Page 6 of The Longest Shot
I type a message back:
Working on it.
Because that's what you do when people are counting on you. You lie. You pretend you have a plan. You act like you're not standing in a hallway with another man's sweat still contaminating your skin, calculating exactly how much indignity you can swallow before you choke.
You survive.
And then you find a way to win anyway, just to spite them all.
three
ROOK
I'monlyten minutes late. That's fine. Right?
I shoulder through the conference room doors, my gear bag announcing my arrival with a thunderous crash that makes every water bottle on the table jump. The sound cuts through whatever bureaucratic sermon was happening, and every head swivels toward me, which is exactly what I need.
Can't have uncomfortable silence if everyone's staring at the circus act.
"Sorry, sorry!" I spread my arms wide, accepting imaginary applause for an entrance that would make my mother's jaw clench so tight she'd need dental work. "Traffic was absolutely brutal coming from—" I pause, letting them lean in—"across campus."
Baseball's captain gives a theatrical, slow blink, his gaze flicking toward the ceiling in a silent prayer for patience. "Jesus, Fitzgerald," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real venom in it—just the weary resignation of someone who's witnessed my entrances before.
The swim team captain—Jennifer? Jessica? Jemima?—looks ready to drown me in the shallow end of the pool. Her fingers tap against the table in a rhythm that screams,'I have actualresponsibilities and you're wasting my time,'and honestly, that's pretty fair.
But their reactions are background noise because Art Galloway is already rising from his executive chair.
"There's our champion!" He grins, his voice booming like he's introducing me at the Garden instead of at a meeting. "Get up here, Rook. We saved you the good seat."
He gestures to the chair at his right hand, the seat that screamsthis guy matters more than you peasants, and the validation hits my bloodstream like pure caffeine, temporarily drowning out that persistent whisper that's been stalking me since they raised our banner.
What happens when they realize you're not Maine? Not Mike?
I swagger toward the head of the table, making sure to high-five the lacrosse captain, who's a good guy despite the unfortunate facial hair that looks like he glued pubes to his chin. "Looking good," I lie, because what else do you say to a guy who clearly lost a bet or possibly his mirror?
I lob a few nods and smiles to some of the other captains I know, but there are plenty here I don't, from smaller sports or who've recently arrived on campus. The gymnastics captain looks twelve, all wide eyes and perfect posture, probably wondering if all hockey players are this much of a disaster.
Spoiler alert: we are.
"Now that our reigning national champion has arrived, let's continue with introductions," Galloway says, hand landing on my shoulder. The weight of his palm is both reassuring and suffocating, like he's simultaneously claiming me and measuring whether I'm worth the investment.
As I drop into the leather throne, I feel content and warm and safe, because that brief public blessing is precisely the fix Ineeded. It was color and movement and affirmation all in one, not silence and the whispered questions of my mind.
The banner says I matter.
Galloway says I matter.
So, for now, my imposter syndrome skulks back to its corner.
"As I was saying," Galloway continues, all teeth and calculated charm, "we have a new addition to our athletics family this year. The university has invested in a women's hockey program, and I'd like you all to welcome their founding captain, Morgan Riley."
The name freezes me, annihilating the warm feeling entirely.
My lungs forget their only job. My heart stops, reconsiders, then hammers into overdrive like it's trying to punch through my ribs and make a run for it. I can't move, I canbarelybreathe, and I'm not sure I want to think about the nuclear meltdown that Galloway just triggered.
The conference room's recycled air suddenly feels thick as concrete, pressing against my chest, and I'm convinced everyone can hear the blood rushing through my ears like white rapids. Because, of all the people in all the places, this could notpossiblybe happening.
But then a figure rises from the far end of the table. It looks like her, sure. But it's more like her evil twin who murdered the original and stole her face, because the Morgan I knew had soft edges, warm smiles that started in her eyes, and hair that caught light like spun copper.
