Page 3 of The Longest Shot
They leave together, and I watch them go—the giants who used to carry the team, who always knew exactly what to do, or at least that's what it felt like to me. The locker room door swings shut behind them with a definitive thud that echoes off the concrete walls.
The silence that follows is deafening.
One by one, the room empties. First the freshmen, practically sprinting to get to parties. Then the sophomores and juniors, leaving in groups, their voices fading down the hallway. Schmidt passes me on his way out, on his phone with his girlfriend, while Cooper just nods, which is his version of an emotional goodbye.
Soon it’s just me and the sound of water dripping from a showerhead.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
The silence starts creeping in at the edges. My skin feels too tight, and there’s a buzzing in my ears that has nothing to do with the crowd noise from earlier. I can't stand it, so I need toget out of here. Maybe find a party, with some noise and enough beer to make everything fuzzy around the edges.
But first—God, this is pathetic—I need to see it again.
When I reach the arena, it's a morgue. The lights have been dimmed to their emergency minimum, casting everything in a sick yellow. Thousands of empty seats stare back at me, accusatory in their vacancy. The ice stretches out in front of me, scarred from our skates.
The silence presses against my eardrums until they ache. This is the silence I’ve been running from since I was seven years old, since I learned that quiet meant the storm was building and someone was about to explode, and that I’d failed in my job as the family’s emotional janitor.
The banner hangs there in the gloom, massive and motionless. Without the crowd’s energy, without the lights and celebration, it looks wrong. Less like a symbol of victory and more like an indictment, because it's everything I’m supposed to be and everything I know I’m not.
One banner is nice. But Maine and Mike got that. Are you planning to do better than them, or are you just keeping the seat warm?
The voice in my head sounds exactly like my father after three beers, not drunk enough to slur, just drunk enough to be a prick. My chest tightens, and suddenly I’m seven again, standing between my parents in the kitchen, trying to make enough noise and chaos to stop the fight before it starts.
With my hands shaking and my heart skipping beats, I turn my back on the banner and practically run for the door. My hand slips on the handle twice—palm slick with sweat—before I manage to wrench it open, and then the door slams behind me with a sound that chases me down the tunnel.
I need noise. I need bodies pressed close. I need music so loud it makes my teeth hurt and beer that tastes terrible butmakes everything soft and manageable. My phone’s already in my hand, thumb flying across the screen in a message to the group chat:
Where’s the party? Your captain needs to celebrate!
Three dots appear immediately. Then five. Then ten. Everyone’s responding at once, and the constant buzz of notifications against my palm is the most beautiful feeling in the world. Each vibration is a tiny promise that I won’t be alone, won't be quiet, and won’t have to sit with this feeling.
I practically sprint toward the exit, toward the noise, toward the blessed chaos that keeps the monsters at bay.
two
MORGAN
Art Galloway wantsme to beg, and I'd rather set myself on fire.
The leather chair groans beneath me as I perch on its edge, refusing to sink into it. That's what he wants—for me to lean back and get comfortable while he pats me on the head and sends me on my way with nothing but condescension disguised as a business card for his cousin's used equipment shop.
My binder sits open on his mahogany desk like evidence, its pages a splash of reality to help me fight against his bullshit. Every page is tabbed and color-coded proof of the promises he made when he flew to Montana to recruit me as captain of Pine Barren's inaugural women's hockey team.
Three months ago, he'd sat across from me in a Missoula coffee shop, eyes bright with what I'd mistaken for genuine enthusiasm. "We're building something special, Morgan," he'd said, sliding glossy brochures across the table. "Full NCAA support. State-of-the-art facilities. You'll make history."
But now, the binder documents every assurance that evaporated the moment I signed my transfer papers.
"—and as you can see from the comparison data," I say, voice level as a blade, "our current ice allocation is less thansixty percent of the NCAA Division I minimum standard, which is frankly unacceptable given this is a brand new program with players who've never played together before."
My finger taps the graph I spent three hours perfecting, because I knew he'd look for any excuse to dismiss what I'm trying to show him. I can see him on the hunt, his eyes scanning for a crooked line, a typo, an incorrect data point—anything that would let him write me off as a hysterical girl playing at being an athlete.
His reading glasses sit crooked on his nose, but he doesn't seem to need them to read, even going so far as to take them off when he's looking at something closely. A prop, probably, because men like him don't actually read, but rather wait for you to stop talking so they can explain why you're wrong.
"Sixty percent," he repeats, drawing out the words like he's savoring them. "You know, when I played football here?—"
"With all due respect, Mr. Galloway, the football team never had to share field time with three other programs while trying to establish itself from scratch."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Interrupting already? That's not very… collegiate of you."
