Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
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.
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.