Page 25 of The Longest Shot
"Fuck," I whisper.
The word bounces off bare walls, and I turn away from the screen to really look at what I've created here. The living room that's not for living. The lack of photos because photos invite questions. No throw pillows because comfort suggests vulnerability. It's not an apartment, it's a bunker.
My phone sits dark on the table. I grab it, unlock it, and the call log lights up:
Coach Walsh.
Mills.
Mom.
Dad.
Gino's Pizza.
That's it. Four obligations and a food delivery service.
Christ, I'm twenty-one and my most intimate relationship is with a delivery driver, who's probably seen more authentic emotion from me than anyone else, because at least he's witnessed the sweatpants and unwashed hair combo. There's nobody else I'd be that messy in front of.
My thumb hovers over "Mom."
I'd love to talk to her about the incident, but a memory flashes and freezes my finger in place. I'm sixteen again, sitting at our kitchen island. The granite is cold under my palms, pressed flat to keep them from shaking. I'm sobbing so hard my ribs ache, each breath tearing on the way down.
My best friend had just finished her three-month systematic destruction of my life, all because I'd been named captain of the hockey team and she hadn't. And after I'd found out that every lie and every surgical whisper in the locker room was her doing… well… it all came pouring out between hiccupped sobs.
My mother had listened with that particular stillness that meant she was processing data, not emotion. The whole time, her face never changed. Not when I told her about the rumors. Not when I explained the wall of silence. Not even when I admitted I'd been eating lunch in bathroom stalls.
But what gutted me most was that, when I ran out of words and tears, she stood and walked away. The click of her heels on marble was precise as she walked to her office and returned with a legal pad, then slid it across the granite with two fingers.
"Write down the facts," she said, clinical as a medical examiner. "Emotion is a poor foundation, Morgan, so write down every instance, including times, dates, and witnesses. From there, fact and logic and documentation are what will help see you through… if you're going to make it through."
No hug.
NoI'm sorry.
Just a legal pad and a lesson in emotional sanitization.
I haven't cried in front of her or anyone else since.
I set the phone down.
My fingers find the keyboard again. This time, I don't try for professional:
James—
Fuck you. Fuck your hero complex. Fuck the way you swooped in when your guy nearly killed Mills. Fuck the way you looked at me, for one second, before you blinked and buried it, because there was something in your eyes that looked like understanding.
Fuck you for that summer, when I trusted someone—you—for the first time in years. Fuck you for making me think that emotional connection was safe. For teaching me that letting my guard down means becoming a punchline. For being a coward who runs from anything real.
But mostly, fuck you for making me write this. For occupying real estate in my brain three years later. And fuck you for being right there today, close enough to touch, and still being unreachable. For bleeding for my player when you couldn't be real for me.
I highlight it all.
Every admission of weakness.
Then hit delete.
I close the laptop and the room plunges into darkness. There's no light in here, just me and the understanding that's been creeping up like carbon monoxide poisoning. The knowledge that I've got everything I thought I wanted—the team, the title, the respect—but that I'm completely, catastrophically alone.
