Page 15 of One-Time Shot
Once again, my mouth did that smiley thing. And this time it split my face in half and made me feel a little dizzy. Definitely the beer. Had to be. Alcohol hadn’t done me any favors lately. Tomorrow while I was nursing a hangover, I’d be pissed at myself for doing every fucking thing I’d said I wouldn’t do—drinking, partying, wallowing like a pouting kid at the first sign of adversity.
But tonight, in my groggy, confused state, I was suddenly very sure that the last thing I should do was leave with the pretty stranger.
“Sh-orry,” I slurred, biting into my lower lip. “Something came up and I’m—I have to go.”
She didn’t look happy, and she certainly wasn’t interested in my angsty excuses. She flipped me off and headed back inside.
And me…I zipped my jacket and slinked into the shadows like a vampire.
This was usually where I’d beat myself up, but any negativity was overturned by random thoughts about the stalking geeky scientist who didn’t know the first thing about hockey.
That was almost funny. Or not. I didn’t know how to explain hockey. But I’d do it. And I’d bet I could make him like it. Not that I cared, of course. Malcolm could like whatever the fuck he wanted.
I stuffed my hands into my pockets and continued my trek across campus, my beer-sloshed brain wandering to all things Malcolm. Damn, I was curious about him now.
Who were his friends? What did he do for fun? Did he like music? Did he know how to play an instrument? He had long fingers. Don’t ask how I remembered that, but I did. He seemed like the kind of guy who knew how to play the piano or the violin. Did he like video games? No, word games. Yep, I’d bet a million dollars Maloney was aWordleguy.
Strange thoughts for sure, but better than worrying that I was at the height of my not-so-illustrious hockey career, and this was literally as good as it would ever get. Too depressing.
So hey…thank you, Maloney.
CHAPTER5
MALCOLM
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” Jett skewered me with a withering glance, removing his helmet and wiping sweat from his brow. “So, what are we doing here?”
I noted his drawn features and tired eyes as I opened my kit. “I’m going to attach a device to your shoulder pads.”
“Hockey tracker. Nice. I’ve done this a few times.”
“Oh. Well…good.” I motioned for him to get off the ice. “Can you sit on a bench, please? You’re too tall. I can’t reach your shoulders.”
Jett grunted in response, hobbling over and flopping onto the nearest bench. “You can use those radar speed guns too, you know. Coach sets them up by the goal every once in a while.”
“According to my research, those are notoriously inaccurate.” I fastened the small device to his left shoulder.
“Not true at all,” he argued. “It won’t measure skating efficiency, but it’ll tell you how fast the puck is going.”
“I’m measuringyourspeed today. Not the puck’s.” I tugged at his practice jersey, testing my handiwork.
“Prepare to be disappointed. It’s been an off day.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Meh.”
“Is that a technical term?”
Jett glanced up with a snort. “Sarcasm?”
“Well…yes.”
He grinned. “I like it. Today, meh means slow as fuck, which is still pretty damn fast, but not good enough. Coach didn’t complain, though, so…there is that.”
“I won’t complain either,” I assured him, reaching for the notepad I’d tucked into my bag. “This should be easy. I’m going to measure stride speed, which is your average or maximum speed throughout?—”