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)
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—”