Page 111 of The Longest Shot
“Thank you,” he says against my forehead. “For trusting me, for another chance, and for the best study session in academic history."
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, smiling in that concerningly natural new way. “Wait until you see myactualstudy methods. Color-coded flashcards organized by theoretical framework, chronological development, and exam probability based on previous patterns.”
He laughs, bright and genuine and completely unguarded. “That’s the sexiest thing you've ever said.”
We get dressed—mostly—him in boxers and dangerously low jeans, me in his shirt and my underwear. It’s domestic in a way that should trigger my security protocols but doesn’t. We move around each other with a surprising ease, like we’ve done this for years instead of hours.
When we settle at my kitchen table with his battered textbook and my extensive notes (laminated, cross-referenced, obviously), he reaches across for my hand. And he holds it, for a long time, as we discuss the theories of dead European men.
It's the first step in a future neither of us saw coming but both chose. It's a sign that our real story—not the one scripted by wounds and defensive strategies—is just beginning. And for the first time in three years, I’m not wondering when it'll fail or determined to be alone.
I'm just… happy.
forty
ROOK
Grades postin twelve minutes and thirteen seconds, and I can't even focus on it.
Because I've got Morgan's weight pressed across my chest, her red hair fanned out like some kind of beautiful emergency flare, making me forget about the university portal waiting to tell me whether all the studying for the exam got me over the line.
The last three days blur together: her apartment becomingourspace, those tiny humming sounds she makes when she’s concentrating, the revelation that she keeps her socks on during sex when it’s cold (which is somehow the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced), and learning she's soft beneath the hard exterior.
Morning light filters through her blinds, painting lines across the bed. She's still fast asleep, though, which isn't surprising after our marathon effort last night… and this morning at 3 a.m.… and again at six, because apparently three years of sexual tension compounds interest like a really aggressive loan shark.
She stirs against me, her thigh sliding between mine. “Morning,” she mumbles against my chest, breath warm on my skin.
“Morning.” I pull her up for a kiss, slow and thorough, morning breath and all. “Grades post at noon.”
Morgan props herself on her elbows, her breasts pressing against my chest in a way that shoots blood south to my cock. “We knew this was coming.”
“Yeah, but knowing andknowingare different things.” My hands find her hips, needing an anchor. “What if I bombed it? What if?—”
She silences me with a kiss. “You didn’t bomb it. You knew every answer during our… innovative revision sessions…”
“Morgan, I’m serious.” My words tumble out raw. “I need to know I can do this. That I’m not just some dumb jock who lucked out with the exemption policy, and that Ideserveto lead those guys on the ice, even if I only do it half as well as you do…”
“Stop.” Her hand presses over my racing heart. “You’re not dumb, your brain just works differently, with a chaos processor instead of a linear one. You did the work, James, with both the studyandthe captaincy, babe. Every late night, every practice question, every extra ice session, every time you didn't quit.”
"But, I?—"
"No," she says. "Your guys love you,bothas the jokerandas the captain they'll follow now that they understand your rhythm and see you taking it seriously."
The sincerity in her voice makes my throat tight. I pull her down for another kiss, pouring everything I can’t say into it. Halfway through the kiss, just as things look like they might detour to sexy town again, my stomach growls loud enough to wake the neighbors if it weren't already noon.
“Jesus, was that you or a bear?” She rolls off me, and I immediately miss her warmth. “Come on, you need food before you waste away.”
I don't make any move to get out of bed, instead just watching as she stands and pulls on my jersey and nothing else. The hem barely covers her ass, and when she stretches for herhair tie, I get a flash that short-circuits my brain and has my cock at attention again.
“Food," I say. "Definitely thinking about food.”
She throws her hairbrush at me, but she’s laughing. "Perv," she says.
In the kitchen, sunlight illuminates her surgical organization system. Everything is alphabetized and arranged. In the three days I've been sharing her space, I've made a little game out of leaving evidence of myself in every perfectly ordered corner.
“Your job,” she says, pointing at the toaster. "It’s got two settings, raw and charcoal, with a three-second window between them.”
“Division I athlete." I shrug. "I think I can handle bread.”
