Page 23 of The Longest Shot
Everyone saw me crack a gag when in Morgan's mind I’m the designated villain.
Morgan positions herself under the bar, and even in my frustration, I watch. Her form is perfect, and I have to shake my head to banish thoughts of what that perfect form looks like without athletic wear on. Then she unracks the weight and completes three perfect reps, each a demonstration of absolute control.
Each one a middle finger to the idea she might need anyone.
She racks the weight and stands, not even breathing hard. Her eyes find mine across the gym, and the message may as well be broadcast on loudspeaker to my entire team. She's telling us that although the women's team gets less attention and less funding, she considers them more talented and more disciplined than us.
And I'm not sure she's wrong.
“Dude,” Nash says, appearing beside me, still reeking of desperation and bad decisions. “That was fucking heroic. You literally saved?—”
“Drop it,” I cut him off.
I’m starting to understand that with Morgan, every interaction is a no-win scenario. Save her player? I’m the assholewhose team created the danger. Try to make peace? I’m a coward not fronting up to the issues. Make a joke? I'm not serious enough. Exist in the same space? I’m the invader in her sanctuary.
The worst part is the heat that won’t go away. The pull toward her that three years couldn’t kill and her contempt only makes stronger. My body seems determined to torture me with wanting someone who’s turned weaponized indifference into an art form.
But I can’t stop looking at her.
I did this. I taught her that needing someone was weakness. That trust gets you hurt. That letting your guard down means becoming a punchline.
The realization sits in my chest heavier than any barbell as Erik finally drags me toward the exit. Behind us, the gym slowly returns to life, conversations resuming in hushed tones. But the damage is done, with the battle lines now drawn in permanent marker.
I’m on the wrong side, holding the smoking gun of my team’s incompetence, branded with everything she thinks I am. Everything I think I am—the fraud, the imposter, the guy who's masking up all his bullshit by being so loud so often that there's no time to think.
And the worst part is, she’s right about all of it.
ten
MORGAN
The cursor blinksat me like an accusation, and I've written exactly three words in two hours:
Formal Complaint Re:
That's it. That's all I've managed.
And the last word isn'treallyeven a full word.
The laptop screen burns my retinas with its glow, the only light source in my apartment. My shoulders ache from hunching forward, and the desk edge presses a line into my forearms that will leave marks.
The recipient line is almost as empty as the subject field, because I can't decide who deserves this particular brand of rage—Galloway with his wandering eyes, the university president who probably golfs with him on weekends… or someone else who might give a shit that Mills almost had her windpipe crushed today.
I complete the subject line:
Formal Complaint Re: Unsafe Conduct, Men's Hockey
It's so sanitized. So professional. Like this is about policy violations instead of the way my heart stopped when I saw that barbell tilting toward Mills's throat, or the fact I can still hear the scrape of metal against metal, Kellerman's voice breakingon "Oh shit," the wet gasp Mills made when the bar kissed her throat.
My fingers hover over the keys, but the words won't arrange themselves into anything that captures it. How do you quantify a near-disaster in bureaucratic language? How do you explain that your best player and only friend almost got hurt because some overgrown golden retriever couldn't spot a bench press?
But I can't write that, even though it's true. So, with a sigh, I rub my eyes hard enough to see starbursts. The truth is, I shouldn't be surprised, because this is what happens when you're forced to share facilities with a team that treats professional spaces like their personal frat house.
Yesterday, Nash and Stiles turned the squat racks into their own private comedy club, complete withdickjokes loud enough to hear through my earbuds. The day before that, someone—definitely one of the men—left a protein shake to ferment in the sauna until it smelled like something died.
But I can document all that.
What Ican'tdocument is the way James materialized like some kind of guardian angel, moving faster than I've ever seen him move off the ice, or how his whole body changed in that moment from class clown to something else entirely.
