Page 64 of The Longest Shot
Where are you??? Party at Theta house!! That freshman with the fake tits is asking about you, but she’s drunk enough to lower her standards for me…
Three months ago, that text would’ve been a lifeline to rescue me from the dangerous quiet. Now it just feels exhausting, like being asked to perform Shakespeare to an audience that only wants fart jokes, and that party is the last place on Earth I want to be.
I reply:
Can’t make it. Early practice tomorrow.
The response is immediate:
Since when did that stop you?
The question makes me stop and think, but the answer is obvious. Since a girl started trusting me with things that matter. Since I realized that being the loudest doesn’t mean being the leader. Since I started wanting to be the kind of man who deserves more than eye rolls and exhausted sighs.
But I don’t type any of that. I just pocket my phone without responding and start the walk back to my dorm. Nash will be just fine at the party on his own, and I just want to spend the night alone in the quiet. With no noise, applause, or audience.
And, for the first time in my life, that feels exactly right.
twenty-four
ROOK
The silenceon the ice feels like wearing someone else's jockstrap. Technically it works, but everything sits wrong and makes you walk funny.
As my hand grips the stopwatch, I wonder if this is what Morgan feels like all the time, this hyper-aware state where every second has weight and every movement needs a reason. It's far harder work than letting chaos reign as we half-ass our way through another practice.
"Since when does Rook know which end of that thing is up?"
Nash's mutter carries across the ice with perfect clarity because nobody's laughing and nobody's joking. The usual soundtrack of my practices—the constant chatter, the chirping—has been replaced by the metallic scrape of skates and confused silence.
Javier Martinez just shrugs at Nash's question, his eyes occasionally darting sideways at me, waiting for the punchline. The whole team has that look, like I've been body-snatched or as if this is all one big prank that's going to end at any moment.
And they're not the only ones struggling with it.
The urge to crack a joke crawls up my throat—familiar, desperate, necessary. Maybe about how I finally learned to countpast ten, or how the stopwatch came with instructions in crayon just for me. Anything to shatter the suffocating quiet of everyone holding their breath waiting for someone else to break first.
But then Morgan's voice during our last study session cuts through my brain:"Chaos is the enemy of progress, James."
In other words, if I want my team to start performing like they're capable of, I need to rein in some of the carnage and instill some hard work. So far, the guys are doing it, but they're clearly not sure why or how long it's going to last. Neither am I, if I'm being honest, but I'm trying my hardest.
"Zone exit drill, same groups as before," I call out. "Clean breakouts, support the puck, and hit the neutral zone with speed."
It's the exact drill I watched Morgan run three days ago, when I'd snuck up to the upper deck again. Her team had executed it with precision, each player moving in synchronization. There'd been no wasted motion, no hero plays, no gags—just brutal efficiency that turned chaos into structure.
Meanwhile, my team looks like a blooper reel for Disney On Ice.
Nash wins the face-off cleanly, the puck sliding back to Erik Schmidt on defense. Schmidt makes the smart play, a crisp pass along the boards to Cooper, who's already in motion. So far, perfect. Then Cooper feeds it to Kellerman at the blueline, and I can see the exact moment everything goes to shit.
Kellerman's whole body language changes—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, that eager-puppy energy that usually makes me want to ruffle his sandy curls and tell him he's a good boy. He sees the stretch pass, that tantalizing thread up the middle where Martinez is breaking free.
It's a classic hero puck. The kind of play that makes highlight reels when it works and makes you look like you learned hockey from your drunk uncle Steve when it doesn't. And it's the exactsort of thing that we've been doing every game so far this season, and more often than not getting our ass handed to us.
And this time?
The pass never makes it past center ice. The defending forward reads it like a children's book and intercepts easily. The puck goes the other way, and if this were a real game, we'd be scrambling back on defense, probably giving up an odd-man rush.
A month ago, I would have laughed it off, making some joke about Kellerman trying to thread a needle with a pool noodle. The failure would have dissolved into shared amusement and a little embarrassment for Kellerman, because hey, we're all friends here, right?
But this time, the sharp blast of the whistle cuts through the air.
