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)
Yeah, I saw. And I was a little pissed at myself for being so slow.
“You’re trying to scare me away,” I stated.
“No, I’m helping you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t see how this helps either of us. What do etymology and history have to do with measuring speed?”
“Well…nothing, but—”
“Here you have ‘biscuit’ and ‘biscuit in the basket.’ ” I gestured at the screen. “These are very unscientific terms, Maloney.”
“True, but I know those. The biscuit is the puck and putting the biscuit into the basket is to make a goal.” Malcolm beamed. “Correct, yes?”
My lips twisted in amusement. “Yes. Can you use this info in your thesis?”
He fiddled with his glasses. “Undetermined, but doubtful.”
“Let’s try something else.” I cracked my knuckles and borrowed his pen, quickly scribbling notes on the pad of paper. “These are the shots I was telling you about and the best time to use each. Shovel shot…you’re gonna use that to flick it to another player or away from a goalie. It’s a shovel motion. Like this.” I stood to demonstrate. “Not much speed involved, but accuracy is important. A wrist shot looks like—damn, I should have brought my stick.”
“I have a broom,” he offered.
I started to laugh but decided it wasn’t the worst idea. “Okay.”
Malcolm retrieved a broom from the hallway closet. “Here you go.”
“All right. Pretend the edge of the bristles is a blade. I want to hit the puck at the center or the heel and roll my wrist as I shoot, spinning the puck at the exact angle I’ve aimed for. Like it’s an extension of the stick. The power is coming from my left hand and my quads. Here. You try it.” I passed the broom to the befuddled scientist.
“Uh…okay. Like this?” He squatted slightly, copied my hands, and drew the broom forward with the flick of his wrist.
“Damn, you’re a natural,” I enthused. “Are you sure you’ve never played?”
He chuckled. “One season at age ten in the rec league at the local rink. I was a disaster.”
“No one is a pro at ten years old. Why’d you give up?”
“I told you…I was terrible. Team sports make me nervous and when I’m nervous, I get rather clumsy, as you might have noticed. I could barely stay upright on my skates, let alone make contact with the volcanized disk. The entire episode was a lesson in survival that I’ve done my best to block from memory.” Malcolm brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and rolled his eyes, pushing the broom at me. “And I can’t blame my parents for signing me up either. I practically begged for it.”
I leaned on the broomstick. “Oh, yeah?”
“My best friend since kindergarten wanted to try hockey. We’d done a few afterschool activities together—Cub Scouts, the environmental awareness group, a math club—and I thought, why not? But hockey was terrifying and the kids were…”
“Little assholes?” I supplied.
Malcolm inclined his head. “It wasn’t fun. I didn’t fit in, but Philip did. Within a month, I’d lost my best friend and had been labeled a hopeless geek and possibly a queer one. The horror. I took up gardening soon after.”
I frowned at his glib reply. “That sucks.”
His lips lifted in a hint of humor. “Not really. I love gardening.”
“You know what I mean. Wasn’t there an adult around to put the little fuckers in their place?”
“It was almost fifteen years ago, Jett. It hardly matters anymore.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t like that they tainted what could have been a great experience. I loved hockey from the moment I strapped on my first set of skates. There was always a game on TV, volume maxed to drown out the sound of my parents arguing. My brother Breck, was all about football, but Tatum and I liked hockey. I begged to play, too. I thought I’d be good at it right out of the gate. I wasn’t. Learning to skate and handle a stick took every brain cell I had. I used to get so frustrated that my shots didn’t connect. I’d cry on the way home from practice, ‘Boo hoo, I’m the worst one.’ I distinctly remember my dad getting fed up and telling me to quit. And because I’m stubborn, contrary, and had zero desire to hang out at the house, I got serious. No more complaining…just work. I guess you could say hockey was my escape.”
Jesus, that was a lot of sharing.
Way more than necessary.
I glanced down at the broom, my fingers curling into a familiar grip. Heat zinged along my spine and on the back of my nape.
Snap out of it, Erickson. Talk about slap shots, tipping the puck, deking, something, anything…
Malcolm hummed, pulling my gaze toward him. “Books were mine.”
We shared a weighty look that conveyed understanding, acceptance, and acknowledgment. Maybe we didn’t have much in common, but there was a spark of something that felt promising. What, I couldn’t say. But it was nice to talk to someone new who didn’t assume he knew everything there was to know about me.