Page 5

CHAPTER 5

MALCOLM

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” Jett skewered me with a withering glance, removing his helmet and wiping sweat from his brow. “So, what are we doing here?”

I noted his drawn features and tired eyes as I opened my kit. “I’m going to attach a device to your shoulder pads.”

“Hockey tracker. Nice. I’ve done this a few times.”

“Oh. Well…good.” I motioned for him to get off the ice. “Can you sit on a bench, please? You’re too tall. I can’t reach your shoulders.”

Jett grunted in response, hobbling over and flopping onto the nearest bench. “You can use those radar speed guns too, you know. Coach sets them up by the goal every once in a while.”

“According to my research, those are notoriously inaccurate.” I fastened the small device to his left shoulder.

“Not true at all,” he argued. “It won’t measure skating efficiency, but it’ll tell you how fast the puck is going.”

“I’m measuring your speed today. Not the puck’s.” I tugged at his practice jersey, testing my handiwork.

“Prepare to be disappointed. It’s been an off day.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Meh.”

“Is that a technical term?”

Jett glanced up with a snort. “Sarcasm?”

“Well…yes.”

He grinned. “I like it. Today, meh means slow as fuck, which is still pretty damn fast, but not good enough. Coach didn’t complain, though, so…there is that.”

“I won’t complain either,” I assured him, reaching for the notepad I’d tucked into my bag. “This should be easy. I’m going to measure stride speed, which is your average or maximum speed throughout?—”

“I know what it is,” he intercepted.

“Right. Your instructions are to skate around the rink…as fast as you can. Afterward, we’ll measure your explosiveness or burst of speed…” I read from my notes. “You’ll go from the red circle at one corner of the ice to the red circle on the other side, going faster and faster and?—”

“Whoa. I just wrapped up a two-hour practice, Maloney. I’m no scientist, but my speed after running drills and doing dozens of laps won’t be comparable to when I have fresh legs.” Jett spared me a tired once-over. “I’m beat, man. Maybe we should try this another day.”

No, no, no. He’d been hard to catch as it was. If I let Jett get away now, I might never see him again.

I furrowed my brow. “How about if we concentrate on your puck-shooting skills instead?”

He inclined his head and stood. “Okay. What kind of shots do you want?”

“I don’t understand the question. How many kinds are there?”

Jett’s blank stare was almost humorous. “Dude…”

“What? I don’t know hockey things. I’m here to take calculations,” I squeaked.

“All right, all right. No worries. There are a few basic shots—shovel or flip shot, slap shot, snap shot, wrist shot, backhand. Do you know what any of those are?”

“Absolutely…not.”

He chuckled, tsking in faux disapproval. “Professor, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but research is important. Sounds like you need me to explain the game to you after all.”

“Um…”

I couldn’t take offense. Number one: he was correct. I should have come more prepared. My only real excuse was that the subject matter was dull as dirt. My brain wasn’t interested in absorbing hockey lore of any kind.

Number two: he was teasing, and the mischievous glint in his eyes was drop-dead charming. So charming that I forgot what we were talking about.

Jett waved a hand in front of my face. “You with me?”

I cleared my throat, averting my gaze to fumble with the radar equipment in my bag. “Yes, of course. You’re right. I’ve been grossly remiss and I apologize for?—”

“None of that. I’m fuckin’ with you, Maloney.” He stood, towering above me on his skates and setting a meaty paw on my shoulder. “Listen, I have an idea. I’ll give you an example of each shot, but you should know that my specialty is my wrist shot. My reaction time tends to be faster on that one. I’m less quick on my backhand. It depends on what the action on the ice dictates, ya know? On the bright side, my accuracy is way up there.”

“Way up there,” I repeated, furiously scribbling on my notepad.

“High percentage,” he translated, plucking the pad from me. “You don’t need this yet. You can take notes at dinner if you want.”

“Dinner?”

“I’m starving. Like…so hungry I could eat my stick,” Jett griped, and proceeded to bite the end of his stick.

It was funny and ridiculous, and yes, I giggled. If the noise I made was on par with a twittering bird, it couldn’t be helped. Jett didn’t seem so gruff now. He was over-the-top, utterly endearing, and sinfully handsome. A winning combination if ever there was one.

“Do you require a snack?” I pursed my lips, hoping to wrestle my smile into submission. “I think I have a banana with me.”

“That’s not sex talk, is it?”

And now my cheeks were on fire. I riffled through my bag to retrieve the banana, and handed it over with a no-nonsense expression in place. At least that was the idea. “Behave.”

Jett winked as he tore into the banana. “Thanks. Still hungry, though. I’ll set up your radar at the net and shoot a bag of pucks for you, and then we’ll go to Bear Depot and get something to eat.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Oh, it is. You need hockey tutoring for your thesis if I’m starring in your production. I want to look good, and I won’t look good if I don’t eat. See, everything is tied together. So…say yes, Malcolm,” he chided around a banana bite.

“Uh…yes.”

Jett grinned. It was no ordinary grin either. It was a boyish, self-satisfied, radiant smile that was impossible not to return.

My lips curled of their own volition and stayed locked in place as Jett glided onto the ice with the radar equipment, setting it up at the base of the goal before disappearing to get pucks. He high-fived a fellow hockey person and must have explained his mission, because both men were looking at me now.

I immediately diverted my attention to the app I’d installed on my iPad to track the device’s output and rearranged my googly-eyed expression into a scowl no one would misconstrue as romantic interest. Gah! Mortifying!

Jett reappeared with a large bag that he set between the two red circles on the ice. He dug a few pucks out and quickly buried them in the net, glancing my way as if to be sure I was paying attention. I nodded and watched. But I didn’t understand what he was doing.

I raised my arms over my head and called to him. I had questions. What shot was he taking? Why had he chosen that spot on the ice? Was he aiming for a specific part of the goal?

Jett leaned on the boards, stick in hand. “You can’t see from here, can you?”

“I…of course, I can.”

“You’re squinting, Maloney. It would be better if you were on the ice so you can see up close.”

I cocked my head curiously. “Is that possible? Can you set up a chair? I might be able to shuffle in my shoes and?—”

“No, you need skates,” he stated. “What size do you wear?”

I frowned. “Ten. However, that’s neither here nor there. I don’t intend to skate.”

“Maybe you didn’t intend to, but you can’t see what I’m doing. And I have to point out that you’re wasting your time and mine if you don’t know what you’re recording. Logical, right?”

Darn it, yes.

“Perhaps that’s partially true,” I conceded. “However, I don’t need to know everything about your sport. The data is the only thing that matters.”

“Nope.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means numbers don’t tell you squat if you don’t understand the game. Shooting pucks in a net is nothing but an exercise. You should know which shot works in action. Same with acceleration, stride speed, agility. I can skate circles around the ice right now—games are different. In fact, you should come to my game this weekend.”

“Oh, I don’t think I?—”

“I’ll wear a tracker under my jersey for you,” he continued, unclipping the device on his shoulder pad. “I have one that’s a million times better than this. But still, if you don’t know what you’re watching, it won’t make sense.”

“I don’t?—”

“Hold tight. I’ll get your radar thingy for you.” Jett pushed away with an up-nod and returned, handing over the sensor. “I need to clean up and get dressed. I won’t be long. Wait for me?”

He was gone before I could reply.

I sat on the bench, staring at the ice, huddled in the winter coat Jett had advised me to wear. I’d known it would be chilly in the rink, but I was freezing…and so out of my depth, my head was spinning.

I didn’t want to learn hockey. But gosh, he was obstinate and I had a terrible feeling he was going to insist. It should have occurred to me that I’d entered a testosterone-driven, egocentric landmine. This was Jett’s domain. This was his passion, his ambition, his daily motivation. It was na?ve of me to assume he’d follow my lead, especially after I’d played my hand and admitted I didn’t know his sport…at all.

Perhaps football players were more malleable.

Or was I stuck? No, I could rescind my offer.

I could change my mind about dinner, too. I didn’t have to stay, you know. I had things to do—papers to grade, an essay to write, a box of mac and cheese to make. Nothing exciting, but I didn’t need thrills in my life. I preferred quiet, calm, orderly.

So…get up and walk away. Go on. Now before Jett Erickson saunters into the arena looking like the devil incarnate and you do something nutty like…smile too wide, laugh too hard, stare too long.

Just go. Go, go, go.

Too late.

There he was…walking toward me, a duffel slung over his shoulder, his hair slicked back, his blue eyes sparkling, and jeans that hugged every inch of him—including his generous package and his?—

“Ready, Maloney?”

Gulp.

“Ready.”