Page 17 of One-Time Shot

Jett grinned. It was no ordinary grin either. It was a boyish, self-satisfied, radiant smile that was impossible not to return.

My lips curled of their own volition and stayed locked in place as Jett glided onto the ice with the radar equipment, setting it up at the base of the goal before disappearing to get pucks. He high-fived a fellow hockey person and must have explained his mission, because both men were looking at me now.

I immediately diverted my attention to the app I’d installed on my iPad to track the device’s output and rearranged my googly-eyed expression into a scowl no one would misconstrue as romantic interest.Gah! Mortifying!

Jett reappeared with a large bag that he set between the two red circles on the ice. He dug a few pucks out and quickly buried them in the net, glancing my way as if to be sure I was paying attention. I nodded and watched. But I didn’t understand what he was doing.

I raised my arms over my head and called to him. I had questions. What shot was he taking? Why had he chosen that spot on the ice? Was he aiming for a specific part of the goal?

Jett leaned on the boards, stick in hand. “You can’t see from here, can you?”

“I…of course, I can.”

“You’re squinting, Maloney. It would be better if you were on the ice so you can see up close.”

I cocked my head curiously. “Is that possible? Can you set up a chair? I might be able to shuffle in my shoes and?—”

“No, you need skates,” he stated. “What size do you wear?”

I frowned. “Ten. However, that’s neither here nor there. I don’t intend to skate.”

“Maybe you didn’t intend to, but you can’t see what I’m doing. And I have to point out that you’re wasting your time and mine if you don’t know what you’re recording. Logical, right?”

Darn it, yes.

“Perhaps that’s partially true,” I conceded. “However, I don’t need to know everything about your sport. The data is the only thing that matters.”

“Nope.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means numbers don’t tell you squat if you don’t understand the game. Shooting pucks in a net is nothing but an exercise. You should know which shot works in action. Same with acceleration, stride speed, agility. I can skate circles around the ice right now—games are different. In fact, you should come to my game this weekend.”

“Oh, I don’t think I?—”

“I’ll wear a tracker under my jersey for you,” he continued, unclipping the device on his shoulder pad. “I have one that’s a million times better than this. But still, if you don’t know what you’re watching, it won’t make sense.”

“I don’t?—”

“Hold tight. I’ll get your radar thingy for you.” Jett pushed away with an up-nod and returned, handing over the sensor. “I need to clean up and get dressed. I won’t be long. Wait for me?”

He was gone before I could reply.

I sat on the bench, staring at the ice, huddled in the winter coat Jett had advised me to wear. I’d known it would be chilly in the rink, but I was freezing…and so out of my depth, my head was spinning.

I didn’t want to learn hockey. But gosh, he was obstinate and I had a terrible feeling he was going to insist. It should have occurred to me that I’d entered a testosterone-driven, egocentric landmine. This was Jett’s domain. This was his passion, his ambition, his daily motivation. It was naïve of me to assume he’d follow my lead, especially after I’d played my hand and admitted I didn’t know his sport…at all.

Perhaps football players were more malleable.

Or was I stuck? No, I could rescind my offer.

I could change my mind about dinner, too. I didn’t have to stay, you know. I had things to do—papers to grade, an essay to write, a box of mac and cheese to make. Nothing exciting, but I didn’t need thrills in my life. I preferred quiet, calm, orderly.

So…get up and walk away. Go on. Now before Jett Erickson saunters into the arena looking like the devil incarnate and you do something nutty like…smile too wide, laugh too hard, stare too long.

Just go. Go, go, go.

Too late.