Chapter 37 #2
My eyes find Rook across the room. He’s still standing quietly with his team, watching me with those impossibly warm brown eyes that have seen me at my absolute worst—running from feelings like they’re contagious, building walls like I’m preparing for a siege, treating vulnerability like it’s fatal—and somehow still look at me like I’m worth orchestrating coups for.
And suddenly, with the force of a perfectly executed power play, I understand. This wasn’t impulse. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t Rook trying to be the hero with spotlights and fanfare. This was a fucking chess match executed with surgical precision, and he just achieved checkmate.
The boy who once tried to save me with a disastrous performance has evolved into a man who dismantles empires through strategic silence. He didn’t just bring his team, he built a coalition. He leveraged networks I couldn’t access and called in debts from years back.
And, for it to work, he needed me to open up, let others in, and trust someone.
We both did what neither of us could do alone.
The revelation hits me with enough force to rearrange my molecular structure. I grip the table’s edge to keep from visibly swaying, because James Fitzgerald just revealed himself to be exactly the partner I need, and I'm pretty damn sure he'd say the same about me at this exact moment.
“This is extortion,” Galloway says, but his voice has lost its teeth, deflating like a punctured ego.
“It’s collective bargaining,” the basketball captain corrects. “Something we learned in Professor Williams’s labor history class."
Decaf Board Member finally speaks, each word dragged out like it’s physically painful. “The financial implications of a comprehensive athletic strike would be…”
“Catastrophic,” Steel-Bun finishes, her gaze dissecting Galloway like he’s a specimen she’s about to preserve in formaldehyde. “The media attention alone would crater enrollment, not to mention that we'd have alumni out for blood and penalties from each of the athletic conferences to pay…"
They’re doing rapid calculations, and Galloway is coming up as a deficit they can’t afford. “This is ridiculous,” he blusters. “You can’t seriously be—”
“Mr. Galloway, you've said enough,” Steel-Bun interrupts with the finality of a guillotine. “Do the right thing, or we will vote for someone who will."
Galloway’s mouth opens and closes in a passable goldfish impression.
Then, with the sudden collapse of a man watching his kingdom turn to ash, he deflates into his expensive leather throne.
Because, whatever his ego, he knows the athletic director can be removed by a vote of the board, and he's lost the numbers.
“The women’s hockey program will receive full funding restoration,” he says, each word extracted like a rotten tooth.
I grin, savoring the victory, then decide to push my luck and go for the kill. "And the… 'elevated GPA requirements…'?"
"Suspended immediately." He glares at me as he says the words, and I give him the sweetest smile back. "For all programs."
Marcus nods once, satisfied. “Then we appreciate your time, and we expect the board to honor its commitments.”
The room empties in reverse order—football players first, then the other captains, then the men’s hockey team. Each group files out in the same silence they entered with, their point made without a single raised voice or thrown punch.
Coach Walsh leads my team out, and squeezes my shoulder as she passes. “Nice work, Morgue,” she murmurs.
Then, it’s just me and James.
He waits by the door while I gather my things with hands that are shaking like I’ve mainlined espresso.
My beautiful, never-opened binder feels like a prop from a play that got cancelled on opening night.
All those hours of preparation, all those color-coded arguments, and I never fired a single shot.
No. That’s not right.
The battle was won because I finally learned that life isn't a solo mission.
We’re the last to leave, and in the hallway, I stop in front of him. “You didn’t make a single joke,” I say, and my voice comes out soft with wonder.
“Figured the room was loud enough already.” He grins. “And besides, you didn’t try to go in there alone, so it looks like we’re both learning.”
He meets my eyes then, steady and clear and absolutely nothing like the scattered boy who turned that gala into a disaster movie.
And, yet again, he's letting the two of us exist in the silence, comfortable in the moment.
He's not filling the silence with gags, and I'm not running from the seriousness of it all.
I don't think about it. I just move.
I collide with his chest, my arms wrapping around his torso before my brain catches up with my body. He freezes for half a heartbeat, probably because me initiating physical contact with anyone is about as likely as Galloway developing a conscience.
Then his arms come around me, solid and warm and there, and something inside me that's been clenched tight for three years just… releases. I press my face into his shoulder, and for once I don't analyze why I'm doing this or what it means or how vulnerable it makes me.
I just let myself be held and feel us starting to take root in soil I thought was too damaged for anything to grow. Because he’s right. We are learning. Learning to trust, to lean, to be partners. Instead of him thinking he has to fill every silence and me being convinced I'm better off alone.
Learning that sometimes love isn’t grand gestures or perfect words or spotlights and speeches. That sometimes it’s just showing up and standing still, or letting someone else—or, to be precise, a whole campus full of athletes—stand next to you.
Finally, I look up at him. "We did it," I say.
"Yep." He grins. "Now, I just need to ace my final…"
I frown, surprised. "But Galloway said the—"
"I want to ace it, Morgan." He rests his head on my chin. "I need to."
Suddenly, I see. He's been so focused on doing the right thing by me, he's suppressed what he wants—and what he needs—for days now.
He'd clearly known there'd be a chance that Galloway would overturn the draconian academic requirements he'd placed on the men's team, but he doesn't want to succeed based on that.
He wants to do this.
He wants to prove he's not the dumb jock.
He wants to prove he's a worthy captain who rises to the challenge.
And I want to help him.
I smile up at him. "When's the final?"
"Tomorrow morning…" He sighs, suddenly sounding defeated.
"Well, we better prepare." I pull away from him, then smirk. "Are you coming?"