Chapter 30
thirty
ROOK
Whose bright idea was this?
I'm standing off to the side of the stage at the Pine Barren University annual athletic fundraiser, having volunteered to give the captains' keynote, the slot that's filled by one of the school's athletic captains.
It's a tradition dating back generations, and the hockey captains before me have often been asked to speak.
But the fact I went over Galloway's head to ask to speak makes this an even worse idea.
And now, as the university president drones on about the importance of the athletic program to the university's culture and future, my hands won’t stop shaking.
To worsen it, my rental tux is actively trying to murder me, the bow tie constricting with each swallow like it knows what’s coming and wants out.
Solid game plan, Fitzgerald.
Give the speech of your life, win the girl, and save your career.
Easy, right?
For three weeks, Morgan has been a black hole where a person used to exist, at least as far as I factor in. My phone is proof of that—twenty-seven unread texts, and a few desperate calls that went unanswered. And, by now, I've opened the message thread enough times to have memorized it.
Morgan, please. Just give me five minutes.
I know I fucked up. Let me explain.
The library meant something. You know it did.
Each message is more pathetic than the last, bouncing off her walls like weak wrist shots.
In the hallways, she looks through me. When we’re forced to interact, she calls me ‘Captain Fitzgerald’ in an icy tone.
It's like the fortress she had in place isn't just rebuilt, but she's actually made it even more formidable.
But through it all, I've become even more certain that I want Morgan.
So I'm left with one play.
It’s the James Fitzgerald default.
When quiet arrives, go loud.
When private doesn’t work, you go public.
My entire childhood was training camp for this moment. When Mom was giving Dad the silent treatment, it was time for little James to “accidentally” break something expensive. If the dinner table was ready to explode, I'd tell a joke, good or bad, it didn't matter.
It always worked.
Tension would shatter, they’d focus on me, and kick the issue down the road.
This is just that, but bigger.
Go for gold with Morgan, or flame out trying.
All gas, no brakes.
The event coordinator—a woman whose face suggests she’s perpetually disappointed in everyone, but who has her job because she's probably really-good at shaking down rich assholes for money—gives me the two-minute warning that it's almost my time to speak.
"Tonight, I’m a fucking hero," I say, quietly, trying to convince myself.
My plan is simple.
Galloway upped the ante on Morgan and me, squeezing her team even tighter and putting even harsher academic conditions on me and my guys.
But tonight, all I'm thinking of is her.
So I'll go over Galloway's head, work these boosters like a power play, and inspire them to open their wallets for her program.
And then, she’ll finally see me.
Not as the guy who ruins everything.
Not as the coward who hides behind jokes.
But as the guy who came through when nobody else would.
The guy worthy of her trust, her friendship, and maybe more than that.
It'll cost me with Galloway, because he'll be pissed, but what’s left to lose? My GPA is exploring previously unknown depths. That 2.5 GPA requirement might as well be demanding I cure cancer. My captaincy, my senior year, everything that makes me me—it’s all circling the drain anyway.
Might as well gamble on one last roll of the dice for her.
“Thirty seconds, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
The tux fights me as I smooth it down, bunching in places that suggest it’s allergic to my body type. But I know I'm cool, because when you've survived hundred-mile-an-hour slap shots and been boarded by future NHL defenders, you can handle a bunch of suits.
"And you're on," she says.
I walk through the curtains, the stage lights hit me, and, for a second, I’m swimming in white while my eyes scramble. Then the room materializes in the form of three hundred of Pine Barren University’s biggest donors, watching me with the mild interest of people well into their third martini.
And there, three tables back on the left, is Morgan.
The sight of her hits me hard. She’s wearing black—high-neck, knee-length, all business—but on her it scrambles my brain completely. Her hair is scraped back in that vicious ponytail that always makes me want to mess it up, to see it wild while she—
Focus, you hormonal trainwreck.
But even from here, I can read her body language: shoulders locked, sitting rigid.
She’s flanked by Mills and Coach Walsh, who are both wearing neutral expressions.
It's clear they're all pissed at having to be here at all, given Galloway has gutted their program, and they don't want to give him any more ammo.
The room waits, heavy and expectant.
Fill the silence before it eats you alive.
“Good evening, everyone. I can confirm this tux is a rental, and yeah, I YouTubed the bow tie situation.” I tug at the noose around my neck. “Three tutorials later, still not sure if I nailed it, so if it gives up mid-speech, just… pretend it’s intentional.”
Real laughter ripples through the crowd.
OK, I can work with this. So far, so good.
“I know what you’re thinking: why is the goalie up here?” I pause when there's more laughter, and I grin when someone actually snorts. “Well, just your luck that, while our last four captains are cashing NHL checks, you’re stuck with the guy gunning for a D in sociology….”
There are more laughs, and even the walking jewelry displays crack smiles.
Holy shit. I’ve got them.
“But here’s the thing.” My voice drops, gets serious. “Being a Devil isn’t just about reaching the NHL and hanging banners, although seven championships looks pretty good.” I pause, because these people get hard for winning. “Being a Devil is about the stuff that nobody sees."
I pause, let a few nods wash around the crowd, then go on. "It's the 5:00 a.m. practices when your body’s already spent or the moment you’re down three with two minutes left, and you find something extra. Because you’re not playing for yourself. You’re playing for each other and for this school.”
The room’s gone church-quiet now.
I risk a glance at Morgan. Still frozen, but something’s shifted.
She's looking less like a brick wall, and she's… listening?
“And that’s why I’m up here,” I push on, momentum building. “Because there’s another group of Devils who embody everything I just said, but who’ve been treated second-class and who’ve had to fight for every piece of tape, every minute of ice, every ounce of respect.”
Everyone’s locked in now.
“I’m talking about our women’s hockey team.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd, and Galloway’s face is going from smug to stroke-risk purple. Perfect. He tried to get me pulled from the speakers' list, but the university president insisted, and not even he can fuck with me when the big man upstairs insists on something.
“Those women are warriors.” The conviction in my voice is as strong as steel. “They practice at hours that shouldn’t legally exist. They buy their own gear. They drive themselves to games, burning gas money they don’t have, living on Red Bull and gas station hot dogs.”
I lock eyes with Morgan, but I can't read her expression.
“Tonight, I want to show you what I see, and why these women deserve more than table scraps and why they’re already champions.” I signal the tech guy in the booth, and the lights dim and screens ignite. "Meet the real Devils, the ones fighting in the shadows while the guys party in the spotlight.”
Music starts and the first images appear: the women’s team in beautiful, violent motion, with bodies colliding with controlled fury and the gorgeous chaos of hockey at its purest. The footage is crisp, every frame a work of art, and suddenly the cost of bribing the visual-arts student to make it seems cheap.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
The crowd leans in. Phones disappear. They’re hooked.
The montage continues. Practice at dawn, breath visible in the frozen rink. The timestamp—5:07 a.m.—sells it. These aren’t just athletes; they’re soldiers. Then there's weight room footage of pure determination, and the team huddled before a game.
The music shifts to something emotional, and the images become more intimate. There's one of a player grinning through blood, another taping definitely broken fingers and then skating anyway, and another of Mills on the bench, gasping, then forcing herself up because her line needs her.
This is where Morgan sees that I get it, that I—
The image changes.
My heart doesn’t stop. It explodes.
It’s Morgan. Alone.
She’s crying.
Not movie crying. Raw, ugly, broken crying. The kind that comes from so deep it leaves scars. Her face is unrecognizable with grief. Shoulders shaking with each sob. One hand pressed against her mouth, trying to contain sounds that escape anyway. The other fisted so tight there’s blood on her palm.
The music swells, turning her private agony into entertainment.
The image holds for five seconds. Five seconds of Morgan Riley, the Morgue, shattered and served up for consumption.
And I want it to be the emotional kill shot that tells Morgan I get it and to get these bastards to open their wallets.
As the montage continues, I look at her, my stupid face still wearing triumph, waiting for gratitude. But instead, I watch her die in real time. First, there's that little crease between her eyebrows, like she's processing. Then her lips part, and the color drains from her face.
She goes corpse-pale, every muscle locking.
Her hands grip the tablecloth hard enough to tear.
But her eyes.
Fuck, her eyes.
They show the exact moment she decides that I haven’t elevated her, but instead I’ve violated her. And as she looks at me, I can tell she thinks I’ve taken her most private moment and turned her into exactly what she’s fought against becoming: a sob story.
Her eyes aren’t cold. They’re nuclear.
But underneath the rage is something worse.
Betrayal.
The montage ends, but I stand there, watching Morgan, because nothing else exists.
She doesn't create drama or make a scene. Instead, she simply places her napkin down with surgical precision and rises with a grace that breaks what’s left of my chest. Mills reaches for her, but Morgan shakes her head once.
She doesn’t look at me.
She doesn’t acknowledge my existence.
Instead, she turns, spine military-straight, shoulders squared against the weight of three hundred stares, and walks toward the exit. Her heels click on marble as she exits with the dignity that makes my grand gesture look exactly like what it is: a child’s tantrum in borrowed clothes.
It's exactly like what happened when I sprayed her with the ice.
The last time I tried to make a grand gesture to fix things.
And this time?
Three hundred people watch her leave in absolute silence.
There's not a single sound as Morgan Riley walks out of the ballroom, out of the gala, and out of my life. The door closes with a click that echoes like a gunshot, and I’m still at the podium, broken but vertical, not quite sure what to do now that everything is lost.
My grades.
Hockey.
The girl I want.
The crowd murmurs, but it’s just white noise. The spotlight burns, making sweat pour down my back. I've never been more alone. Not during my parents’ wars. Not after my teammates graduated. Not on the ice, staring up at that championship banner, feeling like an imposter.
Not even after she left me in that library.
Because, at least then, there'd been hope.
This is different. This is knowing with perfect clarity that you’re the bad guy. That every good intention was false. That she needed protection from you most of all, and instead you caused more harm and, in the process made the biggest mistake in your whole life.
I fucked up the serious situation and made a mess.
Like every goddamn time.