Page 26 of One-Time Shot

I half expected him to change the subject, get down to business, so he could throw my ass out the door in precisely forty-four minutes and twenty seconds, but Malcolm glanced at the plants, nodding as he sat at the table.

“I do. My parents have a large vegetable garden in their yard. I took charge of it from the time I was ten till I left for college. I switched out some of the less-yielding crops for lettuce, corn, and squash, and grew tons of tomatoes. They tend to it now. Sadly, not as well as I did.”

See what I mean about this guy?

“You’re bragging, Maloney. I like that confidence.”

Malcolm snorted. “I’m not bragging. I’m stating a fact. My parents are lovely people yet serial houseplant killers. The vegetables stand a better chance outdoors where Mother Nature can care for them till I arrive to save the day.”

“You’re funny.”

“Hilarious,” he confirmed, pointing at the chair across from him. “Shall we begin?”

“Sure.” I sat, shifting under the weight of his expectant gaze.

“I took the liberty of creating a short syllabus, including a diagram of a rink and an index of hockey terminology.” Malcolm pushed his laptop toward me. “I’ve memorized all of them. Quiz me if you’d like.”

I scrolled through his proposed outline covering etymology, history, tactics, rules, and a very fucking long glossary which included slang. “Whoa. Did you google this?”

“It’s a compilation of sources, each credited in the attached bibliography,” he replied.

“You made a bibliography.”

“Of course. One must give credit where credit is due.” Malcolm scooted his chair closer and reached over to scroll through a list of annotations. “See?”

Yeah, I saw. And I was a little pissed at myself for being so slow.

“You’re trying to scare me away,” I stated.

“No, I’m helping you.”

I shook my head. “I don’t see how this helps either of us. What do etymology and history have to do with measuring speed?”

“Well…nothing, but?—”

“Here you have ‘biscuit’ and ‘biscuit in the basket.’” I gestured at the screen. “These are very unscientific terms, Maloney.”

“True, but I know those. The biscuit is the puck and putting the biscuit into the basket is to make a goal.” Malcolm beamed. “Correct, yes?”

My lips twisted in amusement. “Yes. Can you use this info in your thesis?”

He fiddled with his glasses. “Undetermined, but doubtful.”

“Let’s try something else.” I cracked my knuckles and borrowed his pen, quickly scribbling notes on the pad of paper. “These are the shots I was telling you about and the best time to use each. Shovel shot…you’re gonna use that to flick it to another player or away from a goalie. It’s a shovel motion. Like this.” I stood to demonstrate. “Not much speed involved, but accuracy is important. A wrist shot looks like—damn, I should have brought my stick.”

“I have a broom,” he offered.

I started to laugh but decided it wasn’t the worst idea. “Okay.”

Malcolm retrieved a broom from the hallway closet. “Here you go.”

“All right. Pretend the edge of the bristles is a blade. I want to hit the puck at the center or the heel and roll my wrist as I shoot, spinning the puck at the exact angle I’ve aimed for. Like it’s an extension of the stick. The power is coming from my left hand and my quads. Here. You try it.” I passed the broom to the befuddled scientist.

“Uh…okay. Like this?” He squatted slightly, copied my hands, and drew the broom forward with the flick of his wrist.

“Damn, you’re a natural,” I enthused. “Are you sure you’ve never played?”

He chuckled. “One season at age ten in the rec league at the local rink. I was a disaster.”