Page 28 of The Longest Shot
"We're out of hot water," I say, keeping my voice level despite wanting to introduce his face to a wall. "Like every day since you forced us to share."
Galloway's smile widens. "These old buildings have maintenance issues, but I'm sure you girls can… make do."
Fire burns in my stomach, but I swallow the acid I want to spit his way, because I know my team will pay the price if I talk back to Galloway. So I swallow my pride, because twenty women depend on me keeping my mouth shut and playing the game.
But James?
That might be another story.
Because I'm not looking at Galloway anymore. I'm watching James. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whiteagainst his thighs, and his chest rising and falling in controlled breaths, nostrils flaring—all the signs of someone fighting to speak.
It's clear he knows how to be a hero when it's simple and there's no cost.
But now?
With Galloway's hand on his shoulder like a brand of ownership?
When Galloway worships the ground his golden boy walks on?
Say something.
The vein in his temple throbs harder and his lips part slightly, and I stand there, waiting for words that would mean everything but cost him nothing, because the men's team has every resource, every advantage, and every ounce of the AD's favor. Hell, ifanyonecould speak up without consequences, it's him.
But the silence stretches, and James does absolutely nothing.
"You boys work hard," Galloway announces to the room, giving James's shoulder another squeeze. "You deserve those hot showers."
The dismissal is surgical.
The men deserve comfort, and the girls deserve scraps.
He turns to leave, pausing at the door for one last look, then the door swings shut with a decisive click, leaving behind the kind of silence that makes you wish for death or at least temporary deafness. Nobody fills it, not the guys who are suddenlysuperinterested in the contents of the locker, or the few girls in here.
But then he does it.
He actuallyfuckingdoes it.
He makes a joke.
"You girls are always saying you want more attention, Riley…" he says, grinning. "Guess you got it."
The joke doesn't just fail to land, it evaporates on contact with the cold fury in the room. Because he hadn't just kept quiet and failed to defend me, but he'd taken the sentiment of Galloway's slimy visual assault, repackaged it as locker-room banter, and tried to hand it back to me.
I don't say a word. I just stare at him, and I let him see the cold, hard certainty that he is the most disappointing person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. Even his teammates look away, suddenly finding the scuffs on their boots fascinating.
His stupid grin falters, then dies completely.
Without another word, I turn and walk back to the showers, my bare feet slapping against wet tile with each step. I don't run, because running would give them satisfaction. I walk with my spine straight, shoulders back, and when I reach the shower it's still arctic when I turn it on.
But now it feels appropriate.
The universe's liquid "I told you so."
I press my palms flat against the tile wall and let the icy water punish me for my own stupidity. Let it wash away Galloway's visual assault, the heat of James's proximity, the bitter taste of expecting anything different from either of them or being disappointed.
The cold burrows into my bones, and I welcome it. I stand there until my lips go numb, until my fingers turn that concerning purple-white, until I can't feel anything except the blessed absence of feeling. It's like the water is returning me to my natural state, whether I like it or not.
Cold.
