Page 27 of One-Time Shot
“No one is a pro at ten years old. Why’d you give up?”
“I told you…I was terrible. Team sports make me nervous and when I’m nervous, I get rather clumsy, as you might have noticed. I could barely stay upright on my skates, let alone make contact with the volcanized disk. The entire episode was a lesson in survival that I’ve done my best to block from memory.” Malcolm brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and rolled his eyes, pushing the broom at me. “And I can’t blame my parents for signing me up either. I practically begged for it.”
I leaned on the broomstick. “Oh, yeah?”
“My best friend since kindergarten wanted to try hockey. We’d done a few afterschool activities together—Cub Scouts, the environmental awareness group, a math club—and I thought, why not? But hockey was terrifying and the kids were…”
“Little assholes?” I supplied.
Malcolm inclined his head. “It wasn’t fun. I didn’t fit in, but Philip did. Within a month, I’d lost my best friend and had been labeled a hopeless geek and possibly a queer one. The horror. I took up gardening soon after.”
I frowned at his glib reply. “That sucks.”
His lips lifted in a hint of humor. “Not really. I love gardening.”
“You know what I mean. Wasn’t there an adult around to put the little fuckers in their place?”
“It was almost fifteen years ago, Jett. It hardly matters anymore.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t like that they tainted what could have been a great experience. I loved hockey from the moment I strapped on my first set of skates. There was always a game on TV, volume maxed to drown out the sound of my parents arguing. My brother Breck, was all about football, but Tatum and I liked hockey. I begged to play, too. I thought I’d be good at it right out of the gate. I wasn’t. Learning to skate and handle a stick took every brain cell I had. I used to get so frustrated that my shots didn’t connect. I’d cry on the way home from practice, ‘Boo hoo, I’m the worst one.’ I distinctly remember my dad getting fed up and telling me to quit. And because I’m stubborn, contrary, and had zero desire to hang out at the house, I got serious. No more complaining…just work. I guess you could say hockey was my escape.”
Jesus, that was a lot of sharing.
Way more than necessary.
I glanced down at the broom, my fingers curling into a familiar grip. Heat zinged along my spine and on the back of my nape.
Snap out of it, Erickson. Talk about slap shots, tipping the puck, deking, something, anything…
Malcolm hummed, pulling my gaze toward him. “Books were mine.”
We shared a weighty look that conveyed understanding, acceptance, and acknowledgment. Maybe we didn’t have much in common, but there was a spark of something that felt promising. What, I couldn’t say. But it was nice to talk to someone new who didn’t assume he knew everything there was to know about me.
“Cool. Let’s keep going. We got this.”
* * *
Two days later:
“Where’s the attack zone?”
Malcolm’s nose twitched. “It’s the area around the goal, also called the um…don’t tell me. Um…”
“Starts with an O.” I tapped my drawing of an ice rink spread out on his dining table.
“Open zone. No…offense zone. Offensive zone.”
I grinned. “Good job. Show me the neutral zone.”
“You know inStar Trek, the neutral zone is a buffered area between hostile powers, like the Romulans and the Federation,” he said, adjusting his glasses.
My smile was fast and hit so hard, it hurt my cheeks. “I did know that. You’re looking at a bona fide Trekkie.”
“No. Really?”
“Really.”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What is the Romulan home world called?”