Page 87 of The Longest Shot
The slap of my running shoes against frozen pavement creates a brutal metronome, each impact sending shockwaves up my shins that I welcome like penance. The November air cuts into my lungs, cold enough to make my teeth ache, and sharp enough that each inhale feels like a knife to the chest.
That feels somehow fitting.
But it's not enough.
Notnearlyenough to overcome the pain of three hundred pairs of eyes watching my humiliation, each of them looking at me with pity after witnessing one of my lowest moments on the big screen. All thanks to him weaponizing my team's poverty—and myonemoment of weakness—for applause.
My quadriceps are already burning at mile seven, lactic acid building like poison in my muscle fibers, but I push harder. My pace ratchets up from punishing to destructive, fast enough that my Garmin starts beeping warnings about heart rate zones I’m choosing to ignore. 170. 175. 180.
You were right to run from him.
The thought loops through my head in time with my footfalls. It's like a fuel source that sits in my brain and supplies the rest of my body with enough rage to power a small city. Because ateveryfucking opportunity, James proves to me that he's the least reliable, most chaotic, and most selfish man on the planet.
You were right to ghost him.
For weeks since I fled that library study room—since he’d fucked me against a desk and momentarily made me forget every carefully constructed defense I’d ever built—I’ve been second-guessing myself. Because what if hehaschanged, and what if wecouldhave a future?
The muscle memory still wakes me up at night. The feel of his calloused hands roaming over my body, the taste of his mouth, and the way he’d looked at me like I was something worth studying, worth understanding, and worthkeepingforever despite our past.
I’d started to doubt my instincts, like maybe I’d overreacted when I stormed out and then doubled down each time I deleted his texts. But last night proved my instincts were dead on and that my braindoesknow better than my body when it comes to what's good for me.
I round the corner onto the north campus path, my favorite stretch because it’s all uphill and hurts like hell. My hamstrings are screaming now, joining the symphony of protest from every major muscle group, because this isn’t training, it’s punishment.
He’s still the same boy who breaks beautiful things for applause.
The words pulse through me with each stride, nailing shut any crack in my armor where hope might have tried to crawl through. Those glimpses I’d caught—the quiet focus during our study sessions, the way he’d stood up to Galloway like my honor was worth risking his eligibility—were just part of the show.
They had to be.
Because the real James is the one who stood on that stage last night, beaming under the spotlights while he turned my team’s struggle into inspiration porn for donors. While he made us their charity case of the month, taking my dignity and auctioning it off for tax-write-offs.
A second set of footsteps falls into rhythm beside me, and I don’t need to look to know who it is. Mills has this particular stride—shorter than mine but twice as determined, like she’s personally negotiating with gravity for every inch of forward motion.
“I don't want to talk.” I grit the words out between breaths, not breaking pace, and not daring to stop even though sweat is already freezing in my hair.
“Copy that.” Mills matches my speed without visible effort. “I’m coming with you anyway.”
We pound through three blocks of campus in loaded silence, our synchronized breathing the only sound in the pre-dawn darkness. The streetlights cast long shadows that we chase and abandon in steady rhythm. I can feel her building up to say something, and I brace for her analysis.
“James' speech last night was a fail of epic proportions,” she finally says, her words clipped between footfalls. “Acknowledge that first.”
“No shit.”
“But here’s where it doesn’t make sense.” She doesn’t even sound winded. “Explain the supplies and the fact he confronted Galloway…"
I can't, so I deflect. “He put me in a fucking zoo, Mills. Did you see their faces? The way they looked at us after?" I scoff. "Professor Wellington actually asked if we needed her to organize a clothing drive, like we're the campus charity cases rather than elite athletes who just want to be funded like the others…”
“I’m not saying the execution wasn’t fucked?—”
“It wasn’t fucked, it was calculated.” The words come out in angry bursts between increasingly ragged breaths. “It was him doing what he always does—making himself the hero of someone else’s story. Because he doesn’t give a shit about our program, he gives a shit about being the guy whosavedour program.”
My legs are approaching failure now, that telltale wobble that means my fast-twitch fibers are shot. My form is deteriorating—heel-striking instead of midfoot, shoulders climbing toward my ears. But I push harder, fast enough that Mills has to actually work to keep up, her breathing finally showing effort.
Mills lets me simmer in my anger for a few minutes. As we run, the trees around us are starting to emerge from the darkness, that grey pre-dawn light that makes everything look like a photocopy of itself. Then her voice drops into that analytical tone she uses when she’s about to deliver a crushing check.
“Let’s accept your hypothesis," she says. "He’s a selfish bastard who only cares about personal glory and getting laughs from the crowd.”
“He is.” My voice cracks on the assessment, throat raw from the cold air and something else I won’t name.
