Page 20 of The Longest Shot
The nickname lands like a slap, and I know he sees me flinch because a shadow of awareness crosses his features. Something flickers behind his eyes—regret, maybe, or just the realization that he's crossed a line he didn't know existed.
His mouth opens like he's going to say something else, or maybe apologize, but then he swallows whatever words were forming and looks away. I wonder if it's regret, but then I disregard the thought, because Rook doesn't do recognition, he does deflection. In response, the anger that floods through me now is different.
Hotter.
Personal.
I look at him, really look at him for the first time since that night three years ago when he showed me exactly who he was. He's still beautiful in that careless way that probably gets him out of speeding tickets. His hair is still a disaster, styled by what looks like aggressive towel-drying and good genetics.
He's still that same boy who made me laugh until my stomach hurt, then made me cry until I couldn't breathe. And the thought brings a strange kind of peace. There's no confusion anymore. No 2:00 a.m. wondering if maybe I misread everything.
Without another word, I turn my back on him. The gesture is deliberate, final.
Behind me, Nash whoops. "Damn, Rook, she really doesn't like you!"
"Story of my life," Rook replies, but his voice sounds too high.
Good.
I walk to my locker and begin gathering my things. Tablet. Playbook. Water bottle. Each movement is controlled while inside my mind races through Galloway's next moves. Because this isn't just about locker room space, but rather about reminding us that we exist at his pleasure.
Mills appears at my elbow, voice low. "Captain, this is bullshit."
"Yes," I agree, sliding my tablet into my bag with perhaps excessive force. "It is."
"We can't just?—"
"We can't do anything." I meet her eyes. "Not right now. Not like this."
Her jaw clenches, but she nods. Around us, the men are settling in like an invasive species. Someone's already commandeered our Bluetooth speaker, replacing our carefully curated pump-up playlist with something that sounds like toxic masculinity gained sentience and started a band.
I give it two days before one of them asks if we can make them sandwiches. Three before someone suggests a wet-t-shirt contest "for team bonding."
And Fitzgerald?
He's standing in the middle of it all, directing traffic with desperate energy, careful not to look at me. But I can feel his awareness like heat on my skin, the way he angles his body to track my movements even as he babbles to anyone who will listen.
"Kellerman, over here," he calls out. "Try not to touch anything. I think they've got it organized by… I don't know, a monthly cycle calendar?"
The joke lands flat, and I'm getting the sense that even his teammates are picking up on the weird energy between us. Kellerman looks from him to me and back again, his mouthopening in what's probably going to be an incredibly awkward question, but Rook cuts him off with a too-loud laugh.
"Anyway! Moving on!" he says. "Let's just, you know, settle in and try not to die."
In response, I roll my eyes and address my team. "Practice in twenty, ladies. Full gear."
They move immediately, efficiently navigating around male bodies and carelessly placed gear. We've practiced in worse conditions. Hell, we've practiced in a parking lot when Galloway "forgot" to notify us of an ice time change. And, once I'm changed, I head to the door.
I notice how Fitzgerald shifts to let me pass, how he angles his body to give me more space than necessary. Three years ago, I thought his inability to be still or quiet was charming. Now I know it's just fear of the quiet moments when the truth might accidentally slip out.
The door closes behind me with finality.
The war has begun.
nine
ROOK
The sharedlocker room and training facilities have become my own hell.
