Page 31 of The Longest Shot
I'd slammed my stick against the post hard enough to crack it. Not because Kellerman made a mistake, but because I'd let him think hero-ball was acceptable, and because I hadn't drilled it into himexactlyhow I wanted that situation to be handled.
But, down there, Morgan's team kills the penalty without allowing a shot.
My eyes find her, and I stay locked on.
She's not the fastest player, her skating is efficient but not pretty, and her stick-work is so-so. But she might be the smartest player I've ever watched. She doesn't chase, she anticipates, and when she has possession, she makes the simple play—therightplay—every time.
Never the hero.
When she takes a brutal check along the boards—the kind that should've been called but wasn't—she goes down hard, her helmet bouncing off the glass with that distinctivecrack. My whole body tenses, but she gets up immediately and shakes it off.
No complaint. No theatrical writhing. Professional.
The game grinds on, the score stuck on 0–0 deep into the third. It's not pretty hockey, but I'm utterly captivated. Because, while there are no highlight-reel moves and no showboating, Morgan and her team are putting on a masterclass in grinding, systemic, disciplined hockey.
Winning hockey.
With three minutes left, Morgan forces a turnover at the blue line. The opposing defender gets caught flat-footed, andMorgan's past her, driving the net. The goalie comes out to challenge. Morgan doesn't try to deke. The defender catches her from behind, sending her crashing into the end boards.
But before impact, she slides the puck across.
Mills is there, exactly where the system says she should be.
She buries that garbage goal like she's taking out the trash.
1–0.
There's celebration, but it's contained. No hot-dogging. Just genuine happiness for each other, for their system, for proof that doing things right actually works. And, as Morgan skates to the bench and taps Mills's helmet once, it's a thanks and an acknowledgement and a sign of trust.
The gesture punches me in the gut.
They defend the lead for three minutes of hell. Eventually, Princeton pulls their goalie, and it's six attackers against five defenders who look ready to collapse. Through it all, Morgan's team bends but doesn't break. They clear pucks, block shots with their faces, do all the thankless shit that wins games.
On the last gasp shot, Morgan takes a shot off her ankle that has to hurt.
Then the final buzzer goes.
1–0.
The small crowd goes absolutely apeshit, and the team celebrates with exhausted hugs. But there's no victory lap and no grandstanding, just a grateful wave to those fans who came out to watch and the quiet satisfaction at a job very well done. And, a moment later, Morgan leads her team off the ice.
I stay as the arena empties. The lights start shutting off, section by section, darkness spreading toward me. The maintenance crew will be here soon, but I can't move. And, soon, I'm the only person in the entire seated area of the arena, a place I've played dozens of games but never seen a more significant moment.
Because I've just watched a real captain lead.
I've watched someone build a fortress from scraps while I'm letting a palace crumble. She's building an empire with nothing, while I'm destroying a dynasty with everything. Morgan Riley—the woman I humiliated with shitty jokes, whose resources I've helped steal through complicit silence—is twice the leader I am.
And she did it with iron-on numbers and leftover ice.
thirteen
MORGAN
We won.
One to zero, a defensive grind that proved every single thing I've been drilling into my team since day one. My players executed perfectly, Princeton couldn't crack us, and the small crowd that showed up went wild when Mills buried that garbage goal with two minutes left.
And it doesn't matter.
