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)
He cleared his throat and met my gaze. “I have an inquiry, a request, a favor to ask of you.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I’m working on an experiment that’s grown into a small portion of my senior thesis. Quite against my will, I might add. This is my professor’s idea, not mine. Though I admit, it’s a good one.” He paused to adjust his glasses. “You see, Newton’s laws of motion are applicable to sports in every way imaginable. In hockey, reduced friction on an icy surface facilitates speed, agility, and precision. A skater’s acceleration is directly related to force and mass and—”
“Whoa. You’re losing me again. I’m not a science guy.”
“That’s a-okay. I am. But I’m not a sports person, and that’s where you’d come in.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hear me out. Please. It’s a rather simple experiment and—”
“Sorry, no. Good luck on your thesis. Seriously. It sounds…well, it sounds boring as fuck, but hockey might make it interesting,” I conceded with a shrug. “The best I can do is pass your request on to my teammates. Maybe someone else can help you out.”
Malcolm grabbed my wrist before I could make my escape. “It has to be you.”
I shook him off, narrowing my eyes to foreboding slits. “Why?”
“You’re the best, the fastest, the most accurate. No one else on your team comes close,” he said in a rush. “And that’s not a compliment. That’s valid information based on remedial statistics.”
Okay, cool. But I was definitely taking it as a compliment.
I cocked my head curiously. “What do you want, Maloney? Spit it out.”
“I’d like to accompany you to the ice rink to run a series of tests measuring your speed, angular momentum, energy transfer. I have a device you’d wear while exerting force upon a vulcanized rubber disc and—”
“The puck.”
“Yes, that’s it. The puck.” He dug into the pocket of his computer bag and pulled out a business card. “I propose three twenty-minute sessions at your leisure within the month of October. Excluding Tuesdays, Thursdays, mornings, or any time after six p.m. Otherwise, I’m free.”
“Gee, that sounds easy,” I snarked.
Malcolm beamed, obviously immune to sarcasm. “Yes, it really is. My information is on this card. Please contact me to set an appointment. I prefer text messaging, but I’ll accept a phone call. Thank you for your consideration.”
With that, he slid from the booth. Or tried to.
I wasn’t entirely sure what happened, but my guess was that one of the pockets on his cargo pants had snagged on the jagged upholstery, messing with his momentum. He careened backward at first, then overcorrected and tripped into the aisle, landing on his knees with a splat.
A sudden hush fell in the vicinity, heads turned, and a twittered chorus of, “What happened? Did someone get hurt?” rippled through the diner.
“Are you okay?” I jumped up and grabbed Malcolm’s elbow.
“I’m fine. Just fine.” He brushed his hands, his chin lowered as if to hide his blush. Then he slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his gaze still averted. “Have a nice day, Mr. Erickson. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Malcolm walked away, his head held high, seemingly determined to ignore the curious glances aimed his way.
Okay, that was…different.
I grabbed my jacket from the booth and at the last second, picked up the business card.
A real live business card. No shit. I associated business cards with finance people, law firms, and insurance agents. Not grad students. And the card contained very basic info—his name, number, and website address. That was it. Hardly worth the money it had cost to print.
Malcolm Maloney was one odd dude, I mused, slipping the card into my jacket pocket next to an ancient piece of peppermint from Christmas and a wad of tissue I’d probably used months ago and had forgotten about.
Nice enough guy, but it was time to get back to my regularly scheduled program of ignoring the things I could control and worrying about things I couldn’t. ’Cause teetering on the edge of chronic procrastination and overanalyzing shit was just how I rolled.
Good times.
CHAPTER 2
MALCOLM
No text.
No missed messages.
I double-checked, triple-checked, but no…nothing. I groaned, decidedly dejected and unsure how to proceed. I should have known better than to accept a sports-based challenge. My thesis had been going along swimmingly, thank you very much. You see, I’d initially disagreed with Professor Finkwell’s assertion that adding athletic statistics would make it palatable for a wider audience, but pride cometh before the fall.
My head had been spinning from the moment Finkwell had stated that he’d champion for my work to be included in a collegiate textbook. A textbook! Gasp!
Opportunities of that ilk were rare indeed. I’d had other pieces published, albeit on a much smaller scale, like my “Linear Motion in Motion” article for Smithton Review and “Relative Momentum” for Granville Gazette. But the pivotal piece that caught the professor’s attention had included a brief analysis on directional changes in motion and one measly sentence citing athletes as fine examples. It was called “Finding Balance in Motion.”