Page 10 of The Longest Shot
"Nervous," I supplied.
"Me too." He pressed his forehead to mine, trembling—this six-foot-three goalie who faced hundred-mile-per-hour slapshots without flinching. "I want this to be good for you. I want—fuck, I want everything to be good for you, but I don't really know what I'm doing…"
The words landed harder than any touch. In a world where everyone wanted something—grades, victories, perfection—he just wanted to give me something good. And, when he finally pushed inside me, after using his fingers to learn exactly how to make me gasp and arch, it burned.
I dug my nails into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. But it was necessary, breaking down muscle to buildit stronger. He went slow, so slow I could feel every inch, his whole body trembling with restraint, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Move," I gasped. "James, please?—"
He did. Slow, then faster when I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. The rhythm we found was clumsy and perfect, punctuated by waves and breathing and the obscene, wonderful sound of skin against skin, everything too much and not enough and exactly right.
When the orgasm arrived, it took over my whole body, every nerve ending firing while I gasped his name. I felt him follow, his groan vibrating through me as he buried his face in my neck, my name on his lips. The whole thing had lasted about five awkward minutes, but it had felt perfect.
Until I ruined it, a day later, the last of the camp, seated on the hood of his truck.
"So… what happens now?"
Words that shattered everything.
I saw him tense, and saw him deflect with a joke and a smile.
The change in him was instant. The easy, comfortable quiet between us didn't just vanish; it detonated. He recoiled as if I’d pulled the pin on a grenade, his body going rigid. Then came the gags, the verbal deflection. But I didn't listen to it all, because I knew then it was over.
I'd trusted him and been fooled.
I'd walked away so he couldn't see that he'd hurt me, even as tears stung my eyes. The boy I'd given everything to had promised me he wanted to give me everything, and instead took it. And somewhere between his truck and my bed, Morgan Riley died and I was born.
The locker room door bangs open, breaking my reverie, and I realize I'm standing in nothing but my sports bra. "Coach," I say, trying to mask the weird.
"Rough meeting?" The female team's coach—Bri Walsh—doesn't wait for an answer, dropping her gear bag with a thud. "Let me guess… Galloway promised nothing, implied everything we're missing is our fault, and made it sound like we should be grateful he lets us exist."
"While explaining how the men's team deserves their new video analysis system because they're 'proven winners.'" I pull my practice jersey over my head with enough force to catch my earring. "Apparently we need to demonstrate our 'marketability potential' before we can have functional equipment."
"Marketability." Bri's voice could freeze vodka. "Maybe we should all become cheerleaders…"
"He did allude to the tits and ass quotient…" I smirk, despite my earlier mental torture. "Though he called it 'fan engagement metrics.'"
Bri starts changing with practiced efficiency. "You know what kills me? He was a third-string linebacker who spent four years keeping a bench busy."
"Welcome to the meritocracy, where merit is determined by guys who peaked at seventeen."
The door opens again. Amelia Ramirez ("Mills") enters, already dressed for practice, and takes one look at my face before whistling low. "Shit. Who died?"
"Our equipment budget." I shrug. "Also my faith in humanity, but that's been on life support for a while."
"Are you OK?" She steps closer, genuine concern radiating from her, along with the threat of violence to whoever needs to be on the end of it.
"I'm fantastic, Mills." I snort. "I love begging for scraps from men who think I exist for their entertainment."
Mills raises her hands in surrender, but I catch the look she exchanges with Coach Walsh. TheMorgan's in a moodlook. I hate that look almost as much as I hate that my body is still cataloging exactly how James Fitzgerald's hands felt three years ago.
"Ice," I say, finishing pulling on the last of my gear. "Now."
The rink is perfect, with fresh ice reflecting overhead lights, and when the cold air hits my lungs it feels like home. I step onto the ice and push off hard, needing the burn in my thighs, the scrape in my ears, the simple physics of blade against ice.
Control. Precision. Power.
Everything I built myself to be after that night on the beach.
