Page 11 of The Longest Shot
When the other girls join me, on time rather than early, I drive them through drill after drill, whistle sharp in the empty arena. Stops that spray perfect arcs. Starts that make quads burn. The other players—my girls, my team, my responsibility—get no respite.
And, while they respond with grimaces and muttered curses, they do the work. Because I push myself harder than I ask them to. Because, unlike everyone else in this building, they believe in what we're building. Because they trust me to lead them through the bullshit to something better.
"Riley!" Bri calls from the bench. "Can I see you?"
I skate over. "Yeah?"
"You need to ease up," she says. "Every one of those girls is already giving you everything."
"Everything isn't enough," I say. "They need to beperfect,because everyone's waiting for us to fail and to prove women's hockey is just a Title IX checkbox."
"They need to not be injured before we play our first game." Her voice is gentle but firm. "And anger isn't a sustainable fuel source."
Want to bet?I think, but don't say.
Because anger got me through Montana, through building a reputation as someone you don't fuck with, through every coach who said I was too cold to be a real leader. Anger is reliable, controllable, and safe—unlike whatever my body did in that conference room.
Unlike the memory of Rook saying my name, soft and surprised.
Unlike the part of me—small, buried but apparently not dead—that wonders what would have happened if I'd stayed on the hood of that truck, if I'd fought back instead of walking away, or if I'd made him explain why two weeks of perfection deserved to end with jokes.
But that's the thing about anger.
It's so much easier than hope.
Except my body didn't get the memo.
five
ROOK
Our ice timeended five minutes ago, but we're still here.
Schmidt's setting up cones for some half-assed breakaway drill that's really just an excuse to show off his disgustingly perfect wrist shot. Which is funny, given Kellerman just sent a shot so wide it almost hit Coach, who's minding his own business on the bench given practice is officially over.
"Nice one, Keller!" I shout. "Were you aiming for the parking lot?"
The whole team's roaring, and this is exactly what I need. Twenty guys trash-talking and laughing, skates cutting ice with that specific grinding sound that's better than any music. It fills every available frequency in my skull, leaving no room for the quiet stuff.
Like my dad asking if one championship is all I've got in me.
Or my mom's surgical silence when I mention my GPA.
Or the way Morgan looked right through me in that hallway like I was a ghost.
"Rook!" Martinez calls out, gliding backward with his stick raised. "Are you going to take a shot or just stand there looking pretty?"
"Both!" I fire back, grabbing a puck, enjoying the rare time away from guarding the net. "I'm multitalented like that! Ask your mom!"
More laughter. Cooper doesn't even look up from where he's methodically collecting pucks along the boards, but I catch the slightest shake of his head. That's practically a standing ovation from him.
God, I could mainline this sound straight into my veins. It's better than any drug, even as I'm winding up for what's definitely going to be an embarrassing miss, because goalies can't shoot for shit. But goaliesespeciallycan't shoot for shit when there's movement out of the corner of their eye.
Dark jerseys. A line of them. The women's team.
And at the front of that line: Morgan Riley.
Jesus Christ.
