Page 4 of One-Time Shot
“Gee, that sounds easy,” I snarked.
Malcolm beamed, obviously immune to sarcasm. “Yes, it really is. My information is on this card. Please contact me to set an appointment. I prefer text messaging, but I’ll accept a phone call. Thank you for your consideration.”
With that, he slid from the booth. Or tried to.
I wasn’t entirely sure what happened, but my guess was that one of the pockets on his cargo pants had snagged on the jagged upholstery, messing with his momentum. He careened backward at first, then overcorrected and tripped into the aisle, landing on his knees with asplat.
A sudden hush fell in the vicinity, heads turned, and a twittered chorus of, “What happened? Did someone get hurt?” rippled through the diner.
“Are you okay?” I jumped up and grabbed Malcolm’s elbow.
“I’m fine. Just fine.” He brushed his hands, his chin lowered as if to hide his blush. Then he slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his gaze still averted. “Have a nice day, Mr. Erickson. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Malcolm walked away, his head held high, seemingly determined to ignore the curious glances aimed his way.
Okay, that was…different.
I grabbed my jacket from the booth and at the last second, picked up the business card.
A real live business card.No shit.I associated business cards with finance people, law firms, and insurance agents. Not grad students. And the card contained very basic info—his name, number, and website address. That was it. Hardly worth the money it had cost to print.
Malcolm Maloney was one odd dude, I mused, slipping the card into my jacket pocket next to an ancient piece of peppermint from Christmas and a wad of tissue I’d probably used months ago and had forgotten about.
Nice enough guy, but it was time to get back to my regularly scheduled program of ignoring the things I could control and worrying about things I couldn’t. ’Cause teetering on the edge of chronic procrastination and overanalyzing shit was just how I rolled.
Good times.
CHAPTER2
MALCOLM
No text.
No missed messages.
I double-checked, triple-checked, but no…nothing. I groaned, decidedly dejected and unsure how to proceed. I should have known better than to accept a sports-based challenge. My thesis had been going along swimmingly, thank you very much. You see, I’d initially disagreed with Professor Finkwell’s assertion that adding athletic statistics would make it palatable for a wider audience, but pride cometh before the fall.
My head had been spinning from the moment Finkwell had stated that he’d champion for my work to be included in a collegiate textbook.A textbook!Gasp!
Opportunities of that ilk were rare indeed. I’d had other pieces published, albeit on a much smaller scale, like my “Linear Motion in Motion” article forSmithton Reviewand “Relative Momentum” forGranville Gazette. But the pivotal piece that caught the professor’s attention had included a brief analysis on directional changes in motion and one measly sentence citing athletes as fine examples. It was called “Finding Balance in Motion.”
At the risk of sounding dramatic, that article changed my life. I’d won a medley of awards for it and had been invited to speak at Harvard, MIT, Stanford, Cornell, and…Smithton; where Finkwell was dean of the physics department. As you might imagine, it was thrilling to garner the attention of a giant in my field, and Finkwell had made me feel like a rising star with boundless potential.
“The world desperately needs young brilliant minds like yours, Malcolm. People who can explain applied physics to a generation whose natural curiosity has been dulled by social media algorithms. We need you. Smithton needs you.”
Gosh, it had been a persuasive speech. The idea that I, Malcolm Maloney, of Pine Ridge, New York could inspire a new legion of scientists was an honor, a privilege, a feather in my cap. Grad school scholarships and grants from prestigious universities followed, but Finkwell had made an impression. At the end of the day, the full ride to Smithton, located a mere ninety minutes away from home, was the only offer I truly considered.
What wasn’t to love? Smithton was small, elite, well-respected, and utterly charming.
The two-hundred-year-old private college was located on a hill overlooking Lake Ontario. Panoramic vistas of the lake could be enjoyed from the quad and almost every westerly-facing window of the physics department. I’d instantly fallen in love with the ivy-covered brick buildings and small-town feel. It felt like a beautiful safe space in a turbulent world and for the past two years, it had been my oasis.
I shared a spacious apartment with Layla, an interesting and sometimes downright intimidating artist and humanities teaching assistant. Layla had big opinions about everything from the endangered wild bonobos population in Africa to her favorite influencer’s sudden affiliation with a sports drink.
“If she had to sell out, couldn’t she at least have done it with something that actually tasted good? Give me pizza, give me chocolate, give me cheese and a How-to-Build-a-Killer-Charcuterie-Board cookbook written by a haggard-looking rock star from the ’80s any freaking day. But do not sell me craptastic blue sludge while giving eyeliner tips!”
That was Layla. A large woman with short raven hair, colorful tattoos, and strong opinions who had a penchant for Jane Austen, online makeup tutorials, and black jelly beans.
Our roommate situation was supposed to have been a temporary fix until I found a more compatible candidate, but no one in my physics department was as fun, fierce, or loyal as Layla.