Page 22 of One-Time Shot

I tossed a few bills onto the table. “Has anyone ever told you that smug affectations are annoying?”

“I can’t help it. I like winning.”

“You haven’t won anything,” I huffed.

“Feels like a win to me. Take your money. Dinner’s on me, Maloney.” He thanked Shar, signed his name on the receipt, and stood. “Maybe I’ll see you Friday.”

He inclined his head and made what had to be the smoothest exit ever. There one moment, gone the next.

Mine was less impressive. I gathered my bag, slung it over my shoulder with enough momentum to make me stumble backward a foot, and almost fell into the fake ficus, furiously swatting plastic leaves from my face before marching toward the front door.

The nerve, the cheek, the gumption!

I held on to self-righteous anger for one whole block till doubt crept in and I was forced to acknowledge that I was more irked that Jett had seemingly highjacked my experiment than I was at his idea. It was a generous offer, but—and this was a big but—I had zero desire to immerse myself in hockey. I didn’t want to go to a game or learn the diction. And I had a very good reason for that.

Being outside of my comfort zone for a few twenty-minute intervals was acceptable, but multiple meetings with a handsome hockey hunkanda hockey game? Oh, my gosh. That was a lot.

I simply couldn’t understand his motivation. Yes, I’d heard his speech about needing a diversion, but there had to be thousands of more appealing pastimes for a hockey player in crisis.

What was Jett Erickson really up to?

CHAPTER7

JETT

What was I thinking?

No offense to Malcolm, but I didn’t care if his thesis was terrible. I barely knew the guy. It made no difference to me whatsoever if he texted me for a study session, showed up to my game, or ghosted me altogether.

But I couldn’t get him out of my head. It was getting ridiculous.

I looked for him at Coffee Cave the following morning. He wasn’t there. I could have sworn I saw him in the quad, but no. I did a double take at the Einstein poster in the campus bookstore and even thought about him while wrangling physics notes from a teammate I was pretty sure was doing worse than I was in that class. I’d bet next month’s rent that Malcolm would know if there were massless particles and if air could cast a shadow, and explain the answers in an equation that consisted of a fuckton of consonants and three numbers.

I should have asked Malcolm to tutor me instead. Lethimteach me something instead of insisting that I had all the answers.

Don’t quote me, but I think that right there was the source of all my problems. According to my dad, I was contrary to the point of being borderline self-destructive. Maybe it would prove to be a fatal flaw, but in the meantime, it was a stupid trait that made life confusing as fuck. ’Cause now there was a geeky physics genius out there with glasses and freckles and a sweet body and?—

Okay.

Fine.

Are you happy?

You got me.

I was attracted to Malcolm Maloney. Attracted with a capital A.

He was cute and intense, and he persevered no matter how nervous he got. He didn’t like hockey, but he showed up at the rink. He probably didn’t even like me, but he sought me out. He was driven and passionate and…did I mention that he had really pretty eyes? Kind of green with flecks of gold and?—

Shit.This wasn’t good.

Yeah, a few people knew I was bi, like Ty and a couple of close friends from home. Oh…and my family. My mom and siblings knew and didn’t care.

My dad was another story. My sexuality was one of those things he didn’t want to hear about. He’d met my initial coming out in my senior year of high school with a cool, “Everyone is bi these days. Let’s leave that alone until you’re older, Jett. And by the way, don’t tell Randall.”

In other words, shut up and get comfortable in the closet.

And here I was, nearly five years later, itchy and occasionally miserable in said closet, harboring weird-ass crushes on guys who would never in a million years go out with me. Like Malcolm.