Page 4

CHAPTER 4

JETT

“Two scouts will be at your game this weekend with Trinity. They’re a solid middling team—not too easy, not too tough. You guys should beat them with your hands tied behind your back, but a W will do. How are you feeling? Is your knee bugging you?”

My agent was a sturdy middle-aged man with a thick mustache and thinning hair dyed an unnatural shade of brown. At least that was how he’d looked last time we’d seen each other. It had been a few months since our previous in-person meeting. Randall was a busy man with an impressive clientele…who also happened to be a friend of my dad’s and an old teammate of Coach Beekman’s.

He’d taken me on as a favor to my old man. However, I knew Randall wouldn’t waste time with me if he didn’t think I had potential. And I didn’t really mind these occasional phone calls. Randall was a nice enough guy and someone I absolutely wanted in my corner, but sometimes I wished he didn’t know so much about me.

Like my knee problem.

It was an old injury that flared up once in a while, but it never stopped me. Probably because I was a pro at managing it. I iced it three times a day and did whatever exercises were necessary to strengthen the muscles surrounding my kneecap.

Truthfully, it kind of hurt. I shouldn’t have extended my jog with Malcolm yesterday. I had strict rules about how much time I spent on any nonessential extracurricular activity, especially if it impacted my knees. Then again, that had been more of a brisk walk than anything.

And just like that, I had a dopey-ass smile on my face.

I couldn’t help it. The memory of the uber-serious science guy lying in wait for me in his oversized sweats and scruffy sneakers with his nose in a book made me chuckle. He’d been so earnest and yeah…he was kinda cute, too.

Don’t worry. I knew Malcolm was out of my league. Too smart for me by half.

I still liked him, and I respected his tenacity and grit. He’d shamelessly stalked me for days. Days.

Melanie, my favorite barista at Coffee Cave had wondered if I knew I had an admirer.

“He’s adorable,” Mel had singsonged. “Glasses, wears V-neck sweaters, and carries a backpack the size of a small microwave. Ring any bells?”

“Uh…”

“I think he’s got a crush on you,” she’d teased.

My ears had gone pink for sure, but I’d scoffed and moved on. I knew better.

Malcolm hadn’t been following me with hearts in his eyes. He’d wanted something from me. I was used to that. Hockey was a big deal at Smithton, and not to brag, but my sport had made me a mini celebrity here.

Seriously. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d paid for every item on my tab at any establishment in town. The crew at Coffee Cave comped croissants or charged me half of what I owed for my daily cup of joe. The staff at Bear Depot always offered me the table at the window and brought a treat on the house—onion rings, fries, a sundae, a milkshake. Yogi’s Frozen Yogurt Shop wouldn’t take my money at all.

They were sweet perks, but they came with an expectation to win games. No problem. I wanted that too, and I’d always liked the attention—invitations to exclusive parties, free drinks, willing partners…sign me up.

But something had changed for me this year, and the weight of expectation felt heavier than ever.

This was it for me. The end of the line. My final season, my final shot at the future I’d dreamed of. I wished it were a foregone conclusion that I’d find a new home in the pros, but sadly, there was no guarantee.

My stats alone weren’t going to get me signed. I knew that, but part of me resented the pressure to put on a show for the scouts. My show was the game I played every damn time I took to the ice. If that wasn’t enough…I was kinda screwed.

Even Malcolm had admitted that my stats were what made me an interesting candidate for his experiment. But the fact that he didn’t seem to know much about hockey was oddly refreshing. He wanted a piece of my time for science.

That was weird. But in a cool way.

Maybe.

I couldn’t decide.

And why was I thinking about Malcolm again? I should have been thinking about?—

“Erickson? Are you there?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m ready,” I assured my agent. “We’ll play our asses off Saturday night. And win.”

“And your knee?” Randall asked.

“It’s fine.”

“Glad to hear that. Anything else going on?”

“Well…” I scratched my nape and shrugged, though the gesture was lost in the connection. “No. Why?”

Randall sighed. “Listen, kid. I believe in you. I keep in touch with your coach and I see highlights. Sometimes you look sharp as fuck, and sometimes you look like you’re wound so tight, you’re gonna explode. These two scouts aren’t heavy hitters, but there’ll be bigger names behind them. You gotta be ready.”

“I’m ready,” I repeated.

“Good. I’m not telling you to work harder. That’s your coach’s job. I’m suggesting that you work smarter. Don’t go balls to the wall and fuck up your knee again.”

“I take care of it,” I assured him, launching into a report of my icing routine that should have bored anyone with a pulse within ten seconds.

Randall lasted five. “Balance is important too, Jett. You gotta pay attention to your mental health. Do something to quiet your mind, you know? Something outside of your usual routine. Try yoga or meditation…”

Yoga? Meditation? The fuck?

“Uh…yeah. Sure.”

“Great chat. I’ll check in with you soon.”

I ended the call and stared into space for a moment, then called my dad.

He answered on the fifth ring. “I’ve got two minutes. What’s up?”

“Any idea why Randall’s telling me to try yoga?”

The line was silent for a beat. “No, but…I don’t have time to talk. He knows what he’s doing, Jett. Listen to him.”

I swiped a hand over my stubbled jaw. “Yoga isn’t the point. It felt more as if he’s preparing me for failure in the nicest way possible.”

“You won’t fail. Your future is secure even without hockey, so quit worrying. I have a meeting now, but we’ll catch up soon.”

The line went dead.

I was instantly pissed at myself. I shouldn’t have called my fucking father. He had his own agenda. “ Hockey’s nice and all, and if it works out—which it probably won’t— there’s always real estate.”

Fuck real estate, fuck yoga, fuck meditation.

I wouldn’t deny that I could use a diversion of some kind, though.

What I really needed was to disconnect for a few hours and find something, anything else to think about besides failure, doom, and uncertainty.

Buzz buzz

I glanced down at my phone and read a new text from Ty.

Watching the game at Langley’s. Get your ass over here.

What do you know? I typed a quick message.

Be there in ten.

I tossed my cell onto my kitchen counter and put my jacket on, slipping my wallet into my pocket along with my keys. I rescued my phone just as a new message popped up. I spared it a casual glimpse, pre-annoyed that Ty was already badgering me to hurry up or to buy a six pack on my way. But it wasn’t Ty.

This is Jett, correct? Where will you be in ten? Is that ten minutes or ten hours? Our scheduled rendezvous is in approximately twenty-two hours. Perhaps this message isn’t intended for me? Please reply with confirmation.

My lips curled into what felt like my first real smile of the day.

It’s me. Sorry. That wasn’t for you. I input your number from the card you gave me.

Excellent.

See you tomorrow, Maloney.

Thumbs-up emoji. Thank you and have a nice evening.

I shoved my cell into my pocket and pulled it out again. I thought you were busy tonight. Don’t tell me you’re texting in class.

My cell buzzed before I reached the door.

I am, and it’s very rude of me. I’m making an exception because this is our first text thread. I was afraid that our wires were crossed and that I was obliged to be somewhere in ten minutes. I’m relieved that isn’t the case.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that he texted like he spoke, but it caught me off guard and there I was, grinning like a fool for no good reason.

No, I’m going to my friend’s place to watch the game , I replied, adding, Bruins are playing the Penguins. Are you recording it?

I could imagine Malcolm squinting as he read my text twice, his nose scrunched and brow furrowed, and…fine—the physics geek was cute as fuck. That didn’t mean anything except he was a nice diversion from real-life stress.

Yeah, this was the kind of diversion I needed.

Three dots appeared and disappeared. No message.

I locked up and took the stairs to the main floor of my building, checking my cell once more before heading across campus to my friend’s apartment complex. I paused on the steps outside Langley’s brick-and-ivy three story building to greet someone I recognized from the gym and glanced at my cell again.

No. That’s the short answer. A longer response involves admitting that I’ve never watched a hockey game in my life. I understand the objective, but I don’t know the rules. It’s Greek to me.

I’ll teach you .

No thank you.

I sent a hockey stick emoji and a winky face. It’s on.

I turned my cell off so I wouldn’t be tempted to keep this up. My smile was already stupid big.

So what? That didn’t mean anything.

I pushed open the door to Langley’s place and was instantly assaulted by the smell of stale beer, pot, and pizza. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a raging party, but it was more than a few teammates hanging out. The group on the sofa screamed at the action on the television while another group gathered in the kitchen, hovering around a stack of pizza boxes. And a few hung in the space in between, red cups in hand.

A girl I’d hooked up with last year shot a flirty look my way as she leaned against Regan’s arm. He was one our defensive players—a sweet guy with outrageous dimples and curly brown hair who morphed into a beast on the ice. Most of the time, anyway. He hadn’t been playing well lately, but let’s be honest, this midweek impromptu party stuff wasn’t a good idea for any of us.

Gus Langley was a great guy and a decent scorer, but a terrible captain. His best intentions always lacked forethought. The guy couldn’t just invite a few teammates over to watch the game. No, he had to make it extra fun—invite pretty girls and buy weed and enough pizza to feed a small army.

Maybe that was me being a stick-in-the-mud, though. We didn’t have a game tomorrow, and a little bonding time was always positive. My teammates were good people. The problem here was me. I was too serious, aggravated with my agent, my dad, and all kinds of shit I couldn’t control. I needed to chill out.

So I fist-bumped Ty and Langley, thanked whoever handed me a beer, and let myself slide into an old habit like a warm glove on a cold winter night.

Another beer later, I was beginning to hit my stride. Three or four beers later, I was the most popular guy in the room. My voice was louder than usual, my stories each more outrageous than the last, and there were at least three very hot girls hanging on my every word. I was totally getting laid tonight.

This was good, right? I liked sex, and the brunet with red lips and olive skin dragging her nails along my chest was my type. And best of all, she wasn’t clingy. I’d bet she’d be down for something quick and dirty.

She slipped her hand around my neck and pulled my mouth close to hers. “Let’s get out of here.”

I nodded and started to follow her, pausing in the doorway. “I need my jacket. Be right back.”

I found it lying over a sofa arm and slipped it on. And out of sheer habit, I checked to make sure my phone was still in my pocket. Yep…but it was off. I couldn’t remember why I’d turned it off until a new message lit up my screen.

Please don’t be offended. I don’t object to hockey, per se. I’m uninterested in all sports. Explaining the rules wouldn’t work. I’m unteachable.

Malcolm.

Not untable. Do u know skate? I typed, bleary-eyed and unsteady on my feet.

My phone buzzed immediately.

I think you’re asking if I can skate. If so, the answer is not well.

I reread my text, wincing at the missing words. Sorry. Too many beers.

Thumbs-up emoji. I’ll see you tomorrow?

I nodded as if he could see me. Yep. I have a lot to teach you. Later, Malonie.

I don’t think so. Also, you spelled my surname incorrectly.

How u speel it?

Maloney. You seem to be having trouble spelling in general.

Beer , I typed.

I’ll let you get back to it. Three dancing dots popped up. They were blurry as fuck, though. No more beer for me. No more…anything. It was time to go.

And with that, I brushed past my teammates and friends to the sultry babe waiting for me at the door.

Now, look…I’d like to claim that I wasn’t operating on all cylinders—and that was the damn truth—but I was still cognizant. I didn’t know this girl’s name, but she had a great smile, great tits, and I had a strong feeling we’d click physically. I didn’t need to know her life story, and she didn’t need mine. We knew the score without going into specifics. The only question now would be: my place or yours? That was all.

But my fucking phone vibrated in my hand, and I was dumb enough to glance down at Malcolm’s newest message.

Snoring emoji. Good night, Erickson.

Once again, my mouth did that smiley thing. And this time it split my face in half and made me feel a little dizzy. Definitely the beer. Had to be. Alcohol hadn’t done me any favors lately. Tomorrow while I was nursing a hangover, I’d be pissed at myself for doing every fucking thing I’d said I wouldn’t do—drinking, partying, wallowing like a pouting kid at the first sign of adversity.

But tonight, in my groggy, confused state, I was suddenly very sure that the last thing I should do was leave with the pretty stranger.

“Sh-orry,” I slurred, biting into my lower lip. “Something came up and I’m—I have to go.”

She didn’t look happy, and she certainly wasn’t interested in my angsty excuses. She flipped me off and headed back inside.

And me…I zipped my jacket and slinked into the shadows like a vampire.

This was usually where I’d beat myself up, but any negativity was overturned by random thoughts about the stalking geeky scientist who didn’t know the first thing about hockey.

That was almost funny. Or not. I didn’t know how to explain hockey. But I’d do it. And I’d bet I could make him like it. Not that I cared, of course. Malcolm could like whatever the fuck he wanted.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and continued my trek across campus, my beer-sloshed brain wandering to all things Malcolm. Damn, I was curious about him now.

Who were his friends? What did he do for fun? Did he like music? Did he know how to play an instrument? He had long fingers. Don’t ask how I remembered that, but I did. He seemed like the kind of guy who knew how to play the piano or the violin. Did he like video games? No, word games. Yep, I’d bet a million dollars Maloney was a Wordle guy.

Strange thoughts for sure, but better than worrying that I was at the height of my not-so-illustrious hockey career, and this was literally as good as it would ever get. Too depressing.

So hey…thank you, Maloney.