Page 15

CHAPTER 15

MALCOLM

“I’m pleased with the scope of your thesis so far. The kinematic equations you’ve added to the acceleration portion are dynamic and progressive. With your permission, I’d like to forward an excerpt to the review committee. I don’t want to unduly raise hope, but I think they’ll want to include this piece in the textbook.”

My mouth fell open and stayed there for a beat. “Really?”

“Really.”

Professor Finkwell’s smile was laced with indulgent amusement as he leaned back in his leather office chair, elbows resting and fingers steepled in a thoughtful pose that gave him the air of a quintessential collegiate professor. Or Santa Claus.

He was a short, balding man in his midsixties with a paunch belly who favored tweed jackets with leather patches and wrinkled khakis. His cheeks were always rosy and his glasses always slipped to the end of his nose. If I didn’t know any better, I might have been convinced he was a jovial academic who went out of his way to lend guidance to the younger generation. As Jett would probably say, that was bullshit.

Every academic worth his salt knew the inner workings of a university career involved a fair share of politics. You needed allies and mentors. Not that you couldn’t succeed without proper backing, but having friends in high places certainly helped. Finkwell was at the top of the chain at Smithton. He was a published, well-respected professor who’d dedicated over forty-five years to education.

If Finkwell thought any portion of my first draft was worthy to send off for a preliminary glance, I was in a better position than I’d hoped. This was thrilling news…amazing, overwhelming, intriguing.

“That’s…great.” Oh, dear. Jett was rubbing off on me. I shifted nervously on the office chair facing his desk and tried again. “Just…great.”

The professor chuckled lightly. “Indeed. It’s been a while since I’ve inquired into your postgraduation plans. I assume your plan is to teach.”

“Yes, and do research, and…follow in your footsteps as best I can,” I blurted.

Finkwell raised his bushy brows. “I’m flattered. Have you thought about where you’d like to apply?”

I could tell by his tone that was a leading query.

“No,” I replied. “I’m open to suggestions.”

He listed a few options. Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Cornell seemed a tad ambitious, and the colleges in California, Florida, and Texas seemed too far. “There’s always St. Clement’s. It’s a fine private institution located near Buffalo—a sister school to Smithton as you probably know. I think you’d fit in well there and…I have it on good authority that they’ll have an opening in the physics department next year.”

St. Clement’s? Oh, my. Stay calm, Malcolm. No hyperventilating.

“That’s…wow. I know it well. That would be an incredible opportunity,” I said.

Finkwell inclined his head. “I happen to know the department chair. If you’re interested in setting up a preliminary meeting sometime, I can help with that.”

“Thank you, Professor!” I shot to my feet in a flash, reaching across his desk to clasp his hands ardently. “Thank you very much.”

I practically skipped out of his office and across campus, my brain buzzing with ideas of grandeur. I’d planned out a curriculum and decorated an imaginary office as I swung open the door to the rink. It wasn’t until I was face-to-face with the bored-looking student manning the reception desk that I realized I’d forgotten the tracking device.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh…” I fiddled with my glasses and cleared my throat. “I have a hockey experiment and a hockey person is um…expecting me.”

She shrugged imperceptibly. “Go for it.”

I spotted the lone figure on the ice, skating loops around the perimeter. I waved my arms in greeting, grinning as Jett came to a dramatic stop in front of me.

“You’re late, Maloney.”

“I know. Sorry. I met with Professor Finkwell and I…” I caught my breath and reveled in the warmth of his sunny smile. “It’s good to see you.”

He leaned on the board and squeezed my hand affectionately. “What’s up? Before you tell me, I just gotta say…you look hot as fuck.”

“Thanks.” I raked my teeth over my bottom lip.

His gaze dipped to my mouth and stayed there. “Shit, you’re distracting.”

I chuckled. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” he huffed, pointing at the bench. “I left skates for you. Where’s the tracking stuff?”

“I forgot it. Or I thought I’d have time to go home after meeting with the professor, but I didn’t.”

I plopped onto the bench, dropped my bag, and shoved my feet into the borrowed blades.

The skating part was a new development. We’d decided to stick to our original plan of meeting at the rink—once a week, instead of twice—as a sort of currency to cash in if we were spotted together in town. Jett liked the idea, but only if I tried to skate. It wasn’t as painful or scary as I’d feared. I was slow and methodical and probably looked like a newborn foal finding its legs.

But my new vantage on the ice gave me perspective that would certainly be useful in my thesis. And even if it wasn’t, being in Jett’s orbit while he raced by me on a sheet of ice was a rush.

“How’d it go?” he asked, reaching for a stick propped against the board and then handing it to me.

“Great, I—” I wrinkled my nose, holding the stick out like a dirty diaper. “What’s this?”

“A hockey stick. C’mon, hot stuff. We got twenty minutes before the guys start rolling in for practice.”

I peered at the pile of pucks between the face-off circles. “I don’t need a stick.”

“How else are you gonna shoot the puck, Maloney?”

“I’m not going to shoot any pucks. I’m here to measure your…attributes.”

“Oh, yeah?” He waggled his brows.

“Allegedly.”

“Hey.”

I snickered. “I meant for the sake of appearances.”

Jett frowned as if unhappy with my choice of words, but he smiled again and motioned me to his side. “Let’s make mincemeat out of these pucks.”

“I don’t?—”

“No sass. This is what you get when you forget to bring your supplies. An in-class assignment with the expert. That’s me, by the way. I’m the expert.”

“I can barely stand upright on these things. I’ll fall if I try to do anything else,” I argued.

“I’ll catch you.”

My heart did a cartwheel and a somersault that momentarily left me breathless. I knew the sentiment wasn’t meant to be taken literally, but gosh, it sounded utterly romantic. I waddle-skated toward him with my head in the clouds, too bewitched to put up further resistance.

“Now what?” I asked, grasping his elbow for balance.

“Now you go for it.”

I went for it. Result: The puck didn’t move, and my inexpert stroke propelled me to the ice. Or it would have if Jett hadn’t grabbed my arm.

“See? I told you I couldn’t do it.”

“Yes, you can. You need some pointers, though. Let’s talk about your grip. You’re right-handed, so you’re going to hold the stick like this.” He demonstrated, adjusting my hands till he was satisfied. “Good. Now bend your knees, put your weight on your back foot, and—not that far back.”

I did a cartoonlike dance that had me sweating under my jacket. “Face it, Jett. I can’t do this. I’m not coordinated or?—”

“Cool it with the bad attitude and watch me. Knees bent, I pull my stick, transfer weight to my front foot as I swing at the puck, releasing it with shoulders squared. Like this.” He drilled the small disk to the upper corner of the net. “Now you. And quick reminder…it takes practice. You might whiff a few times, chop at the ice, or send the puck flying sideways, and that’s okay. Just give it a shot.”

I blew out an exasperated breath and prepared another argument. This wasn’t my sport or my idea of fun. I was no daredevil and I didn’t have anything to prove. I was an observer, a researcher, a person who studied the actions of others, thank you very much.

But one glance at Jett with his beefy arms over his chest and an encouraging eager expression made me want to try.

It wasn’t pretty. I had a hard time making contact. I whiffed the air around the puck or grazed the ice hard enough to send a zinger up my spine. I eyed Jett after every missed shot thinking he’d realize what a waste of time this was, but that only seemed to make him more determined. He even enlisted the help of his teammates who’d shown up early for practice.

“Ease your grip on the stick, man,” Ty advised. “Nice and easy, but with power.”

I delivered my best deadpan stare. “That makes no sense.”

“Sure it does,” another teammate piped in. “Stay loose. Your strength comes from your legs.”

“That’s why you gotta dig in and let it fly,” someone named Langley explained, tilting his chin at Jett meaningfully. “Have you warmed up? Coach will be here in ten minutes.”

“Yeah, we’re just finishing.”

“Cool. Keep working it…what’s your name again?” Ty asked.

“Malcolm,” I replied.

Ty held his hand out for a fist bump. “Nice to meet you, man. Later.”

I pushed at my glasses and complied, turning to Jett as his friends began skating laps around the rink. “Well…that was fun. I’ll let you get down to business and?—”

“Three more tries,” he intercepted. “Just…clear your mind and let go.”

“Jett…”

“Maloney…you can do this. Tell me about your day or something.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ve had a terrific day,” I gushed. I gave him a summary of my meeting with Professor Finkwell as I got into position and attempted to hit the puck.

Shockingly, I made contact. It didn’t go far, but it careened with the left bar on the goal. I did it on the second try too, smacking it into the boards.

Jett high-fived me. “That’s amazing. I’m excited for you. St. Clement’s is a great school. You should check out the campus for sure. I can come with you if you want. We have a bye next weekend. That could work for me.”

“You want to come with me?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “If that’s cool.”

“I—yes.” I cleared my throat. “Yes, that’s cool.”

His slow mischievous grin made me dizzy. “You look surprised. You should know I like coming with you by now.”

I snorted at the blatant innuendo. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Hey, I speak the truth. I like coming…on your stomach, on your cock, in your mouth.” His voice rumbled low and nasty. “I kind of want to come inside you, too.”

My mouth went dry. I licked my lips and glanced around at the buzz of activity. “I…I want that too, but?—”

“Tonight.”

I stared at him for a beat. “Tonight.”

“Yeah.” Jett pushed a puck to me. “Last one. Do it, Maloney.”

I shuffle-skated, guiding the puck with my stick toward the net, and then I shoveled it in. It was cheating, but I didn’t care. Neither did Jett. His laughter reverberated on the ice, reawakening the butterflies in my stomach.

I want to come inside you, too.

Oh, my…wow.

And just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better.