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)
“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 naïve 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.”
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.”