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CHAPTER 2

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 for Smithton Review and “Relative Momentum” for Granville 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.

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.”

I obeyed, assuring my place in hell for aiding and abetting.

Jett’s profile was mostly filled with action shots of him from games, sprinkled with a few random pics of food, empty ice rinks, running shoes near the lake, and one or two with a group of friends or perhaps teammates.

“This man ate lunch with Jett last week,” I said, pointing at a handsome fellow with a beard, his arm slung casually over Jett’s shoulder. They were both in uniform, and I surmised from their broad grins that they’d just won.

“Hottie alert.” Layla fanned her face. “Cross-stalk.”

“Uh…what does that mean?”

Layla cast a patient glance my way, blew on her nails again, and shooed me aside. “Let me take a crack at this.”

She tapped away, pulling up Ty Czerniak’s page, which was a bit more lively than Jett’s. Family, friends, and hockey were the themes, but there were plenty of party selfies featuring Ty and a bevy of young women, as well as a few with Jett.

I zeroed in on one with the two friends holding coffee cups, flanked on either side by two beautiful blonds. The woman next to Jett clung to his biceps possessively, and for reasons I didn’t want to examine, my heart sank to the pit of my stomach.

I cleared my throat. “They have coffee and hockey in common.”

“Yes, so let’s find out when these big boys caffeinate.” Layla exited the app and sent a quick text to her friend Darya, who worked at Coffee Cave.

“Oh, no…you can’t ask her that!”

“Too late. I already did.”

“Layla!”

Buzz buzz .

Layla winked. “That was fast. Darya says some members of the hockey team come by after practice for their daily cup of joe a few times a week at approximately eight fifteen a.m. You’re welcome.”

“I…” I licked my lips. “I can’t do that.”

“Persistence pays off, Mal. Show up where you know he’ll be. From what I can tell, he goes to the Coffee Cave most days after practice and runs at the lake in the afternoon…judging by the light of the more recent photos. And since you’re a TA, you can probably pull a few strings to figure out his class schedule. Use your power, baby! But if those options don’t pan out, you can always go to a game.”

“A game?” I squeaked.

Layla typed “Smithton Bears Hockey Schedule” in the search bar. “There’s one here on Saturday.”

I buried my head in my hands and moaned. “Plan B it is.”

“Oh, don’t give up, Mal. The worst he can do is say no.”