Page 30 of The Longest Shot
My chest had seized up and my entire body had frozen, just like it had in that moment with Galloway. The question had hung between us, heavy with possibility, and instead of rising to the moment like I wanted to, I'd deflected with joke after desperate joke.
And watched her close off to me.
Three years later, different setting, same cowardice. I talk a big game when the stakes are low—loud and proud—but if they gave out trophies for consistently failing at crucial moments,I'd have a whole shelf. The summer camp, my debut game as captain, the locker room with Galloway…
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.
"Fitzgerald? Is that you up there?"
The voice cuts through my pity party, and I glance down to see one of the rink attendants—Jimmy, I think—standing at the edge of the lower bowl, squinting up at me through the dimness.
"Yeah, just watching," I call back, my voice hoarse from disuse. "Good to see you, Jimmy."
"The women's team's about to start warm-ups. Are you sure you don't want a seat closer to the action?"
"The view up here is spectacular," I say, forcing my usual grin. "Really gives you perspective on how much gum's stuck under these seats."
Jimmy chuckles and shakes his head. "Well, enjoy yourself, and don't take the loss too seriously."
I give him a mock salute, and he disappears back toward the concourse. A second later, I hear the sound of skates on ice below, the women's team filing out for their season opener to the tepid cheers of an arena that's only one-third full. Still, it's not a bad crowd, given they're a brand new team.
But the crowd is the least of their problems.
From up here, their jerseys look like they raided a youth league's lost and found. The numbers are clearly ironed-on, because I can see edges peeling, and they have none of the army of support staff and specialized gear on the bench that the men's team gets.
Part of me wants to leave, because I feel like an imposter here. And, honestly, the last thing I need is to watch Morgan's team get demolished while I sit here marinating in my failures.I already feel guilty after she'd been dismissed by Galloway earlier, and a waxing at the hands of Princeton would just top it.
But something keeps my ass glued to this uncomfortable plastic.
The puck drops, and I settle in to watch what I assume will be a massacre.
And five minutes later, I'm sitting forward, elbows on my knees.
They're running a 1–2–2 neutral zone trap. But it's not the lazy, half-assed version most college teams—male or female—attempt when they're trying to kill the clock. This is the real thing, which requires every player to know exactly where they need to be at all times and to trust their teammates completely.
Their center—Rachel, I think, who looks like she could check a freight train—forces the puck carrier wide. Instead of chasing, she drops back to clog the middle. The wingers collapse in perfect synchronization, creating a wall at the blue line. The defense—Morgan included—stays home, patient and disciplined.
Princeton tries to force a pass through the middle, but it's intercepted cleanly, and suddenly Morgan's team is transitioning, five players moving as one unit up the ice. And I realize then that they're not just playing a system, they're playing the one I should be implementing.
The one that wins when you don't have the best players.
Which I don't, since Mike and Maine graduated.
Jesus fucking Christ.
A few minutes later, they get called for a penalty, and their penalty kill is perfect. Sticks always in passing lanes, bodies rotating, and always talking to one another. I can hear them even from up here, communicating in short, sharp calls keeping everyone connected.
The other team can't get set up.
They can't get inside the Morgue.
My own team's power play disaster flashes through my mind: Kellerman had been at the point, assigned to hold the blue line, but when the puck rimmed around, he'd chased it instead of staying home. Their forward walked in, alone and right past where Kellerman should have been, and hit it at my top shelf.
Goal.
