Page 15 of The Longest Shot
"Our only argument will be the work." I tap the board hard enough to make it shudder. "Nobody gives us respect, so we take it."
Spines straighten. Jaws set. In a world where each of these girls has been disrespected or disregarded a million times, this is language every athlete in here understands—not words or politics, not waiting for others to change, not fitting into their box, but pushing for results.
"He gave me a name," I say. "He meant it as an insult, because he sees that I'm cold, something that didn't react how he wanted." I pause, ensuring I have every atom of their attention. "From now on, in this room and on the ice, you will use it."
Confusion flickers, then Mills chimes in. "If James Fitzgerald wants the Morgue, we give him—and everyone—the Morgue. Cold. Final. Deadly."
Understanding spreads. One by one, they get it. Not just a nickname, but a new team name, an identity. A weapon forged from an insult. On paper, we might be the Pine Barren Devils, but that'stheirname, not ours. Our name is a cold reality check where ego gets buried under an avalanche of goals.
"The Morgue," Mills says, testing it. "I fucking love it."
"The men's team can keep their parties and pranks," Jennifer adds.
My lips curve into something sharper than a smile. "Running shoes. Now."
They move as one unit. No questions. Gear stripped with efficient violence, shoes laced with purpose. I change too, sliding on compression leggings and a crop top like armor, and as we head out, Bri catches my eye. Her approval is written in her posture, because she knows this run isn't about fitness.
It's about team-building and transformation.
Taking twenty individual hurts and forging them into a single weapon.
We burst outside, and my lungs protest the transition from humid locker room to crisp fall, but I embrace the burn. The campus is mostly deserted, but those people who are around stop and stare as twenty women pass in perfect synchronization, our footfalls creating a war drum rhythm.
I set the pace, fast enough to hurt, not so fast we break formation. Behind me, breathing labors, but nobody falls back. Sarah, with her asthma, keeps pace through pure will. Rachel, built for power, not endurance, maintains position through spite.
We pass guys in Devils hockey jackets—fans, not players—who catcall. "Looking good, ladies! Training for something or just trying to lose weight?"
Two weeks ago, some might have flipped them off.
Tonight, we don't even turn our heads.
We are the Morgue. We don't acknowledge the living.
The path takes us around the quad, past administrative buildings where Galloway probably sits counting the men's team revenue, past dining halls where the story of what Rook did will spread. Past the bronze statue of the university founder, whose plaque proudly declares this institution was built on "excellence and equality"—two principles that apparently expire at the rink doors.
Each footfall declares:We're still here. We're not going anywhere. We're coming to take what's ours.
My lungs burn, my legs scream, my sweat stings. But this pain is clean, controlled. Pain I chose with purpose. Focused, directed, weaponized. Not like the chaos James Fitzgerald carries, all noise and clowning around and a desperate need for attention.
The rhythm fills my head, drowning out everything else. Because there's no room for memories of beaches or whispered promises, and no space for phantom feelings of his hands in my hair. There are just twenty pairs of feet hitting pavement in perfect unison, writing our declaration of war across campus.
We are the Morgue.
And everyone—including James fucking Fitzgerald—is about to find out.
seven
ROOK
The bruiseon Erik Schmidt's shin looks like someone hit him with a sledgehammer—purple bleeding into green, edges yellowing like old newspaper—and the sight of it makes something tight and guilty twist in my gut, because I did this. Well, not directly, but it's still my fault.
"Jesus, Schmidtty," I say, forcing my voice into its usual boom. "This is like modern art. We could frame this, sell it to?—"
He gives me that patented Schmidt look, the one that suggests he's running a cost-benefit analysis on homicide. "It's from Tuesday's drill. When you decided we needed to practice 'chaos scenarios' instead of, and I quote, 'all the usual boring shit,' remember?"
Right.
Tuesday.
