Page 1 of The Longest Shot
one
ROOK
The arena'soverhead lights hit my retinas with the force of a slap, and for a second all I can see is white-hot nothing. Then the world rushes back, and I can see thousands of bodies packed into every available inch of the Devil’s Cauldron, their collective roar slamming into my chest.
I pause at the edge of the tunnel, grinning as the vibration travels through the ice, into my skates, and into my body, powering me up like a battery. They’re chanting my name, but they don't know that this is my drug. My fix. The beautiful, blessed chaos and noise that keeps the silence at bay.
I soak it up. Red and black jerseys create a pulsing sea in the stands. Someone’s holding up a sign that says “ROOK FOR PRESIDENT” with my face badly photoshopped onto Mount Rushmore, while another reads “MARRY ME #31” in glitter.
Jesus Christ, I’m not Taylor Swift. I stop pucks. Sometimes.
The energy crashes over me, each wave helping to loosen the knot that’s been living between my shoulder blades since Maine and Mike graduated and got drafted. Because now, I'm the leader in the room of hockey bros, the guy Coach needs to keep the circus animals in line.
I lead the guys out onto the ice, my moment of indulgence replicated by more than a few of the others on the way out. Because this is home for many of us, including for me—the one that doesn’t involve my mother’s passive-aggressive casseroles and my father’s third-beer working-man philosophy lectures.
Coach Pearson already stands by the bench, arms crossed but with a smile on his face. He gives me a subtle nod, the kind that meanswell doneanddon’t fuck this upat the same time, but it's no surprise that he's avoiding the limelight. Win or lose, good or bad, he gives the credit to his players and takes all the flak.
Unlike some others…
As we line up on center ice, a guy wholovesthe limelight, our athletic director—Art Galloway—strides to center ice with the confidence of a man who’s never encountered a mirror he didn’t like. His chest is puffed out, his five-thousand-dollar suit benefiting from what I’m pretty sure is a Spanx situation.
“Devils fans!” His voice booms through the arena. “Tonight, we celebrate the beginning of a dynasty!”
The crowd detonates, and someone sets off an air horn that’s definitely banned by arena policy, but security’s not touching anyone tonight. Because this is our house and our night—the banner-raising ceremony for the championship we'd fought and bled for last year.
Galloway’s gesturing now, one meaty hand sweeping toward our bench, then up to the rafters where the championship banner waits. His NCAA football championship ring—which he wears to every game even though he hasn’t played a down of football since the Reagan administration—catches the light.
"We'll hear from our new captain in a minute," Galloway booms, gesturing toward the tunnel, "but first, please welcome back to the Pine Barren ice two of the key architects of our championship season—Maine Hamilton and Mike Altman!"
The roar that follows threatens to blow the roof off the Cauldron. Maine and Mike stride onto the ice in their new NHL jerseys, looking a little bashful as they wave to the crowd and take up position at the end of the line of players, both giving me a small thumbs-up.
Fuck. They look like actual professionals now.
Maine's grin is the same, though, that cocky flash of teeth that used to make sorority girls weak in the knees. Mike looks like he always did—calm, collected, like he's already three moves ahead in whatever game we're playing. Somewhere in the stands, Sophie and Maya are screaming their names.
"Now," Galloway says, wresting back the crowd's attention. "Let me present the best goalie—no, the bestcaptainin college hockey—James Fitzgerald!”
The noise somehow gets louder, which shouldn’t be physically possible. My teammates bang their sticks in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. Even Schmidt’s doing it, although he looks personally offended by his participation in anything this enthusiastic.
Probably calculating the exact force required for the minimum socially acceptable level of stick-banging.
Galloway walks over—and holy shit, the man moves on the ice with all the grace of a tranquilized hippo—and clamps his hand on my shoulder. It’s not friendly. His fingers dig into the muscle, and it feels possessive, like he wants to ownmeas much as he seems to want to own the attention of this moment.
“This is your year, son,” he says, his breath hot against my ear, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Don’t disappoint me.”
The words land in my stomach and immediately start rotting.
But there's no time to respond, because the crowd wants a show.
I push off toward center ice, and the spotlight tracks my movement with predatory precision, the heat from it making sweat prickle along my spine. The crowd’s energy hits differently when you’re alone in the middle of it—not just noise but weight, thousands of people believing you’re something special.
Something more than the kid who learned to be loud because silence meant danger, my mind reminds me, helpfully.
I grab the microphone from the stand, and it feels good in my hand because this is the easy part. The part where I don’t have to think, just perform. I give the crowd a wide grin and hold a fist in the air, setting off the cheers and applause one more time.
“Holy shit, you guys are loud!” I shout, and the laughter rolls through the arena. “I mean—” I make an exaggerated glance toward where the university administration sits, all prudish faces and disapproving frowns. “Holyheck. Family-friendly, that’s me. I've never sworn in my life, just ask my mom.”
More laughter.
