Page 19 of The Longest Shot
His face shifts to that particular shade of red that toddlers get when denied candy at checkout. "What's the problem, ladies? You lost?"
The condescension in his voice is so thick I could spread it on toast. I don't dignify it with a response. Don't even shift my gaze to acknowledge he's spoken. My eyes stay fixed on a point just past his left shoulder, waiting forhimto appear, because I know he's coming.
The silence stretches for a few seconds and becomes uncomfortable. Clearly, it's unbearable for people who need constant validation like plants need sunlight, because the male team has lost all their boisterous volume in the face of a pair of women standing in their way and sayingno.
Finally realizing what's happening, the reinforcements arrive. Mills materializes at my shoulder. All five-foot-four of her radiates controlled violence. She plants herself beside me, and I can feel the tension coiled in her compact frame. Behind us, others rise from the benches.
Then the others. Sarah grips her stick like a weapon, knuckles white. Jen cracks her neck—once, twice. Rachel's already got that look in her eyes, the one that precedes someone getting checked into next week. They've all got sticks in hand, as if they'll go to war if they need to.
The Morgue, indeed.
The nickname they've given me has become our whole team identity.
Nash barks out another laugh, but it's forced now, uncertain. "Easy there, Stiles. They might bite."
Only if provoked. And we don't eat junk food.
Stiles flushes deeper, takes another step forward, his finger jabbing toward the hallway. "We were told this is our locker room now. So unless you?—"
"Like hell it is," I finally say something, scoffing in disgust as I do. "Get the fuck out of here, children, because you're not welcome."
"Oh, scary," Nash drawls, but his voice wavers just enough to betray him. "What are you going to do, file a complaint?"
"No," I say, my voice dropping to something quieter, more dangerous. "I don't file complaints. I solve problems."
Then Bri's phone buzzes, the sound cutting through everything. She glances at it, and I watch her shoulders drop, watch defeat replace defiance in one heartbeat. For one moment, she'd been another brick in my wall, but now it's clear there's a crack in her resolve.
She turns the screen toward me. The words blur, then snap into focus, a message from Galloway:
Accommodate the men's team immediately. This is not a request.
The timestamp reads one minute ago. The bastard waited, knowing the bros were on their way to make a ruckus, letting us simmer just long enough to feel powerful, then crushing us with a single message. My stomach clenches hard enough that I taste bile at the back of my throat.
Bri steps aside.
The gesture is small—a simple shift of weight—but it feels seismic. The men surge forward, and suddenly our space isn't ours anymore. Equipment bags thud against our clean floor. Sticks clatter against walls we painted ourselves during a team-building weekend. Their voices fill every corner.
And at the rear of this conquering army is James Fitzgerald.
The sight of him hits me suddenly and jarringly, leaving me breathless for reasons I refuse to examine. That wide grin is plastered across his face, but for half a second it falters whenhis eyes find mine, and he clearly sees the visceral disgust in my eyes.
"Ladies!" His voice booms across the room, and something low in my stomach tightens at the familiar sound. Three years, and my own body still remembers the way he used to whisper terrible jokes against my neck just to feel me laugh. "Looks like we're going to be roommates!"
The guys roar as if they're trained lions. Clearly, they're all amused by the development, their invasion of our space. And not for one fucking minute have any of them stopped to think about how we might feel about it, or how it might impact our start of the season with games starting in a few days.
I don't yell, but when I speak, my voice cuts through their celebration clean and sharp. "If you're going to be here, there will be rules."
The room quiets to that particular hush of people preparing to be entertained. Someone snickers, clearly not recognizing my resolve and the danger in this confrontation, and I catalog it for later retribution. Because I'm good at that, finding ways to deliver elegant revenge when someone least expects it.
"Quiet hours from noon to two. That's when we study tape. Your equipment stays on the east wall and ours stays on the west. No crossing over. No 'borrowing.' No exceptions." I let the words hang. "And if any one of you acts like a creep with any one of us, I'll personally cut you with a skate blade."
Behind Fitzgerald, someone mutters something about "mom laying down the law."
"Mom? That's adorable." I smile, sickly sweet and one hundred percent fake. "Moms bake cookies and kiss boo-boos. I break spirits and collect tears in mason jars for my morning coffee. So listen to me when I tell you, don't fuck with me or my girls, and we'll be fine. Now, the shower schedule?—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Fitzgerald throws his hands up in mock surrender, and I hate that I notice the way his fingers are still slightly crooked from old breaks, and the chipped tooth from when he tried to prove he could open a beer bottle with his teeth. "Easy there, Morgue. We get it. You run a tight ship."
Morgue.
