Page 20

CHAPTER 20

MALCOLM

My job as a teaching assistant required me to track records, review assignments, and occasionally step in for the professor. I TA’d for Professors Finkwell and Higgins on top of my graduate studies, which was…a lot. I liked being busy, though, and I loved working with undergraduate students. Especially the curious ones.

“I was confused by the kinematic equation for displacement in the textbook example, but I think I get it now,” Professor Finkwell’s student gushed. I think her name was Sara or Tara. “Thank you, Mr. Maloney.”

I pushed my glasses to the bridge of my nose and smiled. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I was able to clear it up for you. Sometimes it’s just a matter of asking a question aloud.”

“That’s true. Do you mind if I ask another one?” The young woman pushed her long dark hair over her shoulder, her gaze turning suddenly earnest at my nod of consent. “Are you still tutoring Jett Erickson? I see you with him a lot and…I don’t know…it seems like you’re good…friends.”

I hadn’t expected that. My brows hit my hairline, and my glasses slipped again. It wasn’t as if no one had questioned our association, but it hadn’t happened in a while and not so suspiciously. She probably thought I had an inappropriate crush on Jett and if so, she was a hundred percent correct. The fact that it was mutual and that we were the sort of “friends” who shared itineraries would shock the heck out of her.

For example, I knew that within the hour Jett was due to hop on a bus for Granville to play his first game since his MRI. He was nervous and excited, and I wished I didn’t have to teach. I would have loved to be there cheering him on in the audience. And I think I could have persuaded Layla to join me.

Sidenote: Layla still didn’t know what to think about Jett and me. I’d confessed that I was hot for the hockey player after he’d shown up on our doorstep with soup. I’d also confessed that we had a mutually beneficial arrangement—top secret. She was probably worried about me harboring unrealistic hopes, but other than issuing a fiery threat to chop Jett’s balls off if he hurt me, she’d kept quiet. Remarkable, really.

“Oh, uh…we are friends. Mr. Erickson assisted me with research pertaining to my thesis. As you know, measuring angular momentum is pertinent to studying rotation, motion and—” I coughed, and made myself stop before the poor girl’s eyes popped out of her head. “Well, hockey is a popular sport.”

“For sure. And Jett’s cool…and popular. I’m just surprised…never mind.” She stepped aside with a wave at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Thanks again.”

Professor Finkwell waited for the classroom door to close. “And who is the popular Jett?”

“The hockey player,” I replied, bristling at the inadequate description. He was far more than his sport to me.

“Oh, yes.” The older man chuckled. “That student’s reaction alone is the reason I know your thesis will be a smash hit. I imagine thousands of students will happily become unwittingly engrossed in physics by hockey proxy.”

My laugh was tinny and hollow, but the professor had moved on. There were papers to grade, a conference he was interested in attending, another he’d been asked to speak at. I hiked my bag on my shoulder and inched toward the door, hoping to signal an end to the conversation without resorting to tapping my watch.

My buzzing cell came to the rescue. “Sorry, Professor, but I have to take this.”

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Maloney.”

I moved into the hallway and peeked at the new message.

Call me. I’m getting on the bus in fifteen minutes. I have something to tell you.

I could do better than that. I was halfway across campus, heading for the rink, unthinking. Emphasis on unthinking. His teammates were used to seeing me around, but it would have been smarter and easier to call…especially since they were leaving.

It wasn’t like me to act impulsively. I blamed my interaction with the hockey-loving student who’d reminded me Jett and I were from different planets.

I stopped at the large elm on the path to the rink and scrolled his contact info.

“Yo, Maloney! Is that you?”

I glanced up at the handsome hockey player striding forward, a huge bag slung across his shoulder. I did my best to control my facial features, but his smile was contagious. It didn’t matter that I’d spent the night in his bed and woken up next to him, grumbling affectionately about blanket hogs and suggesting a game of rocks, paper, scissors to see who should have to make coffee—he lost, by the way. I just needed to see him.

Was this excessive? I couldn’t be sure anymore. I wanted him all the time. It was getting harder to pretend I was only casually invested in him…or us.

“I happened to be in the neighborhood,” I lied, panting for breath.

Jett flashed his pearly white teeth and motioned for me to follow him to the side of the building. “I got a contract.”

“Oh, my! Congratulations!”

“Thanks. It’s with a developmental team. The pay will be peanuts and my dad will have a lot to say about that, but it could lead to something else. Or not. It’s a start, though.” His easy grin grew to epic proportions. “I don’t know why I’m so pumped. It’s not the NHL, for fuck’s sake, but it feels like validation. Like maybe I am good at this hockey thing.”

“You are. It’s terrific news and you get to play tonight.”

“Right?” He made a “mind-blown” gesture and cast a furtive look around. “I have to kiss you. It’s gonna be quick, but just know that I’d totally stick my tongue down your throat if I could.”

That was the only warning he gave before bending to press his lips to mine.

It was more of a peck compared to our usual standards, but we let it linger until I set my hands on his face and broke the kiss.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“And congratulations.”

Jett winked, then jogged away.

I leaned against the brick wall, staring after him. My heart was beating too fast, and my head was still swimming from his kiss.

This was a quandary. A hullabaloo of my own making. I’d done the unthinkable and developed feelings for the hockey jock. Big feelings. L-word feelings.

It was the opposite of smart—but gosh, it felt good.

* * *

My fingers flew across the keyboard, pausing to cross-check information from one of the dozen tabs on my computer or to flip through the stacks of reference books on the dining table. I’d lost all semblance of time, but it was dark outside and Layla was curled up on the sofa, alternately changing channels or scrolling her cell and occasionally snickering at a funny meme or sharing an interesting headline.

“Oh, geez, listen to this. Man develops fungal lung cancer caused by a lifelong habit of smelling…wait for it—dirty socks.”

“That’s…disturbing,” I commented, typing away.

“People are strange as fuck.”

“Agreed.”

She went quiet for a few minutes, caught up in videos of puppies and eyeliner tutorials. “I really should start my own channel. I’m talented, right?”

“Of course you are.”

“You’re my bestie. You’re practically required to assure me that my cat-eye technique is on point,” Layla lamented. “But I know it’s true. I am good. It’s a matter of going for it…and coming up with interesting content that people want to tune into. That guy I told you about, Walker What’s-his-face has followers in Japan, Brazil, Australia, Miami, and…everywhere checking in to see what’s new in Smithton. I mean…I live in Smithton and I barely care what’s happening here.”

I saved my work and pushed away from my computer, sensing that my friend required my time more than my thesis did. Discussing makeup wasn’t my forte, though.

“And what is new in Smithton?” I asked, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa.

Layla dropped her phone on her lap and raised a pretend microphone to her mouth. “Tonight’s headline: A family of raccoons broke into the trash bins behind the gymnasium. Mayhem ensued, but the perps are too darn cute, not to mention difficult to catch. Charges have been dropped. This just in…three stalls in the girls’ restroom at Bear Depot were cleaned out of toilet paper. Was it a heist? Is there at TP thief on the loose?”

I snickered. “Is that really the type of news that’s reported?”

“I haven’t checked in a while. My bad. I’ve probably missed a ton of locker room interviews with shirtless hotties. That’s Walker’s usual schtick. And now that we’re at freaking Valentine’s season, he’ll be covering hearts and flowers BS. Bitter much? I know. Jealousy has driven me to convince myself the guy is a hack, but…let’s take a peek, shall we?” Layla tapped on her cell. “I doubt it’ll be as entertaining as a band of lawless raccoons or a ring of TP—oh, my God.”

“What’s wrong?”

She didn’t reply, but blood had drained from her face and her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “I… um . Oh, fuck, Mal.”

“You’re scaring me. Did someone die or?—”

She pushed her phone at me, a panicked expression marring her features. I pressed Play and immediately wished I hadn’t.

A bubbly redhead wearing a bowtie and a too-bright smile shuffled papers as he swiveled to the camera. “We love love in Smithton, and we love to give props to our campus lovebirds with our sneaky kiss cam. Thanks for sending in some of your favorite photos. Recognize anyone?”

No, not until a blurry picture of Jett and me kissing near the rink popped up. My hands caressing his face, my eyes closed.

It was a sweet stolen moment that someone had made into a weapon.

Bile rose in my throat as I read the comments.

Is that Jett Erickson?

Who is he with?

That’s a dude.

Is Jett gay? Doesn’t he play hockey?

Did anyone know Jett was queer?

It went on and on.

There were other couples featured in the segment, but every single comment was about the star hockey player…kissing a man. Me. I dropped Layla’s phone on the sofa, too shaken to process the enormity of the situation.

“What can I do?” I whispered.

Layla moved to my side and hugged me fiercely. “Call him. Talk.”

I swallowed hard. “Y-yes.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay? Did he want to come out?”

“No. Not yet. Bad timing. New contract. I—he—oh, Layla…I don’t want to ruin his life,” I cried, swiping tears away.

“You haven’t ruined anything, Mal,” she replied sternly. “Whoever snapped that pic probably thought they were being funny. I’m going to find out who’s responsible and wring their fucking necks.”

I stared, unseeing. My mind was pure chaos, a mire of recriminations and accusations. No, I hadn’t taken a selfie and posted it for public consumption, but I was responsible.

“I have to fix this.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

And I didn’t. I only knew that this couldn’t be how we ended.