Page 9

CHAPTER 9

MALCOLM

Eighty-five miles per hour.

Ninety miles per hour.

Eighty-six, ninety-two.

I input my calculations, adding notes about the force and momentum with some of the jargon Jett had supplied.

For instance, energy moved from player to stick and stick to puck. The kinetic energy unleashed equaled the energy stored in the stick.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Jett had huffed.

“It means that the player’s strength, body mass, angle, and a few other factors correlate to how fast a puck travels.”

“That’s sounds like saying, if you step into water your feet will get wet. And why do my stats suck? I’ve hit pucks much harder than ninety miles per hour.”

He was right, of course. My observations were remedial at best. There’d been thousands of studies done about the physics of sports. I wasn’t sure I had anything new to add, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Over the past few weeks, I’d spent hours compiling data from drills Jett had designed, practices with his teammates, a scrimmage with Northwestern, and two games. I’d put a tracker on the puck to measure its rotation and trajectory. And Jett had worn a device that was fitted between his pads and hadn’t seemed bothered that his teammates might question him.

“Meh, it’s a science thing.”

His matter-of-fact acceptance made my job easy. I’d measured his sprint speeds, reaction recovery times, and I’d even observed hits he’d taken. Every action had a counterreaction. The player who’d “checked”— I believe that’s the correct terminology —Jett into the boards in the first period of the game against Syracuse had hit him so hard that he’d actually hurt himself more than Jett.

Jett had bounced off the boards, collided with the beast of a “D-man,” a.k.a., defensive player—and sent him flying. In science speak, his aggressive acceleration combined with an inaccurately aimed blow had led to an unfortunate outcome. The poor guy had knocked himself silly.

Or as Jett had put it, “The dude played himself.”

True. And at the risk of sounding positively medieval, it had been thrilling to watch. Only a real numbskull escalated at top speed toward a wall of human, unconcerned with the consequences. The Bears won 4 to 2 that game, but lost to St. Mark a week earlier.

Observations, thus far: Jett was a fast and fearless skater, a fierce defender, and a wily strategist.

Also: He was a smidge slower than last year. Numbers didn’t lie or needlessly flatter. It was curious. I couldn’t tell if the slight downward trend was enough to merit concern, and I didn’t know enough about hockey to make an educated guess.

I was trying, though.

Per his insistence, Jett and I met twice a week or more to discuss all things hockey. He’d deemed my syllabus an adequate resource and that it was probably smart to begin with terminology. When I admitted that I didn’t understand some of his explanations, he’d brought props to demonstrate. And had left them in my apartment.

“They’re extras. What’s the point in schlepping stuff back and forth?”

So a practice hockey stick leaned against the wall in my kitchen, and a roll of tape, two pucks, a jersey, and even a helmet were tucked into an already full shelf on the bookcase.

He was right. The visuals helped.

Just yesterday, we’d discussed a penalty at a recent scrimmage.

“What is a crossover check? And why is the penalty box referred to as a bin of sin?” I’d asked.

“Cross-check and sin bin,” he’d corrected, his handsome face creased with humor as he grabbed the stick and held the shaft in front of his chest. “This is what it looks like. You’re skating along, eye on the puck, minding your own business, and some fuckwad from the other team stops you with a bam ! If no part of the stick is on the ice, it’s being used as a weapon, and that’s an infraction that will send your ass to the sin bin—not the bin of sin. It’s hockey’s version of a time-out for being naughty.”

The teasing twinkle in his eyes had rendered me speechless for a beat.

I’d bent my head and jotted notes I’d never use just to give my treacherous body a moment’s respite. A playful Jett Erickson wielding a hockey stick in my living room was dangerous on so many levels.

Alert: My terrible crush had grown out of control. Literally out of control.

You try spending days on end with a gorgeous jock who laughed at your jokes, explained concepts like “odd-man rush” and “offsides” with the patience of a saint, and brought treats like eclairs from the bakery, hot chocolates, and a bag of apples because everyone liked apples in October.

Except it was November now and there was no real reason to continue my hockey studies. I had my stats and according to Professor Finkwell, it was more than enough.

“Very thorough, Mr. Maloney. I would suggest a bit of editing. You’re citing the sport as an example, not as a main subject.”

True. I didn’t need Jett to explain an odd-man rush or what offsides meant. Those terms had no bearing on my work whatsoever. But gosh, I wasn’t ready to let go.

No need to chastise me. I was well aware of how ridiculous that sounded, and equally aware that these sessions couldn’t continue indefinitely. Honestly, it wasn’t healthy for me. In the past week alone, I’d spent more time with Jett than Layla or any of my colleagues. And when we weren’t together, we texted…a lot.

Sometimes we discussed sci-fi movies and TV programs. We both loved stories set in space and had a running commentary over which version of Star Trek was the best, most believable, or had the coolest aliens.

Other times, it was a stream of random gibberish. Our current text thread was a perfect example.

Jett: Do you think there are other life forms in the universe?

Me: Yes

You don’t need a second to think about it?

The universe is unimaginably vast. It’s unlikely that we’re the lone intelligent species , I replied.

Humans are dumbasses. I read a story about a couple who won the lottery and built a mansion with 18 bathrooms, tubs and bidets made of Italian marble.

Greedy. I’m only putting nine bathrooms in my mansion.

One laughing emoji. Pink marble?

Of course.

Twenty laughing emojis.

I grinned at my cell, jumping to attention as Layla cleared her throat. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t know you were home.”

“ Mmhm . Let me guess…the hockey hero?”

“Uh, yes. Just checking the ol’ calendar.” I set my phone face-down on the coffee table and joined Layla in the kitchen. “He has a busy schedule, you know.”

“I bet.” She held up the electric kettle. “What about you?”

“Tea, please.”

“I meant…don’t you have a busy schedule, too?”

“Oh.” I arranged mugs for us, then leaned against the counter, idly watching my friend tear open a packet of cocoa. “Yes, I’m busy.”

“And?”

“And…” I scrunched my nose and bit my bottom lip, continuing in a rush, “And my experiment is complete, but I don’t want to stop because infatuation has me by its steely claws. I know that’s not a good reason to string this along. I know I should thank him and cut ties. I will. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Layla poured hot water and handed me the mug. “That’s probably for the best.”

My heart sank. “Yes, of course. Do you think he knows I…like him?”

“Yeah, but so what? He likes you too.” She blew into her mug, eyeing me over the rim. “But he’s straight, Mal. He dates women. He fucks around too. I have a class with Tara Berman, who says he led her on and another girl who claims Tara is bitter ’cause she saw Jett and her making out at a party and—whatever. He’s a nice guy, but…”

“He’s a lothario,” I finished.

“A straight one.”

I sighed, nodded, and immediately changed the subject.

She was right. Well, not the lothario part. Jett wasn’t the type to string anyone along. He was honest and forthright and?—

Say no more.

It was time to end my hockey experiment.

* * *

I waited outside the rink, half-hidden in the shadow of a giant elm. Not that I was hiding. I wasn’t. Jett’s teammates and coach knew he was aiding my experiment, and no one had seemed to mind my occasional presence. In fact, they’d pretty much ignored me. I was used to that. As a scientist, I was a consummate observer of my surroundings…a fly on the wall in plain sight.

And if this was my last occasion to use the “experiment” excuse, I planned to milk it for all it was worth.

Unfortunately, my lecture had run late, so there’d be no final ogling while he practiced today. Jett wasn’t expecting me anyway, and that was fine. I was here to leave a message—quickly and unobtrusively.

His teammates passed me in groups of threes and fours on their way out of the main exit. No sign of Jett.

Another batch of hockey players exited the building, followed by two coaches.

Where the heck was he?

Five minutes later, I gave up and slipped inside the rink—and immediately ran into a wall of man.

Jett lifted his brows. “What are you doing here, Maloney? It’s Thursday.”

I took a moment to appreciate his broad silhouette as he fished sunglasses from his pocket. He wore a sleek leather jacket, jeans that hugged his thighs, and he carried a huge duffel slung over his shoulder with an air of casual strength and masculinity. Geesh, he was dreamy and?—

Ugh, snap out of it.

“Yes, um…Thursday. That’s right, but I had some free time and I wanted to talk to you about—” I narrowed my gaze and leaned in. “The light is terrible in here, but you look pale. Are you all right?”

He pushed his glasses on in the dark lobby and shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re hurt.”

Jett grimaced. “My knee is bugging me, but it’s not a big deal. I just need ice.”

“Oh. Well, let me help.”

“You got a bag of ice on you?”

“No, but…I have some at home,” I replied.

“Me too and my place is closer. Come with me. We’ll walk and talk.”

We strolled through the quad under canopies of trees decked in fading autumnal splendor, past the Humanities building and Smithton Hall. The fifteen-minute walk should have taken ten, and I couldn’t be sure if the delay was due to Jett’s knee pain or the half dozen stops he made to bump fists with friends and student hockey fans.

I’d known Jett was popular, but the mini sensation he stirred on Main Street surprised me. Everyone either greeted him like a long-lost friend or pointed, twittering his name as if he were a rock star. Between the frenzy of onlookers and Jett’s drawn features, I’d forgotten my reason for stalking him—excuse me…seeking him out this afternoon until he opened the door to his one-bedroom apartment, dropped his bag and jacket on the floor, and made a beeline for the refrigerator, triumphantly excavating an ice pack.

“You should get off your feet,” I advised, following him into the adjacent living room furnished with a gray sofa, a large flat-screen TV, and a coffee table.

There was no art on the walls, no photos of friends or family either. Just a lot of blank space. I had a passing thought that he could use a plant or two, but I kept it to myself.

Jett flopped on the sofa, propped his right foot on the coffee table, and groaned. “Fuck.”

“Is it bad?”

“Meh. It just flares up every once in a while.” He made a funny face. “I should probably change out of my jeans so I can feel the ice better. Or just…take them off. Do you mind?”

Gulp.

“Good idea,” I squeaked.

I could have sworn his cheeks were flushed, which in all fairness, might have been from the walk. Still, Jett hesitated for a moment before standing to unbuckle his belt, unbutton and unzip his fly, and lower his jeans. His black boxer briefs snagged on the denim, pulling the fabric to expose his V-line and the root of his thick cock.

Oh. My. God.

Was I staring again? Yes.

Yes, I was.

I was riveted in place. There was no way I could tear my gaze from this show. No way at all. I just hoped I wasn’t drooling.

Jett fixed his briefs as he kicked off his shoes and dropped his jeans. Once he was comfortable, he reclaimed his seat, securing the ice pack on his knee.

“So…what’s up?”

“Um…I wanted to thank you for your time.”

He frowned. “My time?”

“Yes, we’ve…uh, reached the final juncture of our partnership. It’s been most enlightening and?—”

“Whoa. Are you breaking up with me, Maloney?”

“What?” I blinked, catching the teasing note in his voice. “Well, yes…I am. We’ve had a good run, but our love affair couldn’t last forever. You’re too you, and I’m too…me. I wish you the very best and all that…malarkey.”

Jett’s lips twitched. “You’re terrible at breakups.”

“Unsurprising.” I adjusted my glasses with a sigh. “I’ve never broken up with anyone. Have you?”

“Not really. I don’t date much.” Jett scratched his nape and gave me a look I couldn’t read. “I think this is where you tell me we’ll always be friends.”

I slumped on the sofa next to him. “I hate that line. What could be more heartbreaking than settling for friendship after a torrid love affair?”

“Was ours torrid?”

“Definitely.”

“Like…smoking cigarettes in bed after sex torrid?” he pressed.

“If I smoked…yes.”

Jett grinned, shifting to face me. “I don’t smoke either. What do people in a torrid love affair do post-orgasm if they don’t smoke?”

“Gaze into each other’s eyes, of course.”

“Of course.” His thumb brushed the collar of my shirt. A whisper of a touch. “Did we do that?”

We were gazing now for sure. His eyes were so blue, his lashes so dark. How was it possible for one man to be so darn attractive?

“All the time.” My tone was light and breezy, a strange contrast to the flare of heat simmering between us.

No…that wasn’t real.

That was me conjuring a scenario I desperately wished were true. I wished he were gay or bi, and I wished Jett saw me for me…and liked me anyway. He did. But not that way.

And it was over the top and childish to wish for the impossible. Being friends was improbable enough, but we were friends and I didn’t want that to change.

Jett pursed his lips and looked away. “So, you’re done with the hockey part of your thesis?”

Some of the tension whooshed out of the room. My shoulders slipped a notch as I hiked my knee onto the cushion between us.

“Yes, I have all the data I need. Professor Finkwell thinks I have too much, which might be true. It wouldn’t be wise to continue researching hockey when there are other facets of motion that need to be explored.”

“I get that.”

“Thank you,” I said softly. “I’ve learned a lot, and I think I actually like hockey now. A little.”

Jett chuckled. “I’m glad.”

More…staring.

Wait. Were we staring intentionally?

What were we doing? Why did he look so torn? Like he had something to say but didn’t dare?

We were sitting so close, and my heart was beating too fast, and…something was different here.

Something was new.

“Jett?”

“Yeah?”

Don’t do it. Don’t ruin this. Don’t ask silly questions or make this uncomfortable. Don’t ? —

Too late.

I leaned in and pressed my lips to his.