Page 53 of One-Time Shot

Professor Gomez was a painfully thin man in his sixties with an absent smile and a sharp sense of humor. I liked him immediately. He went out of his way to set me at ease, chatting about everything from recent discoveries in our field to his plans for how he wanted to allocate funds for a generous new department endowment. Research was vital, and publishing was equally important.

“And get this…he’s readmywork. Everything I’ve written. He knows who I am.” I skimmed my spoon over my bowl of split pea soup, blinking at my amused lover in wonder as I recounted my meeting.

“I hope so. You’re a player, baby,” Jett teased, eyes twinkling. “You know your shit. If he hadn’t read ‘Finding Balance in Motion,’ I might advise you to reconsider this place. That was a big deal.”

I snickered and sipped my soup, relishing the warm food and pleasant company on a blustery late autumn day. Dark clouds had gathered and rain was definitely coming, but it was cozy in this corner of the café and?—

Wait.

“How did you know about that article?”

He paused mid-bite, chomping into his turkey sandwich and chewing slowly. Too slowly.

After what felt like ten minutes, Jett leaned his elbows on the zinc tabletop and replied, “I read it.”

“You did?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice. I hoped he didn’t take offense, but…really? Whywouldhe read my treatise on linear motion and the effects of gravity and friction?

“Yep. I did my homework on you, Maloney. You didn’t think I’d sign on without checking your references, did you?”

“I…yes.”

He set his sandwich on his plate and popped a potato chip into his mouth. “Tsk, tsk. The school directory has your bio since you’re a teaching assistant. I googled you on a whim and was seriously impressed. That articlewas cited and cross-referenced like hundreds of times. I got curious and kept up the search.”

I spooned up another helping of soup. “And?”

“Truthfully, most of it was over my head. That’s why I didn’t mention it sooner. I’m nowhere near as smart as you, but based on what the experts on social media say, your work is significant.”

“I—thank you. I’m proud of that piece.” My smile dimmed as I admitted, “Sometimes I worry I’ll never be able to replicate it.”

“You won’t.” He took another huge bite and spoke around a mouthful of turkey on rye. “You’ll do something better.”

“I hope so. I don’t like to think I peaked at twenty-two.”

“Welcome to my world.” Jett brushed crumbs from his fingers and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “At twenty-two, I’m just learning to adjust my expectations.”

“How so?”

“I might not play pro, and I have to figure out how to be okay with it. I could work for my dad, but just the thought of it feels like a black cloud. I could coach, I could teach, I could get my master’s. Those are good things. I want to be open-minded, but that’s not something I’m very good at, so…wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck. You’re going to do wonderful things, Jett Erickson. I have no doubt about it.”

He beamed. “You too, Maloney. So…what do you think of this place? Could you live here?”

Fat drops of rain peppered the window, marring my view of students rushing by and a couple walking a dalmatian they sheltered under a ginormous umbrella. The streets were clean, quaint, and bustling with energy.

“I think so.”

“Cool. See? You’re open-minded. That means you’re already halfway there.” He pushed his plate aside and gestured to the dessert being delivered to the table next to us. “I’m still hungry. Let’s fuck up an ice cream sundae. What do you say?”

Well, usually I might have said that ice cream wasn’t an ideal treat on a cold and rainy afternoon. Today I said, “Why not?”

We leaned over our hot fudge sundae, clanking our spoons in a quest to get to the chocolatey goodness stuck on the bottom of the dish as we debated ideal toppings—fudge, rainbow sprinkles, peanuts—and our thoughts on self-serve yogurt stores…thumbs-up. When the howling wind rattled the window, I suggested we switch to warmer topics.

Jett talked about sailing on Lake St. Clair in summer, roasting marshmallows on the embers of the barbecue, and the time he’d jumped off a roof into a pool filled with water balloons and sprained his ankle. I gasped in horror and shared a few of my favorite summer memories, grudgingly recalling the time I’d planted ripe bananas in the ground in the hopes of growing a banana plant. A perfect row of seven yellow pieces of fruit covered in soil and watered daily.

“You watered them too?”

“I was six.”