Page 3 of One-Time Shot
“Oh, but you are,” he insisted, leaning forward. “You’re a hockey person, correct?”
“Uh…”
“I’ll take that as a yes, but that was a rhetorical question. I know who you are. Jett Erickson, a senior at Smithton and a right-wing offensive player for the Bears. It’s widely reported that you’re the best shooter on the team. Your impressive stats last year include a high percentage of goals and assists.”
All true. But that was last year. This year…I was off to a slower start.
“Are you a hockey fan or something?”
“Oh, gosh, no.” Malcolm widened his eyes. “Hockey is much too violent for my taste. The risk of injury compounds as players become better, faster, stronger…so regular strains, sprains, contusions, inflammation, fractured bones, and concussions are practically a foregone conclusion. I understand that fans are attracted to the speed and skill involved, but it’s a bit too dangerous, and too…”
He wrinkled his nose and fiddled with the edge of a napkin nervously.
“Don’t hold back now,” I chided, charmed in spite of being unsure what the hell we were discussing.
“Barbaric.”
“Barbaric,” I repeated.
Okay, well…wrong. Hockey was the best sport ever. I geared up to tell him so, but I had a feeling my face did the job for me.
About that: I had a reputation for being intense, on and off the ice. Intimidating, aggressive, terrifying…
Malcolm sputtered an apology. “Barbaric in the tradition of Roman gladiators and knights in shining armor. Masculine with a slightly toxic energy.”
“Right.” I furrowed my brow and leaned across the table, like a panther, ready to strike. “Cut to the chase, Malcolm Maloney. What’s this about?”
He cleared his throat and met my gaze. “I have an inquiry, a request, a favor to ask of you.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I’m working on an experiment that’s grown into a small portion of my senior thesis. Quite against my will, I might add. This is my professor’s idea, not mine. Though I admit, it’s a good one.” He paused to adjust his glasses. “You see, Newton’s laws of motion are applicable to sports in every way imaginable. In hockey, reduced friction on an icy surface facilitates speed, agility, and precision. A skater’s acceleration is directly related to force and mass and?—”
“Whoa. You’re losing me again. I’m not a science guy.”
“That’s a-okay. I am. But I’m not a sports person, and that’s where you’d come in.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hear me out. Please. It’s a rather simple experiment and?—”
“Sorry, no. Good luck on your thesis. Seriously. It sounds…well, it sounds boring as fuck, but hockey might make it interesting,” I conceded with a shrug. “The best I can do is pass your request on to my teammates. Maybe someone else can help you out.”
Malcolm grabbed my wrist before I could make my escape. “It has to be you.”
I shook him off, narrowing my eyes to foreboding slits. “Why?”
“You’re the best, the fastest, the most accurate. No one else on your team comes close,” he said in a rush. “And that’s not a compliment. That’s valid information based on remedial statistics.”
Okay, cool. But I was definitely taking it as a compliment.
I cocked my head curiously. “What do you want, Maloney? Spit it out.”
“I’d like to accompany you to the ice rink to run a series of tests measuring your speed, angular momentum, energy transfer. I have a device you’d wear while exerting force upon a vulcanized rubber disc and?—”
“The puck.”
“Yes, that’s it. The puck.” He dug into the pocket of his computer bag and pulled out a business card. “I propose three twenty-minute sessions at your leisure within the month of October. Excluding Tuesdays, Thursdays, mornings, or any time after six p.m. Otherwise, I’m free.”