Page 6

CHAPTER 6

MALCOLM

Bear Depot was walking distance from the rink, located on a tree-lined street at the bottom of the hill from campus. It was bound to be busy on a weeknight at the dinner hour, so I fully expected we’d have to wait to be seated. But no…

“Jett! How are you?”

He grinned at the pretty blond with a high ponytail and a purple beaded necklace under her crisp white oxford shirt. “Hey, Madison. I’m good.”

“Regular table?”

“Actually, can I get the private booth in the back corner tonight?” Jett squeezed my shoulder, tilting his chin in my direction. “My friend Malcolm and I are working on a science project, and we could use a little extra quiet.”

Madison spared me the briefest of sideways glances, most likely coming to the swift conclusion that my presence wasn’t newsworthy in the slightest. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Two minutes later we sat in a far corner booth, each browsing a menu I’d memorized two years ago, while I did my best not to stare at my dinner companion for the evening. I was well aware of Jett’s superhuman physical attributes and his positive reputation at Smithton, but my new perspective and proximity underscored those facts.

Jett filled space like no one I’d ever met. The man was huge. Enormous. He seemed to take up his entire side of the booth and spill onto the table in an avalanche of limbs and muscles.

Oh…and he was popular, too.

Jett must have stopped to say hello or at the very least exchange fist bumps with a dozen fellow students before sliding across from me, his back to the diner, shielded in part by a fake ficus plant.

“What are you gonna have?” Jett asked, tapping the laminated menu with his thumb.

“The cobb salad, dressing on the side. You?”

“Grilled chicken, veggies, gobs of fries, and …the cobb salad.” He looked up at the middle-aged waitress who appeared out of nowhere. “Did you catch that, Shar?”

“I did.” Shar grinned indulgently. “Now I just need your drink order.”

“Water, please,” I replied.

“Same for me.”

Shar nodded. “You got it, champ.”

“Let’s talk hockey, Maloney,” he said once we were alone.

I wrinkled my nose. “Give me a moment, please. I need to defrost before I think about icy endeavors.”

Jett chuckled. “Okay, but I’m curious about something. Where’d you get the radar equipment?”

“I ordered it online at Professor Finkwell’s suggestion.”

“He’s the one who encouraged the sporty angle to your thesis, eh?”

“Yes. He’s brilliant,” I gushed, pausing to thank our server for our waters. “Truly the brightest scientific mind of our generation. Sports might not be my forte, but I trust him implicitly. My goal or…dream, if you will, is for a portion of my thesis to be included in a new collegiate textbook. The professor indicated that mainstream pastimes make for more interesting reading, and that including research outside of my comfort zone might bring a new perspective that would appeal to the publisher.”

“Pushing the boundaries of your comfort zone is never a bad call.”

“Well, this is as far from my comfort zone as the moon,” I admitted, gesturing between us.

Jett’s lips quirked. “Same for me. I don’t know anyone who reads science journals for fun.”

“They’re missing out.”

“No doubt.” He stretched his long legs under the table and accidentally bumped my knee. “Sorry about that. All right…if hockey is momentarily off limits, tell me about you.”

“Me?” I pointed at my chest. “Why?”

“We can’t just sit here staring at each other, Maloney. Gimme somethin’.”

“Like what?”

“Social shit, like…where are you from? What are you doing after you graduate? When did you start wearing glasses? Do you have siblings? A favorite movie, a favorite color, a favorite band?” He rolled his hand meaningfully. “I could keep going.”

I snickered softly. “All right, but try not to fall asleep. My life isn’t exciting.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Okay, I’m from a small town outside of Rochester and—” I stopped as my dinner partner slumped in his seat and snored…loudly. “Very funny.”

“Kidding, just kidding.” He popped up, an affable grin in place and darn it, I was charmed all over again. “Keep going.”

I sipped my water, idly noting the businesslike way he tore paper from his straw. He was as precise and measured as a scientist.

Jett was hard to figure out. One moment, he seemed tough and unapproachable, and the next, he was silly and endearing and dreamy. A dangerous combination indeed.

And he was staring at me.

I shifted, sitting a little taller in the scuffed-up leatherette booth. “My parents are teachers. Mom is a biologist, and Dad is a linguist. My sister is a freshman at Cornell, studying computers and information science. I think that makes Audrey the rebel of the family.”

“A bunch of smarties,” Jett commented.

“I suppose so. What about your family?”

Jett pulled a comical face. “They’re a hot mess.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”

“Nah, it’s not that bad.” He waved off my concern with a casual flick of a wrist. “My folks are divorced and have actively hated each other since I was eight. Thankfully, they live in different countries now. My mom moved to Toronto a few years ago, and Dad lives in Detroit—that’s where I’m from. I also have an older brother in California and an older sister in Florida. My dad’s new wife has kids, so I have step siblings too. Thankfully, they’re pretty cool.”

“What do you do during the holidays? Do you see your family?” I held up a hand, quickly adding, “If that’s too nosy, don’t feel obliged to answer.”

“It’s no big deal,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “We usually have games the day after Thanksgiving in some city that’s nowhere near family. The last couple of holidays, I’ve had dinner at a teammate’s house. But three years ago, I turned down the invites, stayed at the hotel, ordered room service, and watched movies all damn day. It was heaven.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all.”

“It was perfect for me. My mom drinks too much, and she’s not great company after a few. And my dad…he’s got big expectations. He owns a real estate firm that does pretty well. He says he’s rooting for me to go pro, but we never have a single conversation that doesn’t end with him telling me that I should plan to move home next year and join his business. Shoot me fucking now.”

“Which do you object to—Michigan or real estate?”

“Neither. Michigan is great, and I have nothing against making money. I just…” He furrowed his brow intently, his voice raw as he continued. “I want to do it my way.”

Of course, I was more curious than ever now, but Shar arrived with our meals and spent a minute or so flirting with Jett. By the time she left, the moment was gone. Jett descended on his food like a vulture, sighing obscenely as he dipped his fries into the extra blue cheese dressing Shar had brought for his salad.

Conversation veered to neutral topics while we ate. Jett professed an unholy fondness—his words, not mine—for bacon, James Bond movies, Kendrick Lamar, and the Red Wings. His favorite color was blue but not just any blue. It was a shade of royal blue mixed with navy. I argued that the spectrum between those hues was vast, which sparked a debate about alchemy, science in general, and then physics in particular.

It was my turn to blab about my academic aspirations and my fascination with great minds like Newton, Faraday, and Einstein.

“I’d originally hoped to go into astrophysics or cosmology, but I wrote a couple of papers that were published in rather lofty periodicals about motion and magnetism as an undergrad, and things sort of spiraled into my current situation.”

“With me.” Jett speared his lettuce and flashed a lopsided grin.

“Yes. I’m researching a topic I don’t care about in the hopes of gaining favor with my professor, whose opinion I do care about, so that he might champion my publishing pursuit. It’s a pickle.”

“A pickle?” He snorted in amusement.

“Yes, I’ve been at Smithton for two years and while I’m mostly proud of my tenure here, I’m not sure I have anything to show for it. At least nothing I feel passionate about. I pursued you relentlessly in order to?—”

“So you admit you’re a stalker!” His lips curled almost ferally.

“I’m no such thing,” I hissed, casting a harried glance at the nearest table, which happened to be vacant. “I need your data. There’s a good chance my work won’t be published, but I’m committed to this direction. Once it’s complete, I’ll cross my fingers and wish for the best, knowing there’s a chance I’ll have to reassess my plan. I hope that’s not necessary. I’d like to carry on in Professor Finkwell’s footsteps.”

“What’s so great about this guy?” Jett asked.

I gave the incredulous huff the query deserved. “Finkwell is a genius. He’s a gifted researcher who’s published hundreds of important?—”

“Yeah, yeah, but…what does he have that you want? A sweet gig at a private college, a big salary, the respect of his peers?”

I pushed my glasses higher on my nose. “Well…yes, but moreover, he’s an expert in his field, widely regarded as the maestro of electromagnetism and relativism. If Einstein were alive, I think he and Finkwell would be great friends.”

“So you want to be Einstein.”

“No, but I want to be the best…at something.” I drained the last of my water and glanced away briefly, embarrassed by my candor.

“Doesn’t everyone? I do. At the very least, I want a shot. And I think you do, too.”

“I—well…yes. Maybe.”

Jett nibbled a french fry thoughtfully, his gaze sharp enough to drill a hole through my cranium. “Hey, I don’t know you, Maloney, but I know what it feels like to want something just out of reach. Maybe you won’t be Einstein or Finkface, but?—”

“Finkwell,” I corrected.

“Right. The point is…you can do something remarkable in your field on your own terms.”

Gosh, that was…nice.

Jett Erickson was…nice.

“I—thank you.” I infused my tone with a cheery note that rang slightly hollow and continued, “But I have no terms of my own until I finish my thesis, so instead of propagating a groundbreaking theory of transverse waves, let’s waste time talking hockey. No offense.”

Jett gasped in mock indignance. “Offense!”

“Kidding! Just kidding,” I singsonged, echoing his earlier taunt.

“ Hmph. Show some respect, Maloney. Hockey is gonna save your ass.”

“How?”

“A few ways. It’s dynamic, fast-paced, and it requires quick thinking and a strategic mindset. I see that skeptical look, but your problem is, you don’t know shit about hockey. And that’s where I come in. I’ll teach you.”

I was staring. And I had a feeling I was displaying the lemony expression Layla had warned me was condescending and gave constipated turtle vibes. I couldn’t help it. Jett Erickson had gone around the bend.

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I don’t want to learn hockey. I want to compile data and move on,” I replied tersely.

“It’s not an offer, Maloney. It’s part of the deal.”

I frowned. “What deal? We already have an agreement. Are you changing the terms?”

“Yep.” Jett chomped on another fry, a wry smile tilting the corner of his full lips. “I’ll shoot pucks, do sprints, and help you get your data, but…I got a problem of my own. I need a diversion, and you’re it.”

Still staring.

“Excuse me?”

“I won’t bore you with details, but I’m way too in my head lately. My friends think I should relax and party more. My agent thinks I should try yoga. My dad implies that nothing really matters because he’s got my future figured out. Well, I’ve done my share of partying, yoga sounds boring as fuck, and I’m not ready or willing to give up on hockey. I can’t fuck up my final season. I need to stay focused without overdoing it. I know this might sound a little wacky, but I think things happen for a reason. Maybe our paths were supposed to cross because this experiment is important. If we’re going to do it correctly, I’ll have to teach you hockey.”

More staring.

Oh, wow . He wasn’t joking.

“I don’t want to be a hockey student.”

“Don’t overthink this, Maloney. All I’m saying is that I want to be involved in this thesis of yours. Make sure you get all the background information you need. We’ll be helping each other.”

I frowned. “If you recall, I only require three twenty-minute data-gathering sessions. How is that helpful to you?”

“It’s a start.” Jett piled his plates and pushed them to the end of the table. “We’ll probably need more time. Maybe a month.”

“A month!” I yelped, darting my gaze around before lowering my voice. “A month of what, exactly?”

“Hockey.”

His matter-of-fact delivery was almost comical. I wasn’t sure what the joke was, though. This was all very…confusing. And what had he meant about our paths crossing? I’d literally pursued the heck out of him.

I blinked in dismay. “At the risk of repeating myself…I don’t want to study hockey.”

“We got a problem, then, Maloney,” he singsonged. “ ’Cause I don’t want to do hockey for science if it’s not done right. I don’t think Finkfart will want crappy data either. Just sayin’.”

I gasped. “This sounds like an ultimatum.”

Jett scratched his temple and shrugged. “Huh. I ’spose it does. What do you think?”

“I think this is…maddening,” I hissed, leaning across the table. “I’ve pursued your acquaintance for weeks on end?—”

“Stalked.”

“And now you’re proposing to tutor me . Me! I’m a graduate student, you know. I have a degree and qualifications and…and…” I glowered, willing my brain to slow down.

“I get it. You’re smarter than me.” He held his hands up in surrender. “But not about hockey. No obligation, Maloney. Just think about it.”

I gritted my teeth as he waved our waitress over.

“There’s nothing to think about. Time is of the essence, and you don’t leave me much choice. I accept your dastardly offer.” I slipped my credit card out, but Jett gave his directly to Shar.

Jett grinned like a madman. “Cool. We should concentrate on terminology first. You can give your notebook a workout before we hit the rink. See you tomorrow?”

“I’m busy Thursdays.”

“That’s right. Friday works, but…only if you can meet at noon. No, never mind. I have a game that night,” he said. “Hey, you should come.”

I furrowed my brow. “To your game?”

“Yeah, it would be a great way to get a feel for the action in person. I’ll text you the details.”

“I…” I pushed at my glasses and shook my head. “I might have plans.”

“ Hmph . Look at it like a field trip. If you really want to know about a subject, you should examine it from all angles, right?”

I tossed a few bills onto the table. “Has anyone ever told you that smug affectations are annoying?”

“I can’t help it. I like winning.”

“You haven’t won anything,” I huffed.

“Feels like a win to me. Take your money. Dinner’s on me, Maloney.” He thanked Shar, signed his name on the receipt, and stood. “Maybe I’ll see you Friday.”

He inclined his head and made what had to be the smoothest exit ever. There one moment, gone the next.

Mine was less impressive. I gathered my bag, slung it over my shoulder with enough momentum to make me stumble backward a foot, and almost fell into the fake ficus, furiously swatting plastic leaves from my face before marching toward the front door.

The nerve, the cheek, the gumption!

I held on to self-righteous anger for one whole block till doubt crept in and I was forced to acknowledge that I was more irked that Jett had seemingly highjacked my experiment than I was at his idea. It was a generous offer, but—and this was a big but—I had zero desire to immerse myself in hockey. I didn’t want to go to a game or learn the diction. And I had a very good reason for that.

Being outside of my comfort zone for a few twenty-minute intervals was acceptable, but multiple meetings with a handsome hockey hunk and a hockey game? Oh, my gosh. That was a lot.

I simply couldn’t understand his motivation. Yes, I’d heard his speech about needing a diversion, but there had to be thousands of more appealing pastimes for a hockey player in crisis.

What was Jett Erickson really up to?