Chapter 19
nineteen
ROOK
And the culprit just bought me a doughnut at Pine Barren Bagels.
My body has not stopped humming since I left that wobbly table, and it's not just adrenaline, but something deeper and more cellular. It's the ghost of his touch, the way his voice drops an octave when he said my name, the memory of moments with him that could easily have been so many more.
But can now never happen again.
The familiar smell that permeates our locker room usually grounds me, but today even that smells wrong. And I know that, deep down, what's really making me feel off is that I feel vulnerable. My guard is down, and I opened up to him, and now I'm scared.
But fuck if I'm going to tell anyone else that.
The sound of metal scraping against metal cuts through my spiral. Mills is at her stall, running a whetstone along her skate blade. She looks up as I approach, and her eyes narrow with that particular brand of perception that makes her dangerous.
“OK, what the hell happened to you?" Mills sets down the whetstone, cataloging every one of my micro-expressions like she's collecting evidence for a prosecution. "Did you accidentally smile this morning? Is your face broken? Should I call medical?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, but the words come out flat.
"You look… weird…" Mills says, then squints at me like I'm a puzzle missing half its pieces, or like she's seeing a totally new person for the first time.
Which, to be fair, she might be. "Actually, no.
You look like you just got laid. Or punched.
Or both. Honestly, with you, I can't tell the difference. "
"Fascinating analysis," I manage, but my voice catches. Shit.
Mills's jaw actually drops. "Oh my God. You did get laid."
"I did not—"
"You totally did! Holy fuck, Morgan Riley has feelings and working lady parts! Alert the media! Stop the presses! The Ice Queen has melted!"
"Mills—"
"Was it good? Please tell me it was good. You deserve good. After three months of watching you eye-fuck the playbook instead of actual humans—"
"It wasn't sex," I snap, and immediately regret it because that's basically an admission that it was something.
“OK…" Mills goes perfectly still, gesturing at the concrete behind me. "But now you're just staring at the wall behind you…"
I force myself to focus, to summon the cold, analytical persona that has kept me safe for three years. "Your observational skills are truly groundbreaking."
But the words lack the bite I was aiming for. They're hollow, distracted. I sound like I'm reading from cue cards written by someone who's only heard of sarcasm secondhand. And, in response, Mills freezes midmotion, a slow smirk spreading across her face.
"Holy shit," she whispers. "You didn't bite back."
"What?"
"You didn't deliver one of your signature, soul-crushing dissertations, or give me a glare that could melt steel.
You just gave me store-brand sarcasm, generic and uninspired.
" Her grin widens. "That's how I know something is really, truly up.
Spill. Now. Or I'm texting the entire team that you have a crush. "
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me. I've got the group chat open right now." She waves her phone at me, her thumb hovering dramatically over the screen. "Three… two…"
She's right, and that's the worst part. My usual defense mechanisms are malfunctioning because my brain is still processing the way James's whole body changed when he talked about being his family's emotional crutch, his shoulders pulling inward, that manic energy draining away like someone pulled a plug.
Abort mission. Change the subject before she figures out you're having feelings for him.
Before I can scramble for a deflection, Mills clearly sees I'm uncomfortable, and pivots, holding up her skate like evidence in a murder trial.
A deep nick runs along the blade's edge, and I know those skates have reached the end of their life and probably aren't even safe to skate on. Yet here she is, sharpening them.
"Look at this shit," she says. "I'm out there skating on butter knives while the men's team gets new steel every time someone sneezes on theirs."
The familiar territory of institutional injustice is solid ground, and I grab onto it like a lifeboat. "It's not fair, but I'll handle it."
"Right." Mills's voice is weighed down by twenty or so pounds of skepticism. "Because that's worked so well before. Remember when we requested practice jerseys and Galloway sent us men's large-size leftovers that looked like dresses on all of us?"
I retreat to Coach Walsh's desk before she can probe further, grateful for the physical distance. The PBU procurement portal loads with glacial slowness on the ancient desktop—probably running on software older than some of our freshmen, another sign that we get only the finest…
Focus. Steel blades. Two sets. Standard replacement request.
The form is simple, and I know it like the back of my hand. Setting up a hockey program from scratch means a lot of purchase forms. I type in the item description, quantity, and a justification, each keystroke helping me to reassert control over my chaotic thoughts.
Then I click submit.
For thirty seconds, I can pretend everything is fine and that my biggest concern is Mills's damaged equipment, and that I didn't just spend an hour dismantling three years of carefully constructed defenses. But then an email arrives, barely a minute after I'd submitted the request.
The subject line is three words:
Request Status Update.
My stomach drops. This doesn't seem right, because processing takes days.
I open it, even though I already know what it will say:
DENIED
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale, because in a university this size, where the paperwork has paperwork, no one processes requests this quickly unless they're waiting for them. So I click the embedded link with mounting dread, and the memo loads:
Effective immediately, all non-essential equipment requests for the Women's Hockey Program are subject to enhanced budgetary review.
This temporary measure ensures fiscal responsibility during the current allocation period.
Essential items are defined as those directly related to immediate safety concerns.
All other requests will be evaluated after the fiscal quarter.
The fiscal quarter ends in three months, which means three months of making do with damaged equipment and watching my players' frustration curdle into resentment. Suddenly, the taste of copper floods my mouth, and I realize I've bitten my cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Then the truth crashes over me: this timing isn't coincidental.
Less than twenty-four hours after Rook publicly defied Galloway, the retaliation has arrived wrapped in bureaucratic neutrality. Galloway is dismantling my program's ability to function, using Rook's moment of decency as the trigger. And his weapons are memos and budgets and plausible deniability.
Mills's voice cuts through. "What the fuck is that face?"
She's standing in the doorway with Coach Walsh, both wearing expressions of mounting concern. But, this time, Mills isn't poking fun at me based on how I looked entering the locker room, because she can plainly see the smoldering rage written all over my face.
"What happened?" Bri's question is sharp, already calculating damage control.
I turn the monitor toward them, letting the DENIED speak for itself.
"Son of a bitch!" Mills slams her hand against the doorframe. "What is his fucking problem? We're asking for skate blades, not a goddamn golden Zamboni!"
"I submitted a travel budget first thing this morning that also got canned," Bri says. "When did the rejection come through?"
"Sixty seconds after I submitted it."
Bri's face hardens. "Everything we submit is getting auto-rejected."
"But why?" Mills asks. "What changed?"
They both turn to me, expecting answers.
Expecting their captain to have intel, to fix this.
And, instantly, guilt starts to gnaw at me, because a moment of weakness has buried our program.
I drill my team relentlessly to avoid that sort of weakness on the ice, and now I've proven myself to be a hypocrite.
Bri's eyes narrow. "Morgan, did something happen in your meeting with him? Did you say something that—"
"You think this is my fault?" The defensive snap surprises even me, because it's too sharp, too revealing.
"I think Galloway doesn't do anything without a reason," Bri says carefully. "And if he's targeting us specifically, then something triggered it."
She's right, and I could explain that this isn't about my aggression but my vulnerability. That Galloway is punishing us because James decided, for once in his chaos-driven life, to do something serious. But that would mean admitting I'm not in control and that we're probably fucked.
"I'll handle it," I say, the words clipped and final.
"How?" Mills asks. "He's got us in a chokehold."
"I said I'll handle it."
"Fine," Mills says, though nothing about her tone suggests she thinks it's fine. "But we're playing Ottawa in five days, and we need functional equipment."
"You'll have it."
It's a promise I have no idea how to keep, but it seems to satisfy them for now. After shooting me one last look, Mills puts on her broken skates and heads out on the ice, while Bri heads for her office. That leaves me alone, with nothing but the guilt for company.
Welcome to academic politics, where the points are made up and the rules only apply to people without penises.
I've tried playing by the rules, and all it got me was being touched up by an athletic director drunk on power and my girls skating on broken blades. But the alternative, chaos and a bit of deception, is not something that comes naturally to me.
I'm a woman who relies on discipline, systems, structure, and hard work.
The alternative?
Well, it's James Fitzgerald.
I think about his hands around his ridiculous coffee drink. The way he laid himself bare, explaining the wounds that made him who he is. How his whole body vibrated with nervous energy, like stillness might kill him. But that fragile truce we negotiated isn't just personal anymore.
It's a tactical necessity.
He has access Galloway hasn't cut off yet, connections I can only dream of. But, most importantly, he has the kind of chaotic, unorthodox approach that might be the only way to fight a war where the enemy controls all the conventional weapons.
This isn't about feelings. This isn't about forgiveness.
This is about survival.
My team's survival.
And if that means weaponizing my alliance with James, then game on.