecosystem.
My usual instinct screams at me to fill this suffocating quiet with noise, but my throat has forgotten its primary function. Because Morgan is looking at me—no, not just looking,hunting—while she leans back against the door she just locked.
Christ, when did she learn to smile like that?
The rigid control that usually defines her has melted into something liquid and dangerous. Her slate-gray eyes track me with predatory focus, and I suddenly understand how gazellesfeel when they realize the grass just moved wrong or that one of their buddies didn't show up for lunch…
“You were there for me,” she says. “With Galloway, you stood with me.”
The boardroom flashes through my mind, filled with the coalition I’d spent three days quietly building through text chains and coffee bribes. Then there was the beautiful silence of unified defiance, the way her eyes had gone wide with genuine shock when she realized what I’d orchestrated.
“So now,” she continues, pushing off from the door with fluid grace, “I want to help you.”
She stalks toward me, and my primitive brain starts sending up flares.
