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)
It kinda sucked, but it would have to be enough.
CHAPTER 9
MALCOLM
Eighty-five miles per hour.
Ninety miles per hour.
Eighty-six, ninety-two.
I input my calculations, adding notes about the force and momentum with some of the jargon Jett had supplied.
For instance, energy moved from player to stick and stick to puck. The kinetic energy unleashed equaled the energy stored in the stick.
“What the fuck does that even mean?” Jett had huffed.
“It means that the player’s strength, body mass, angle, and a few other factors correlate to how fast a puck travels.”
“That’s sounds like saying, if you step into water your feet will get wet. And why do my stats suck? I’ve hit pucks much harder than ninety miles per hour.”
He was right, of course. My observations were remedial at best. There’d been thousands of studies done about the physics of sports. I wasn’t sure I had anything new to add, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Over the past few weeks, I’d spent hours compiling data from drills Jett had designed, practices with his teammates, a scrimmage with Northwestern, and two games. I’d put a tracker on the puck to measure its rotation and trajectory. And Jett had worn a device that was fitted between his pads and hadn’t seemed bothered that his teammates might question him.
“Meh, it’s a science thing.”
His matter-of-fact acceptance made my job easy. I’d measured his sprint speeds, reaction recovery times, and I’d even observed hits he’d taken. Every action had a counterreaction. The player who’d “checked”—I believe that’s the correct terminology—Jett into the boards in the first period of the game against Syracuse had hit him so hard that he’d actually hurt himself more than Jett.
Jett had bounced off the boards, collided with the beast of a “D-man,” a.k.a., defensive player—and sent him flying. In science speak, his aggressive acceleration combined with an inaccurately aimed blow had led to an unfortunate outcome. The poor guy had knocked himself silly.
Or as Jett had put it, “The dude played himself.”
True. And at the risk of sounding positively medieval, it had been thrilling to watch. Only a real numbskull escalated at top speed toward a wall of human, unconcerned with the consequences. The Bears won 4 to 2 that game, but lost to St. Mark a week earlier.
Observations, thus far: Jett was a fast and fearless skater, a fierce defender, and a wily strategist.
Also: He was a smidge slower than last year. Numbers didn’t lie or needlessly flatter. It was curious. I couldn’t tell if the slight downward trend was enough to merit concern, and I didn’t know enough about hockey to make an educated guess.
I was trying, though.
Per his insistence, Jett and I met twice a week or more to discuss all things hockey. He’d deemed my syllabus an adequate resource and that it was probably smart to begin with terminology. When I admitted that I didn’t understand some of his explanations, he’d brought props to demonstrate. And had left them in my apartment.
“They’re extras. What’s the point in schlepping stuff back and forth?”
So a practice hockey stick leaned against the wall in my kitchen, and a roll of tape, two pucks, a jersey, and even a helmet were tucked into an already full shelf on the bookcase.
He was right. The visuals helped.
Just yesterday, we’d discussed a penalty at a recent scrimmage.
“What is a crossover check? And why is the penalty box referred to as a bin of sin?” I’d asked.
“Cross-check and sin bin,” he’d corrected, his handsome face creased with humor as he grabbed the stick and held the shaft in front of his chest. “This is what it looks like. You’re skating along, eye on the puck, minding your own business, and some fuckwad from the other team stops you with a bam! If no part of the stick is on the ice, it’s being used as a weapon, and that’s an infraction that will send your ass to the sin bin—not the bin of sin. It’s hockey’s version of a time-out for being naughty.”
The teasing twinkle in his eyes had rendered me speechless for a beat.
I’d bent my head and jotted notes I’d never use just to give my treacherous body a moment’s respite. A playful Jett Erickson wielding a hockey stick in my living room was dangerous on so many levels.
Alert: My terrible crush had grown out of control. Literally out of control.
You try spending days on end with a gorgeous jock who laughed at your jokes, explained concepts like “odd-man rush” and “offsides” with the patience of a saint, and brought treats like eclairs from the bakery, hot chocolates, and a bag of apples because everyone liked apples in October.
Except it was November now and there was no real reason to continue my hockey studies. I had my stats and according to Professor Finkwell, it was more than enough.