Page 5 of One-Time Shot

Two years later, I was still here and extremely grateful to my steadfast friend for reminding me that life existed outside the hallowed halls of Smithton.

This hockey mishap was partially her fault, though. She was the one who’d suggested this particular sport. Everything about it intimidated me—the speed, aggressive nature, and gigantic athletes. I was stuck with it now. And yes, I’d figure out how to salvage my thesis, but in the meantime, I was ding-dang annoyed. And nervous. Very nervous. What if my best days were already behind me? What if I’d peaked in college and was destined to repeat Newton’s Laws ad nauseam to bored students for the rest of my life? What if?—

“I’m gonna body-slam you if you don’t quit pacing, Mal,” Layla singsonged, glancing up from the kitchen table, where she was busy painting her nails.

“I’m in a mood,” I reported, continuing my loop from the kitchen through the living room. “An existential crisis is looming on my horizon. Who am I? What am I doing? I need a plan B and C…something to share with Finkwell before our meeting next week.”

Layla recapped the polish and blew on her red nails. “Take a seat. Let’s brainstorm.”

I flopped onto the chair opposite her and nodded. “Good idea.”

“Change sports. It’s football season too, you know. Our team sucks donkey balls, but…does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. I’m supposed to document excellence in action, not mediocrity. And while I don’t know squat about either sport, according to my research, hockey’s quick pace is the better fit for the experiment. You said so yourself.”

“I did,” she conceded.

I rubbed my hands together. “Unfortunately, my eggs are all in one basket. I need that big, scary man to cooperate.”

She pursed her lips as if biting back a smile. “Big and scary?”

“He’s huge, Layla. Huge. Muscles out to here.” I flexed my puny biceps and gestured five inches higher. “And his face looks like this.”

I scrunched my nose and furrowed my brow till my head ached.

Layla snickered at my antics, using the heels of her palms to slide her laptop toward her. “Will you open this, please? My nails are still wet.”

I obeyed, unthinking, but frowned when she asked me to type his name. “Why the heck would I do that?”

“Because we’re stalking.”

“We can’t do that again,” I gasped.

“Why not? It worked last time.”

“Yes, but?—”

“It’s research, Mal. You love research. And it’s not like we’re hacking his computer. Go on,” she prodded.

I scowled, pushing my glasses to the bridge of my nose before splaying my fingers across the keyboard. “This feels larcenous. I can’t believe I’ve become an online peeping tom.”

Layla snickered merrily. “If it’s posted in a public forum, it’s fair game, baby.”

I studied the current page on her screen and read, “ ‘What’s New, Smithton?’ ”

She glanced over my shoulder and made a face. “My new guilty pleasure. An annoying-as-fuck jerk in my anthro class started that channel. Walker Woodrow. He asks fellow students to share interesting on-campus stories, and then he reports it like an SNL skit. ‘What’s New, Smithton’? How fucking original. It’s not even funny, but he’s gaining followers by the bucketload. Next he’ll have sponsorships and be a hero for putting the town on the map.”

“Technically, the town is already on the map.”

Layla rolled her eyes. “You, my literal friend, are adorbs. Sadly, Mal…you can be on the map and be totally irrelevant until an influencer with a nice smile and a few hundred thousand followers says you’re cool.”

“That’s illogical.”

“And depressing,” she agreed. “Google me, hon, and type in Jett Erickson. Well, what do you know, Mr. Big and Scary drinks a post-practice latte.”

I squinted at the screen, tapping the photo of a latte. The caption read, “I needed this.” Hashtag Bears, hashtag Hockeylife, hashtag Caffeineftw.

“So far we’ve learned that our man takes terrible photos and that he could use some hashtag help,” she commented. “Scroll down a bit.”