Chapter 2
two
MORGAN
Art Galloway wants me to beg, and I'd rather set myself on fire.
The leather chair groans beneath me as I perch on its edge, refusing to sink into it. That's what he wants—for me to lean back and get comfortable while he pats me on the head and sends me on my way with nothing but condescension disguised as a business card for his cousin's used equipment shop.
My binder sits open on his mahogany desk like evidence, its pages a splash of reality to help me fight against his bullshit. Every page is tabbed and color-coded proof of the promises he made when he flew to Montana to recruit me as captain of Pine Barren's inaugural women's hockey team.
Three months ago, he'd sat across from me in a Missoula coffee shop, eyes bright with what I'd mistaken for genuine enthusiasm. "We're building something special, Morgan," he'd said, sliding glossy brochures across the table. "Full NCAA support. State-of-the-art facilities. You'll make history."
But now, the binder documents every assurance that evaporated the moment I signed my transfer papers.
"—and as you can see from the comparison data," I say, voice level as a blade, "our current ice allocation is less than sixty percent of the NCAA Division I minimum standard, which is frankly unacceptable given this is a brand new program with players who've never played together before."
My finger taps the graph I spent three hours perfecting, because I knew he'd look for any excuse to dismiss what I'm trying to show him.
I can see him on the hunt, his eyes scanning for a crooked line, a typo, an incorrect data point—anything that would let him write me off as a hysterical girl playing at being an athlete.
His reading glasses sit crooked on his nose, but he doesn't seem to need them to read, even going so far as to take them off when he's looking at something closely.
A prop, probably, because men like him don't actually read, but rather wait for you to stop talking so they can explain why you're wrong.
"Sixty percent," he repeats, drawing out the words like he's savoring them. "You know, when I played football here—"
"With all due respect, Mr. Galloway, the football team never had to share field time with three other programs while trying to establish itself from scratch."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Interrupting already? That's not very… collegiate of you."
The word hangs between us, loaded with subtext. I know what he's really saying: not very ladylike of you.
"The ice time is compounded by significant resource shortages." I flip to the next tab, the slick paper making a soft shiff sound. "We're reusing tape that should be medical waste, and my third-line winger is playing with a stick held together by prayer."
Each word tastes metallic—the flavor of humiliation—because I've been the victim of this sort of con before. In high school, I had my captaincy stolen from me by lies and manipulation, and the teenage girl who got ambushed by her best friend should have seen this coming.
But apparently I needed the lesson twice.
His chair creaks. Behind him, his glory wall screams its insecurity: photos with every semi-famous athlete to pass through PBU, a jersey from his PBU football-playing days that wouldn't fit over one arm anymore, and that championship ring he twists when he wants you to notice it.
"Well, that's quite a presentation, Morgan," he says, in a tone he might use with an intern fetching his dry cleaning. "Thank you for putting so much effort into it."
"I put effort into it because my team deserves resources," I say. "The resources you promised when you recruited me."
"Promised?" He leans back, and his chair protests under the shift. "I don't recall making promises. I recall discussing possibilities, potential trajectories—"
"You said, and I quote, 'guaranteed practice slots equivalent to the men's team.'" I flip to a page where I've transcribed his exact words from our meeting. "That was March 15th, 2:17 p.m., at the Breakwater Café in Missoula."
He chuckles, actually chuckles, like I've told him a charming anecdote about a puppy. "You recorded our conversation?"
"I document everything that matters."
"How very… thorough."
He gestures to the wall where a photo from last week's banner ceremony holds pride of place. Him grinning as the men's team clusters around him, boys who've never had to justify their existence. The frame's price sticker is still visible: $89.99, which would buy us a week's worth of tape.
"You see, Morgan, each athletic program needs to understand strategic priorities." His hands fold across his stomach, straining against his shirt buttons. "The men's team delivers huge ROI. Championships, NHL draft picks, donor engagement."
Right. Because forty-three days with me in charge of this program is definitely enough time to cure cancer, split the atom, and get the rivers of booster gold flowing into your office, I think, but manage to keep from saying.
I should probably have three Stanley Cups by now, and maybe a Nobel Prize just to be safe.
He seems to take my silence as an invitation to continue, when in reality it takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes or fire back some snark. But as he leans forward, something shifts in his expression, and his smile morphs into something that makes my stomach clench.
"What your program needs, kiddo, is to prove it can put asses in seats," he says.
On the word "asses," his eyes drop.
Not subtle. Not quick. Not even pretending to be accidental.
His gaze starts at my face and crawls downward with predatory patience.
Stops at my chest—one second, two—for long enough that his assistant Patricia could brew an entire pot of coffee.
Then down to my waist, my hips, and finally where my skirt—which suddenly feels three inches too short—meets my thighs.
And the whole time, it's clear he's not just looking.
He's appraising inventory.
My inventory.
Every biological instinct screams at me to run. My muscles coil tight, that ancient prey response flooding my system with adrenaline that has nowhere to go. The office suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in, the door much too far away.
But I've survived worse than this—social crucifixion at age seventeen, and heartbreak courtesy of James Fitzgerald a year later—and there's no way in hell I'll give this creep the satisfaction of thinking he's got me rattled. So I just sit there, disdain clear on my face, until he's done.
And when his eyes finally travel back to my face, his smirk celebrates what just happened. The inventory he just took of my body. The filthy thoughts that probably just filled his head. The prospect of parading the pretty young thing at donor dinners and saying, "look how progressive we are!"
But then he reaches across the desk. His hand, damp with unhealthy sweat, lands on mine where it rests on my binder. The contact sends ice through my veins. Not fear—I killed that emotion years ago—but revulsion so pure it could strip paint.
Two pats.
Like I'm a golden retriever who performed a trick.
"I admire your drive, kiddo. Really." His thumb moves—just barely—stroking the side of my hand.
The motion is so slight it could almost be accidental, except for the way his eyes glitter with satisfaction, watching for my reaction like a cat with a cornered mouse.
But I know that to give in—to say something or pull away from him—will not only mark me as weak but it will also be the death of any chance of funding.
He continues. "That kind of… dedication opens doors, because opportunities present themselves to girls with your particular… assets."
The pause before "assets" is obscene, because we both know what he means.
Girls.
Not women. Not athletes.
Girls.
But I don't pull away. That's what he wants, to see me recoil so he can play wounded.
I was just being friendly. You know how they overreact.
And, not for the first time, I recall my mother telling me to never let creeps see how they affect you, and instead become the person nobody would dare pat on the hand.
But then, she never learned at seventeen that trust is just betrayal with a longer fuse.
"Well." Galloway withdraws his hand, leaving dampness on my skin. "I'm confident you'll find creative solutions, smart girl like you…"
"But—"
He cuts me off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just remember, every empire started with someone willing to play the long game."
As he chuckles at his own wisdom, it's clear he's done pretending to listen and that I'm dismissed. I close my binder slowly, the thwack sharp enough to make him glance up, and for half a second, I let him see it—the fury that could burn this entire athletic department to ash.
Then I smooth my expression back to professional neutrality. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Galloway."
"Call me Art," he says, that awful smile spreading, his eyes once again looking me up and down. "We're all family here."
I walk to the door, and as my hand touches the doorknob, I feel his eyes again. Not looking at me, but looking at my ass and cataloguing the rear view. The sensation crawls up my spine, but I don't run, because there's no way in hell I'll give him the satisfaction.
I open the door with controlled precision, step through, and close it with a soft click.
Back in the reception area, Patricia glances up from her desk, her expression a symphony of pity and resignation that I can read like a book, a look she's probably given a million female staff and students over the years.
I'm sorry, honey. I've seen this movie before.
I walk away with my binder clutched against my chest. And, with each step, I curse myself for falling for it, because I knew this would happen when I moved from a small but decent program to Pine Barren for the promise of Division I glory.
I didn't expect the visual molestation or the hand-pat that still makes my skin crawl, but the general shape of it was predictable, the promises evaporating and the resources dangling just out of reach.
It's all designed to remind me I'm not a captain or player or person, that I'm just a girl playing dress-up in a man's world.
This is what trust gets you.
The thought comes with James Fitzgerald's face that night, years ago, when his laughter had cut through my question about our future, turning months of connection into a punchline. That was the last time I'd trusted anyone, and it doesn't look like Galloway is going to break the trend.
My team needs the ice time, equipment, and resources that Galloway had promised me when he'd flown to Montana to sell me on the idea of captaining the PBU women's team. But it's clear that Galloway will never give us what we need, because he sees us as accessories rather than athletes.
But I'm done begging.
If Art Galloway thinks I'll smile and simper, playing pretty for the donors and happy to prance around on the ice for a third of the time the men get, he's catastrophically mistaken. Because I built the Montana program up from nothing, and I'll do it again right here.
Without his help.
Without anyone's help, if necessary.
Trust no one, I think. Maybe I should get that tattooed right on my forehead.
My phone buzzes. A message from Amelia "Mills" Ramirez, my number-two:
How'd it go, Cap?
I stare at the screen, because I know she's the vanguard of the two dozen girls who put their faith in me, who trusted me, when I promised we'd build something real. And, as much as I struggle to trust anyone these days, I also won't let down the people who've put it all on the line for me.
I type a message back:
Working on it.
Because that's what you do when people are counting on you. You lie. You pretend you have a plan. You act like you're not standing in a hallway with another man's sweat still contaminating your skin, calculating exactly how much indignity you can swallow before you choke.
You survive.
And then you find a way to win anyway, just to spite them all.