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)
Shar delivered our check, pausing to top off my water glass. “Want a soda for the road, sugar?”
“No, thanks.” I flashed a smile and pulled my wallet out, my brain already buzzing in ten new directions.
The physics lecture I’d skipped, the résumé I was supposed to update and send to my student advisor, my empty fridge, Langley’s party, the skinny dude with glasses staring at me…
What the fuck was with this guy?
I narrowed my eyes menacingly, which I’d been told was usually enough to scare anyone. Mr. Khaki and V-Neck Sweater didn’t seem bothered.
He glanced over his shoulder in confusion, his cheeks pinkening as he met my gaze again. Huh, he was cute. Geeky cute. I hooked my forefinger, wordlessly bidding him toward me.
Why? No idea. I didn’t have time to spare. Remember…I still had to get those physics notes and buy some damn eggs.
Yep, lots to do.
Except now the geek was scrambling out of his chair. He adjusted his glasses, straightened his spine, and if I wasn’t mistaken, took a deep cleansing breath before heading my way. Color me intrigued.
He didn’t give hockey fanatic vibes, but I could have been wrong about that. I mean, my eighty-five-year-old grandmother was a rabid Sabres fan. Rabid. She wore her lucky jersey while watching the game and had been known to paint her favorite player’s numbers on her face.
“Hello, I—”
“Sit,” I interrupted.
“Uh, yes, right, of course.”
He didn’t sit, though. He licked his upper lip, then pierced the bottom one with his front teeth. And that was strangely…hot. Full lips, pink tongue, mossy green eyes, and—
Shit, he was talking again…I think? He held a hand out—long, tapered smooth fingers, delicate wrists. Was I supposed to shake it or something?
I ignored his hand and motioned for him to take Ty’s seat across from me. He nodded furiously and at the last possible second, tripped and crash-landed into the booth.
“You okay?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry about that.” He chuckled nervously, pushed his computer bag onto the bench beside him…and knocked over my water.
I righted the glass, saving myself from an unplanned ice bath, but the table was drenched. A server descended immediately, removing dishes and wiping the mess away.
Crisis averted, I cocked my head and glowered. “You’ve been staring at me. Was there something you wanted?”
“Help,” he squeaked.
“Huh?”
“Kidding, joking, pulling your leg. Let me start over.” He cleared his throat and licked those damn lips again. “Hello. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Malcolm Maloney, a grad student in the physics department at the venerable Smithton College. I specialize in…”
Okay, Malcolm. You had me at hello and lost me at physics.
I zoned out, mesmerized by his animated gesturing, melodic voice, and opposing features—sharp chin and soft eyes, straight freckled nose and plush lips. He was even cuter up close, but I didn’t go for geeks. Or guys in general. I mean, yeah, sure…I was bi, but that info wasn’t widely known. Too risky for someone in my position, and I was comfortable enough in the closet.
Yes, that sounded douchey, but the world is a fucked-up place. Am I right?
Back to Malcolm, who—I think–was giving a small presentation on the related properties of energy and motion. Shoot me now.
I held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t understand anything you’re saying. If you want to talk physics, I’m not your guy.”
“Oh, but you are,” he insisted, leaning forward. “You’re a hockey person, correct?”
“Uh…”
“I’ll take that as a yes, but that was a rhetorical question. I know who you are. Jett Erickson, a senior at Smithton and a right-wing offensive player for the Bears. It’s widely reported that you’re the best shooter on the team. Your impressive stats last year include a high percentage of goals and assists.”
All true. But that was last year. This year…I was off to a slower start.
“Are you a hockey fan or something?”
“Oh, gosh, no.” Malcolm widened his eyes. “Hockey is much too violent for my taste. The risk of injury compounds as players become better, faster, stronger…so regular strains, sprains, contusions, inflammation, fractured bones, and concussions are practically a foregone conclusion. I understand that fans are attracted to the speed and skill involved, but it’s a bit too dangerous, and too…”
He wrinkled his nose and fiddled with the edge of a napkin nervously.
“Don’t hold back now,” I chided, charmed in spite of being unsure what the hell we were discussing.
“Barbaric.”
“Barbaric,” I repeated.
Okay, well…wrong. Hockey was the best sport ever. I geared up to tell him so, but I had a feeling my face did the job for me.
About that: I had a reputation for being intense, on and off the ice. Intimidating, aggressive, terrifying…
Malcolm sputtered an apology. “Barbaric in the tradition of Roman gladiators and knights in shining armor. Masculine with a slightly toxic energy.”
“Right.” I furrowed my brow and leaned across the table, like a panther, ready to strike. “Cut to the chase, Malcolm Maloney. What’s this about?”