Page 18 of The Longest Shot
"Then you close your eyes and think of your mother!" I bellow. "Or Cooper's mother. Actually, no, Cooper's mom is kind of hot?—"
"Can confirm," someone shouts, and Cooper just shakes his head with the resignation of someone who's heard this joke exactly 247 times.
"Point is," I continue, needing to keep talking, "you keep your eyes to yourself, or at least don't get caught staring…"
Another cheer.
"Now grab your gear, boys! We're going on an adventure! Probably already having caught dysentery, but still!"
The movement is instantaneous, a few dozen hockey players sloshing through sewage water, grabbing equipment, and packing bags. The excitement level is palpable, and we all move with the confidence of people who've never lost anything that mattered, and never been told 'no' in our lives.
I'm at the front of the pack as we start hauling our gear across the complex, the clang of sticks against concrete echoing through the corridors. Behind me, my teammates are loud and boisterous, their voices filling every inch of available space.
They think I'm their conquering hero, leading them to paradise.
The women's locker room door looms ahead, and I can already feel the way the air will change when we cross that threshold. The way twenty pairs of eyes will look through us right up until they realize what's happening. The way Morgan might actually stab me with the nearest sharp implement when I tell her.
But here's the thing about being the family's emotional janitor, you never actually learn when to stop cleaning. Even when the mess is yours, even when the mop is on fire and the bucket's full of gasoline, you just keep grinning and performing as the disaster unfolds around you.
Because this is what I do.
I make noise to drown out the silence.
Even when the silence is about to swallow me whole.
Even when I deserve to drown in it.
eight
MORGAN
The sound hits first,male laughter that rattles through the cinderblock walls. My pen freezes mid-stroke over the playbook I've been studying for the past hour. The careful X's and O's blur as my hand involuntarily clenches, the ink bleeding into a small, accusing pool where I've pressed too hard.
Great. Now I'll have to redo the entire page.
I set the ruined paper aside, but before I can think of starting over, the door explodes inward and a sea of male hockey bros invades the small, meager locker room that my team and I have managed to make our own since the start of the semester.
Mason Nash leads the charge—six-foot-two of privileged hockey player, the kind of guy who probably has "Future CEO" in his Instagram bio despite a GPA that would make a houseplant weep. Behind him, a half-dozen of his teammates spill into our sanctuary, their voices bouncing off walls in the too-small space.
The fury that floods through me is familiar, controlled. My breathing slows to match my game-day rhythm—in for four, hold for four, out for four. The same technique that helps me track five opposing players at once now helps me catalog every unwanted body violating our space.
Our locker room isn't luxurious. The lockers stick when you open them, requiring a specific jiggle-pull-yank technique we've all mastered. Everything is painted the kind of institutional white that shows every scuff mark. The shower pressure ranges from gentle mist to fire hose with no middle ground.
But it'sours.
Every temperamental locker. Every bench we've claimed with carved initials hidden underneath. Every inch we've scrubbed clean after Galloway gave us a glorified broom closet and called it "adequate facilities." And, since the Ice War three days ago, we've only doubled down on our efforts to make this our fortress.
Nowthey'rehere.
Bri's on her feet the same instant I am, years of athletic instinct kicking in as we move without speaking, our bodies creating a human barricade in the doorway. Behind us, I hear Mills's sharp intake of breath and the scrape of cleats against concrete as my players shift, uncertain.
The wave of noise breaks against our wall of silence.
Nash's laughter stutters. Dies. The confusion ripples backward through their ranks, each player's expression shifting from cocky amusement to bewilderment as they realize we're not moving, not speaking, and not acknowledging them beyond the physical barrier of our bodies.
That's right, boys. Your existence requires our validation, and we're fresh out.
Another junior, Stiles, pushes forward, and I instantly know his type: an end-of-the-bench defenseman who confuses his father's donation checks with actual talent, and who doesn't question why he gets four minutes a game as long as he gets to 'hang with his boys' at practice and parties.
