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CHAPTER 1

JETT

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”—Aristotle

The clang of silverware and the hum of animated conversation echoed off the walls and rain-streaked windows of the local greasy spoon. In spite of the crappy weather, there was a line at the reception area and a gaggle of students waiting at the takeout counter.

On the surface, Bear Depot was nothing special—scuffed and cracked tiled flooring, uncomfortable booths with red, peeling and faded leatherette upholstery, and wood tables scarred with the initials of patrons dating back five or six decades ago. But it was affordable on a college budget, and the food was tasty.

Best of all, the waitstaff loved hockey players.

“Your club sandwich and triple-bacon cheeseburger will be up in a few minutes.” A middle-aged brunet, with a megawatt smile and eyelashes so long they didn’t bother pretending to be real, set two large milkshakes down with a wink. “While you wait…a double-chocolate-chip and a cookies-and-cream shake on the house.”

“You’re the best, Shar,” I gushed, stabbing a straw into the chocolate-chip goodness. “Thank you.”

“ Mmhmm .” Ty slurped whipped cream like a heathen and nodded enthusiastically. “ The best!”

“You’re welcome. That win against Central was absolute perfection. Keep it up, boys.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ty grinned, sporting a white foamy mustache that would have looked goofy as fuck on any other six-foot-four dude with a light beard, copious tats, and muscles galore. Not Ty. He was the kind of confident that got away with sophomoric antics and the occasional lapse of manners.

I rolled my eyes as soon as Shar had moved on. “You’re such a kiss-ass.”

“Jealous? You know the ladies love me, Erickson. What can I say?” He waggled his bushy brows and took another sip. “They like you too, but you’re not as sweet as me.”

True enough. “Fuck sweet.”

“See? You’re an asshole. A lovable one…sort of. Though Coach didn’t agree today.”

“Coach didn’t like anybody today. Did you see him get on Brady’s case and—” I glanced over my shoulder, following Ty’s straying gaze. “What are you looking at?”

“That dude is staring at you. Or me. I can’t tell.”

I twisted slightly in my seat. “Who? I don’t see— oh .”

A willowy, thin guy with wavy dark-blond hair, glasses, a navy V-neck sweater, and khaki cargo pants that gave serious dad vibes was currently craning his head in our direction.

“Maybe he’s a hockey fan,” Ty suggested.

“Maybe.” I shrugged, sucking milkshake through the straw before continuing my earlier gripe session.

I wasn’t the type to complain about teammates who weren’t pulling their weight. Gossiping was counterproductive. However, I wasn’t opposed to brainstorming with a trusted friend who more or less had the same goal as I did—to be signed with a professional team, stat. Ty was two years younger, though. He had time on his side. Me…not so much.

As a kid, I’d had lofty dreams of getting drafted by the Red Wings straight out of high school. Even then, I’d been vaguely aware that it wasn’t how the system worked, but I’d believed the coaches who’d told me I had the potential to do great things. Maybe to even be the next Great One.

Gullible? A touch. At this point, there was a snowball’s chance in hell that was gonna happen.

First up, I was a senior in college now, and my long-suffering agent hadn’t had much luck finding me a postgraduation gig in the pros. Or anywhere worthwhile. A smarter man would have a backup plan, like selling real estate for my dad’s firm—but I couldn’t let go of the idea that I still had a shot.

My success was tied to my team, though, and we were off to a lackluster start. Sure, it was early in the season, and we’d won a few easy games—like our recent one against Central. It was the tougher ones on the schedule that worried me. If Brady didn’t figure out how to pass with some level of accuracy soon, I’d look like a schmuck out there, constantly chasing errant pucks and?—

“You’re future-trippin’, Jettster. You gotta quit that shit, or you’ll end up missing out on what’s happening here and now,” Ty advised, stuffing the last of his ginormous burger into his mouth.

“Nothing is happening right now. Only hockey.” I pushed my empty plate aside and vacuumed the remnants of my shake from the bottom of my glass.

To his credit, Ty waited till he’d chewed and swallowed before attempting further conversation. “Incorrect. Langley’s having a party Friday night, and you, my friend, need to be there.”

“Do I?”

“You do. Pretty girls, party favors, and…a chance to do some team bonding off the freaking ice. Trust me. That shit matters, too.” He checked his vibrating cell and tossed a few bills onto the table. “Sorry, man, I gotta run.”

I frowned, but abrupt departures were very much Ty’s style. He was a big-entrance, big-exit kind of guy. No doubt there was a girl waiting for him somewhere. Or a guy. Fine by me…as long as he’d left enough to cover his part.

Shar delivered our check, pausing to top off my water glass. “Want a soda for the road, sugar?”

“No, thanks.” I flashed a smile and pulled my wallet out, my brain already buzzing in ten new directions.

The physics lecture I’d skipped, the résumé I was supposed to update and send to my student advisor, my empty fridge, Langley’s party, the skinny dude with glasses staring at me…

What the fuck was with this guy?

I narrowed my eyes menacingly, which I’d been told was usually enough to scare anyone. Mr. Khaki and V-Neck Sweater didn’t seem bothered.

He glanced over his shoulder in confusion, his cheeks pinkening as he met my gaze again. Huh, he was cute. Geeky cute. I hooked my forefinger, wordlessly bidding him toward me.

Why? No idea. I didn’t have time to spare. Remember…I still had to get those physics notes and buy some damn eggs.

Yep, lots to do.

Except now the geek was scrambling out of his chair. He adjusted his glasses, straightened his spine, and if I wasn’t mistaken, took a deep cleansing breath before heading my way. Color me intrigued.

He didn’t give hockey fanatic vibes, but I could have been wrong about that. I mean, my eighty-five-year-old grandmother was a rabid Sabres fan. Rabid. She wore her lucky jersey while watching the game and had been known to paint her favorite player’s numbers on her face.

“Hello, I?—”

“Sit,” I interrupted.

“Uh, yes, right, of course.”

He didn’t sit, though. He licked his upper lip, then pierced the bottom one with his front teeth. And that was strangely…hot. Full lips, pink tongue, mossy green eyes, and?—

Shit, he was talking again…I think? He held a hand out—long, tapered smooth fingers, delicate wrists. Was I supposed to shake it or something?

I ignored his hand and motioned for him to take Ty’s seat across from me. He nodded furiously and at the last possible second, tripped and crash-landed into the booth.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry about that.” He chuckled nervously, pushed his computer bag onto the bench beside him…and knocked over my water.

I righted the glass, saving myself from an unplanned ice bath, but the table was drenched. A server descended immediately, removing dishes and wiping the mess away.

Crisis averted, I cocked my head and glowered. “You’ve been staring at me. Was there something you wanted?”

“Help,” he squeaked.

“Huh?”

“Kidding, joking, pulling your leg. Let me start over.” He cleared his throat and licked those damn lips again. “Hello. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Malcolm Maloney, a grad student in the physics department at the venerable Smithton College. I specialize in…”

Okay, Malcolm. You had me at hello and lost me at physics.

I zoned out, mesmerized by his animated gesturing, melodic voice, and opposing features—sharp chin and soft eyes, straight freckled nose and plush lips. He was even cuter up close, but I didn’t go for geeks. Or guys in general. I mean, yeah, sure…I was bi, but that info wasn’t widely known. Too risky for someone in my position, and I was comfortable enough in the closet.

Yes, that sounded douchey, but the world is a fucked-up place. Am I right?

Back to Malcolm, who— I think –was giving a small presentation on the related properties of energy and motion. Shoot me now.

I held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t understand anything you’re saying. If you want to talk physics, I’m not your guy.”

“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.”

“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 a splat.

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.