Page 59 of The Longest Shot
He leans forward to examine the rubric, and suddenly he’s in my space, close enough that I can see the faint scar through his left eyebrow and feel his body heat like a physical presence. The fluorescent light catches gold flecks in his brown eyes that have no business being that distracting.
Academic paper.
Social disintegration.
Not thinking about disintegrating the professional distance between us.
His eyes scan the paper, then lift to mine with a look that could melt steel beams. “So are there any extra-credit opportunities in this…” He pauses, his voice dropping into aregister that makes my stomach perform an unauthorized barrel roll. “arrangementof ours?”
I lean back, raising an eyebrow and crossing my arms in what’s definitely a power move and not at all to keep my hands from doing something stupid. “You want extra credit? You fail this class, you lose your eligibility, so how's that work for you?"
His grin widens. “But I’m motivated by positive reinforcement. Gold stars. Smiley faces.” His gaze drops to my mouth for a second. “Other rewards.”
I ignore the obvious attempt to flirt, my voice sharp enough to etch glass. “Social disintegration. Five pages. Can your attention span handle that?”
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight. “I’m very tactile. I need tofeelmy way through the material.”
The double meaning lands with all the subtlety of a check against the boards, and I slam my hand down on the textbook. “Page 247. Read.”
He flips it open, but concentration appears to cause him physical pain. His knee bounces under the table, creating a rhythm I feel through the floor. At the same time, his fingers drum, his chair squeaks, and then he starts spinning his pencil like a tiny baton, nearly launching it twice.
“The author’s primary thesis—” I begin.
“—is boring as fuck,” he finishes, then launches into a tangent. “You know what’s wild? The etymology of ‘thesis’ actually comes from the Greek word for ‘position,’ which is ironic because most thesis statements have no position at all, they’re just?—”
“Focus.”
“Right, focusing.” He lasts maybe ten seconds before reaching for his water bottle, his fingers grazing mine in the process—warm, calloused from his stick, lingering a breath toolong against my wrist where my pulse hammers like a puck against the boards.
“You were saying?” His innocence is a performance that deserves a Tony.
Murder. That’s the solution. Hide the body in the philosophy section where no one goes. Find literally any other way to save the team that doesn’t involve his stupid, perfect hands.
Twenty minutes in, and we’ve accomplished exactly nothing except establishing that his brain runs on chaos and my patience has limits. He’s now folding page corners into origami while explaining his teammate’s theory that sociology is just “gossiping with citations.”
I snap. “This isn’t working.” I shove the rubric away with enough force that it flutters to the floor. “You can’t focus for thirty seconds. Your thoughts are completely non-linear. You think academic writing is an appropriate venue for stories about Nash’s bathroom disasters?—”
“That was relevant context about social bonds in closed communities?—”
“It was a story about him getting stuck in a stall!”
He’s grinning now. “It illustrated group dynamics during crisis intervention.”
I want to strangle him. I want to kiss him. I want to do both simultaneously.
“Forget it.” I stand abruptly, needing distance, needing air. “This was clearly a mistake. You can’t do this, and I can’t teach someone who thinks in?—”
“Explosions?” he supplies helpfully.
“I was going to say chaos, but sure.”
He laughs—warm and rich and genuinely delighted. “Sit down, Morgan.”
“No.”
“Please?”
The request is quieter, less performative. When I look at him, really look, the manic energy has drained away, leaving something vulnerable. The same boy from the coffee shop who admitted hockey is the only thing holding him together.
