Page 101 of The Longest Shot
But she doesn’t.
She meets me halfway.
Her eyes close as I get near, dark lashes against her cheeks, and when my lips finally touch hers, it’s nothing like our other kisses. Not angry collision or desperate combustion. It's soft and careful and tender, a question asked quietly and answered gently, an invitation into previously locked-away lands.
Her lips are warm under mine and when she sighs into the kiss, I feel it everywhere—chest, stomach, fingertips. I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, feeling silk-soft skin, and she leans into the touch like she’s been starving for gentleness.
The kiss deepens without desperation. It stays intentional, like we have all the time in a world. Her tongue touches mine, exploring. My other hand finds her waist, fingers spreading across warm cotton, feeling the firm muscle underneath, the perfect curve of her.
When she threads her fingers through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp, the sound I make should be embarrassing, but I’m beyond caring. And, in response to my moan/groan, I feel her smile against my lips, which makes me want to make it all over again.
The kiss breaks naturally, neither of us pulling away sharply. Our foreheads rest together, and we just breathe, sharing the same small space. My hand stays on her cheek, my thumb tracing the faint smattering of freckles there, and her hand stays tangled in my hair.
“That was definitely different,” she whispers against my lips, her voice warm and a little breathless. "You quiet, and me not running or putting up walls…"
“Well, let's make it routine,” I whisper back, then lean in to kiss her again, because the only thing I want to be predictable about right now is this.
thirty-seven
MORGAN
The words tastelike broken glass coming out of my mouth: “I need you to stand with me.”
Twenty pairs of eyes stare back at me in our freshly painted locker room. For a moment, I wonder if I've horribly miscalculated this situation and my standing with these girls. I wouldn't blame them; I've spent so long pushing them away, so who am I to ask for help now?
But then Mills breaks the silence. “Fuckingfinally,” she says, with an exasperated sigh.
I start to respond, but my voice cracks, betraying the careful control I’ve spent three years perfecting. But I don't mind showing some emotion this morning. Not since a boy with chaos in his blood learned how to be still, and I learned that strong doesn’t mean alone.
Coach Walsh steps forward, her professional blazer masking the fury radiating off her in waves. “We’re with you, Morgan, every one of us, every step of the way.”
There's nods and backslaps and excited agreement, the sounds of a team that's been underestimated all semester and done nothing but win, despite the efforts of their ownadministration. Then, as one, we stand from our lockers and begin the walk to our showdown with Galloway.
I lead the walk to the administration building, and my entire team follows behind me, twenty-one pairs of sneakers creating a rhythm like a military march. When we get there, the boardroom door looms ahead, all dark wood and institutional intimidation, the same room in which Galloway made a pass at me.
The same room in which Rook stood up for me.
Stoodwithme,besideme.
Mills shifts closer. “Ready to fuck shit up, Captain?” she murmurs.
Despite everything, my lips twitch. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Only on Sundays.”
The normalcy of her crude humor loosens the vise around my lungs just enough to let oxygen reach my brain. So, with one final nod, I push open the door and head inside, followed by Mills, Coach Walsh, and the rest of the girls, who fill up the space on the edges of the room like we fill a defensive zone.
Galloway sits at the head of the conference table, his thick fingers steepled in a way I’m sure he thinks looks contemplative but actually resembles a toad attempting prayer. He looks like one of the portraits of the dead white men adorning the wall, who definitely had opinions about female ankles showing.
Two board members flank him like gargoyles guarding a particularly uninspiring cathedral. The woman has steel-gray hair scraped into a severe bun, and the man beside her wears the permanent expression of someone discovering his coffee is decaf after it’s too late.
“Ms. Riley,” Galloway says, savoring each syllable. “How… thorough of you to bring your entire team to what was supposed to be a simple budget meeting.”
I take my seat across from him, placing my binder on the table with the precision of a sniper setting up a position. My team lines the back wall, a silent jury in crimson and black that makes me feel simultaneously powerful and exposed, like I’ve brought witnesses to watch me bleed out.
“Transparency seems important when discussing the future of my team and the athletes on it,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the battery acid doing parkour in my stomach. "And when discussing the promises that were made tothem, byyou, when you recruitedmeto lead your female hockey program."
His smile is as false as his hair. “How admirable, though I’m afraid their futures are precisely what we need to discuss. The fiscal realities of maintaining a program that has yet to prove its viability are proving to be especially difficult, and?—”
