Page 20 of One-Time Shot

“I’d originally hoped to go into astrophysics or cosmology, but I wrote a couple of papers that were published in rather lofty periodicals about motion and magnetism as an undergrad, and things sort of spiraled into my current situation.”

“With me.” Jett speared his lettuce and flashed a lopsided grin.

“Yes. I’m researching a topic I don’t care about in the hopes of gaining favor with my professor, whose opinion I do care about, so that he might champion my publishing pursuit. It’s a pickle.”

“A pickle?” He snorted in amusement.

“Yes, I’ve been at Smithton for two years and while I’m mostly proud of my tenure here, I’m not sure I have anything to show for it. At least nothing I feel passionate about. I pursued you relentlessly in order to?—”

“So you admit you’re a stalker!” His lips curled almost ferally.

“I’m no such thing,” I hissed, casting a harried glance at the nearest table, which happened to be vacant. “I need your data. There’s a good chance my work won’t be published, but I’m committed to this direction. Once it’s complete, I’ll cross my fingers and wish for the best, knowing there’s a chance I’ll have to reassess my plan. I hope that’s not necessary. I’d like to carry on in Professor Finkwell’s footsteps.”

“What’s so great about this guy?” Jett asked.

I gave the incredulous huff the query deserved. “Finkwell is a genius. He’s a gifted researcher who’s published hundreds of important?—”

“Yeah, yeah, but…what does he have that you want? A sweet gig at a private college, a big salary, the respect of his peers?”

I pushed my glasses higher on my nose. “Well…yes, but moreover, he’s an expert in his field, widely regarded as the maestro of electromagnetism and relativism. If Einstein were alive, I think he and Finkwell would be great friends.”

“So you want to be Einstein.”

“No, but I want to be the best…at something.” I drained the last of my water and glanced away briefly, embarrassed by my candor.

“Doesn’t everyone? I do. At the very least, I want a shot. And I think you do, too.”

“I—well…yes. Maybe.”

Jett nibbled a french fry thoughtfully, his gaze sharp enough to drill a hole through my cranium. “Hey, I don’t know you, Maloney, but I know what it feels like to want something just out of reach. Maybe you won’t be Einstein or Finkface, but?—”

“Finkwell,” I corrected.

“Right. The point is…you can do something remarkable in your field on your own terms.”

Gosh, that was…nice.

Jett Erickson was…nice.

“I—thank you.” I infused my tone with a cheery note that rang slightly hollow and continued, “But I have no terms of my own until I finish my thesis, so instead of propagating a groundbreaking theory of transverse waves, let’s waste time talking hockey. No offense.”

Jett gasped in mock indignance. “Offense!”

“Kidding! Just kidding,” I singsonged, echoing his earlier taunt.

“Hmph.Show some respect, Maloney. Hockey is gonna save your ass.”

“How?”

“A few ways. It’s dynamic, fast-paced, and it requires quick thinking and a strategic mindset. I see that skeptical look, but your problem is, you don’t know shit about hockey. And that’s where I come in. I’ll teach you.”

I was staring. And I had a feeling I was displaying the lemony expression Layla had warned me was condescending and gave constipated turtle vibes. I couldn’t help it. Jett Erickson had gone around the bend.

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I don’t want to learn hockey. I want to compile data and move on,” I replied tersely.

“It’s not an offer, Maloney. It’s part of the deal.”

I frowned. “What deal? We already have an agreement. Are you changing the terms?”