Chapter 36
thirty-six
ROOK
The grass on North Campus is still damp from yesterday’s rain, moisture seeping through my jeans and creating a wet patch that’s definitely going to leave me looking like I pissed myself. But it'll be worth it if the reason I'm sitting here turns out to be right.
Or turns up at all.
My leg bounces with the frantic energy I can’t seem to burn off—tap-tap-tap-tap, like a meth-addled woodpecker—since my suspension left me with nothing but time and the silence in my head. But at least my hands are occupied by the sociology textbook that I'm at least making half an effort to read.
But my mind is elsewhere. Specifically, it's flashing back to two days ago, at O'Neil's, when she bought me a drink across a crowded bar and gave me a nod that suggested maybe we weren’t completely beyond saving. It felt like an apology given and accepted, a peace offering proposed and agreed upon.
Since then, I’ve been checking my phone every thirty seconds, deleting and rewriting texts I’ll never send, staring at her contact info like telepathy might spontaneously develop if I concentrate hard enough.
Then, this morning, she sent a message that led to my heart attempting a prison break through my throat:
North Campus hill. 4 p.m.
I check my phone. 3:58.
The late-afternoon sun slants across the empty field, turning everything golden and Instagram-worthy. She picked this spot deliberately, a quiet corner where nobody comes except stoners and couples. Because here, there's no audience and no stage for me, and no easy escape routes for her.
Movement catches my eye, and there she is, walking across the field with her hands shoved deep in the pockets of a worn denim jacket I’ve never seen before. My breath catches—actually catches, like someone punched me in the solar plexus—because she looks…
Jesus.
The severe ponytail that usually screams “I will destroy you in both hockey and life” is gone, and in its place her hair falls in loose waves that catch the light like copper fire. For once, her shoulders aren’t squared for battle, and she actually looks… relaxed?
Who is this woman and what has she done with Morgan Riley?
She looks like the girl from that summer, the one who laughed at my terrible jokes and let me kiss her under the stars until our lips were swollen and our heads were spinning. But also the one I drove away with my cowardice, leading to the creation of the iron woman I expected to join me today.
But this version… well… I like this version.
As she gets closer, I can see the denim jacket hangs open to reveal a simple white t-shirt that clings in ways that should require a permit. Every cell in my body tracks her approach—the athletic grace in her walk, the way the fading light turns her skin golden.
She’s almost at the top of the hill now, and my hands are sweating like I’m thirteen and about to ask someone to the middle school dance. But worse is that I have to consciously remind myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And, all the while, my mind is pinging like crazy.
Don’t fill the silence with jokes.
Don’t make this a performance.
Don’t fuck this up by being yourself—
Wait, no, that’s terrible advice.
Be yourself, but like… the non-shit version that doesn’t set things on fire…
She drops onto the grass beside me, not too close, but not as far as she could have chosen. It's close enough that I can smell her shampoo and close enough that, if I shifted slightly, our knees would touch. The space between us hums with potential energy.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice light but not loud, not performing, just… talking. “Turns out daytime television is a whole world I never knew existed.”
Her lips curve upward in the hint of a smile. “That’s what happens when you get suspended. You discover the dark underbelly of cable programming.”
“I watched three hours of a show about people who are emotionally attached to their cars yesterday. Like, romantically attached.” I pick at the grass, needing something to do with my hands before they develop independent ideas.
“There was this guy who was convinced his Mustang was flirting with him.”
She actually laughs—quiet but genuine—and the sound hits me like pure dopamine.
And it's not a bitter or guarded laugh, but this easy sound that makes her nose scrunch up just a little. The sight is beautiful, and right now, I want to tell her how I’ve been replaying that night in the library in my head.
But I clamp down on the impulse.
No performances. No grand declarations.
Just this.
Wherever it leads.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sun paint the campus in amber and gold. It’s strange, this quiet between us. Not suffocating like my parents’ house, where you can hear the marriage dying one sarcastic remark at a time. Just… quiet.
It feels like summer, a few years ago, on a beach with her.
“I got some news yesterday,” she says eventually, her voice carefully neutral in a way that means it's anything but. “From Coach Walsh.”
I turn to look at her, and something in her expression makes my chest tighten.
Weariness, like she’s been carrying something heavy for too long.
She's clearly waiting for me to blurt out something, a joke or a deflection, or to reveal I already know what she's about to tell me.
But, for once in my life, I keep my mouth shut.
“Galloway’s initiated a formal program review for the women’s team and its viability into next year.” She picks up a blade of grass, twisting it between her fingers. “Framed as a budgetary necessity, of course, all very legitimate and designed to kill us slowly while looking reasonable on paper.”
The words hang between us. I can see what she’s not saying in the tight line of her jaw.
It’s a death sentence delivered in bureaucratic language.
Because, while Morgan might be graduating in six months and have a league future, a lot of her teammates joined Pine Barren on the promise of a quality program in the future.
Not one that's here for a year and then gone.
My immediate instinct screams at me to jump in and fix it. The words pile up in my throat, desperate to burst out in a tsunami of badly planned heroics. Every fiber of my being wants to leap up, to pace, to outline a seventeen-point plan for saving her team.
But I look at her face—tired, determined, not asking for a savior—and I force myself to swallow every word.
Because she's not asking for a hero, she's looking for a partner, and after our truce at the bar it's clear that—deliberate or not—this is a test. And it feels like if I fail this test, I won't get a re-sit.
“That’s complete bullshit,” I say quietly, my voice rough from restraint. “I’m sorry, Morgan.”
She looks at me, surprise flickering across her features like she expected me to already be halfway to Galloway’s office with a pitchfork. And, in that moment, there's a softness to her face that makes me want to be a partner to her through every up and down that life brings.
Because…
Holy fuck, my mind screams at me. You're in love with Morgan Riley.
“Whatever you decide to do about it,” I continue, holding her gaze even though it feels like staring directly at the sun, “I’m with you.
Not in front of you, not trying to fix it for you.
Just… with you. Like a partner… or a really competent sidekick…
and I'm sure they're going to study this sort of elocution in classes…”
The surprise in her eyes deepens into something that makes my heart throw itself against my ribs. She studies my face like she’s looking for the catch, the performance, the moment when I’ll start making grand pronouncements while probably breaking something.
When I don’t, something in her shoulders releases. “Thanks,” she says softly, and it’s only one word, but it feels like absolution.
I take a breath, and because she trusted me with her crisis without me turning it into the James Fitzgerald Chaos Hour, I offer mine. “I’ve got my final tomorrow.”
She shifts to face me more fully, angling her body toward mine with deliberate intention. Her knee brushes against mine, a casual touch that could be accidental, except she doesn't pull away. The contact stays warm through denim, staking out new territory in our tentative peace.
It's such a small thing, this maintained connection, but from Morgan it feels monumental. She's not retreating, not armoring up. She's choosing to stay close, claiming her ground in whatever fragile alliance we're building here. And, as much as me keeping quiet is big, that fact feels even bigger.
"I aced the paper," I swallow and go on. “But if I don’t get at least a B on the final, my GPA drops below Galloway’s new threshold…"
Her voice is immediate, fierce. “You know this material, Rook. Your problem isn’t intelligence. Your only issue is translating what’s in here”—she reaches out and taps my temple, the brief touch sending sparks cascading down my neck—“into something those academic robots recognize.”
The casual confidence in her voice, the certainty that I’m capable, is validation I didn’t know I was desperate for. My parents only ever cared about results, and my coaches only ever cared about performance, but Morgan sees something else and seems to give a damn about me.
“You’ve been studying since we… stopped… right?” she continues, skirting around the fact that the last study session we had involved removal of clothes.
“Digesting and regurgitating the material every night,” I repeat, a smile tugging at my lips. “It's very sexy, actually. Nothing like academic bulimia to end the day.”
“Everything doesn’t have to be sexy, Fitzgerald.”
“Hard disagree.” The flirtation slips out quieter than usual, just between us, and the way her cheeks pink makes my chest feel dangerously full. “I’ve seen you chewing on pens when you study…"
“You’re an idiot,” she says, but there’s warmth in it.