Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Jamie

Would my reaction have been different if, instead of staring at me like an idiot, Craig had immediately fallen to his knees and apologized for sneaking off? Maybe I wouldn't have been so irrational. Perhaps I would have pulled him into my arms, hugged him, and enjoyed more kisses.

But no, he stared at me in horror, and my hackles went up, and I got all prickly. Like some demented, threatened hedgehog.

I paced back and forth across my room, the restless energy of said hedgehog finally loosening its grip. He probably regretted sleeping with me, not that there had been much sleeping, and like me and any good Brit worth their weight in tea, he was being very un-American and avoiding the awkward situation. I needed to pull up my big boy's pants and get over myself.

I collapsed onto the bed, sprawling with limbs in every direction, and I lay staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some answers on dealing with the acute embarrassment of overreacting. Instead, my hand found my phone by habit, and before I knew it, I was unlocking it and tapping on Instagram. It wasn't my intention to check on Craig. I told myself it was just a scroll, just a way to pass the time.

But there I was, somehow ending up on the Storm's official page. One more tap, I was staring at a photo of Craig smiling broadly in the middle of a group of kids at some community event. The caption praised his ongoing commitment to a charity supporting dyslexia awareness, and the kids were grinning so hard I could feel their happiness in my chest. Craig wasn't only skilled on the ice; he was genuinely good, his actions speaking as loud as any of his game-winning goals.

I swiped on, my thumb mechanically moving while my mind raced. Another post, this time Craig at a local animal shelter, a small dog cradled in his arms, his expression soft and open. It wasn't just an image meant to tug at heartstrings for likes; it was real, it was him. Oli said he was kind and compassionate, so I had to believe he wasn't trying to hurt me by running and avoiding me. It had to be regret, that was all.

He regretted what we'd done on our drunken night of sex.

I needed to get over it and not take it so damn personally.

And as I lay there, the glow of my phone illuminating fragments of Craig's life, I couldn't help but whisper to myself, "Fuck my life."

I didn't want to get over it. I wanted to accidentally find myself in a situation where we had sex again and then talked and maybe even went out for a date. I'd take that in any order I could.

Somehow, I scrolled back on the Storm's social media, stopping at the announcement of Oli being traded in, and I recalled the moment he'd told me he was leaving New York to head west with the girls. I'd finally found a best friend, and I'd been so close to losing him, and there had never been any question I'd follow him here.

I wondered if Sean had known I would go wherever Oli and the girls went. I wondered if he had seen how much they were my family when I had none. Had I chased him away even before he stole my research and turned into a raging arsehole?

Fuck. Was him breaking my academic heart all my fault?

"Stop it," I told myself, forcing all that guilt and self-accusation back where it belonged, way down… way down. I hadn't forced Sean to steal my ideas; he'd done that himself. I hadn't forced him to fuck the intern with the mohawk over our sofa when he knew I was due home.

The following post was a throwback Thursday-type post, and front and center, set to some hip hop song (I think), was a montage of Craig and… wait… he could do handstands on the ice? In all his gear, and wait… that was him doing a pirouette and then sliding along the top of the boards on his ass, and spinning on the ice and…

"That is sexy," I told the room. I really needed to stop talking to my damn room. Hockey players were supposed to be stampeding about, shoving, and checking with force, right? Not being all light on their skates and spinning in circles.

I was rewatching the video for the second time—well, thirtieth probably, but who was counting—when the phone rang, and the video disappeared. When I saw who was calling, I reluctantly picked up, hoping my voice wouldn't hold the irritation of being disturbed.

"Dr. Hennessy, this is Barbara Millstone from the University Grants Commission," the voice on the other end introduced herself, all business and brisk efficiency. "I'm calling regarding the continuation of your funding for the research."

My heart sank. UCLA had been holding up the second installment of my funding, and without it, my research was as good as stalled. I knew Oli wouldn't kick me out of his house. I wasn't paying rent and didn't spend much money, but my reserves were running out, and I needed something to show for all my degrees.

"Yes, Ms. Millstone, I appreciate your call," I replied, trying to mask my anxiety with politeness.

"The committee has reviewed your initial findings, Dr. Hennessy. While they're academically intriguing, there's concern about their practical applications outside of academia. The committee suggests we need to see a tangible connection to real-world uses to continue funding."

Sean had taken nearly all my practical applications with him, leaving me with theories but nothing to show for them. I swallowed, the reminder of my stolen work in New York burning fresh in my memory. I needed anything that could tie mathematical principles' abstract beauty to everyday life's gritty reality.

As Ms. Millstone awaited my response, my thoughts returned to Craig, spinning effortlessly on the ice, his body a perfect embodiment of grace through angles and spirals. Then inspiration struck—a vivid, sudden rush of possibility.

"Actually, Ms. Millstone, I've been developing a concept on how the Fibonacci sequence can be applied to predict and enhance performance in professional athletics," I exclaimed, my mind racing ahead of my words. "Particularly, I'm looking at applications in sports training and real-time performance analytics, which could revolutionize strategies and outcomes."

There was a pause, and I held my breath, hoping my impromptu idea sounded as promising aloud as it did in my head.

"That sounds… promising, Dr. Hennessy," she finally said, her tone shifting from skeptical to intrigued. "I will need a detailed outline of this proposal on my desk by midday on Friday. Can you manage that?"

I glanced at the calendar. I only had a few days to frame a hypothetical research application into a compelling grant proposal. "Yes, I can do that," I responded, a mixture of dread and excitement swirling within me.

"Very well," Ms. Millstone said. "We'll look forward to it. Good day, Dr. Hennessy."

As I hung up, the challenge sparked something—an eagerness, a purpose, and a reason to talk to the Storm, AKA Craig mostly, and maybe turn the debacle of our sexual encounter into something like a date. I turned back to the video of Craig; his movements were now a display of athletic prowess and a dance of numbers and possibilities. I could save my research with this new angle and add a new dimension.

I scrambled off my bed and threw the door open, stumbling down to the office Oli had given me free rein to use. I fell so hard into the chair that it rolled backward. Signing in took too long, but finally, I had all my research sources up and an empty document to start typing.

"Dynamic Patterns and Predictive Models: Integrating the Fibonacci Spiral and Chaos Theory in Sports Performance Optimization," I said as I typed, then backspaced a few times to ensure I was happy. I'd need to gather data, and I probably needed a football player, one of those with the funny-shaped balls like our rugby, who threw them a long way when they were spinning. Maybe a gymnast, and I needed a hockey player, maybe one who did spirals on the ice.

Hell. Who was I kidding?

This was me making plans to talk to Craig and get a date.

The coach's office was cramped and cluttered. It was a small space dominated by a large, worn desk littered with play diagrams and performance reports. A whiteboard on one wall was packed with tactical notes and team rosters in various dry- erase markers. The air smelled of old coffee and the faint musk of sweat—a scent that seemed embedded into the very fabric of the place.

I sat in one of the two squeaky chairs opposite the couch, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to stop them from trembling. Coach stared across at me with a mix of curiosity and impatience, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. I'd already talked to team management, and they'd fobbed me off with a coach who, they said, would understand way more about my work than they did.

"So, what is this about, Dr. Hennessy?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, which creaked under his weight.

"Please call me Jamie," I said, then I cleared my throat, aware the explanation I had prepared might not bridge the gap between mathematical theory and ice hockey directly enough for him. "My research concerns the application of mathematical patterns—specifically, the Fibonacci spiral—and their manifestation in strategic plays in hockey. By analyzing the natural spiraling movements that players naturally employ during games, we can potentially enhance predictive modeling and training methods," I explained, my voice steady despite my inner tremor. "I suggested Craig Beaulieu because of his figure skating experience as a child, but I understand if he's not interested in working with me."

Coach Daniels stared at me, his expression unreadable for a long moment, and I wondered if he was seeing through the lie. Then, without a word, he blinked, his face settling into stunned confusion. "You lost me, but I'm a stats man, and if it helps the team, I'm all ears."

There was a knock, and the door opened, and Craig stepped in. He was dressed in his practice gear, a towel draped around his neck. His presence suddenly filled the small room, and awkward tension hovered between us—unspoken and heavy with the memory of that night.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?" Craig asked, frowning. His eyes flicked briefly to mine before settling back on him. He was stiff and seemed worried, but I guess this was like being called into a principal's office. Maybe he thought he was in trouble.

Oh shit! Did he think I was in here talking about the sex? I shook my head at him, and his frown deepened. Did I say something? Did I reassure him before he started defending what we did and?—

"Jamie here was just telling me about some… math stuff. Spirals in hockey or something," Coach said, waving a hand vaguely in my direction. He turned to Craig. "I'm getting coffee, and I'll let him explain it to you directly."

Craig nodded, shifting his gaze back to me. His eyebrows raised in silent invitation to continue as soon as Coach ambled off.

"This wasn't about the sex," I exclaimed.

Craig winced, his gaze not meeting mine for a moment. "Okay, and?"

"We can forget about the sex; I mean, I don't want to because it was delicious, and your cock was perfect and… shit…" I placed a hand over my mouth as Craig's lips twitched. "Focus, Jamie," I muttered, then took a deep breath. "Craig, I'm working on a research project that involves the application of the Fibonacci sequence and chaos theory in sports. Specifically, I believe that your on-ice movements, particularly your skating patterns that echo your childhood training as a figure skater, could provide valuable data for predictive analytics in sports training," I tried to sound as confident as possible.

Craig listened, his expression thoughtful. "Okay… and what do you need from me?"

"About ten hours of your time spread out according to what suits your schedule. I want to record some of your practice sessions, talk about your figure skating past, and possibly discuss your experiences and thoughts about your movements and decisions during games."

Craig considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly. "You just want to watch?"

"Yep."

"I don't have to write anything, study, or…"

"Nope."

"Okay, then. Let me know the dates and times, and we'll sort it out," Craig replied, standing as if he were going to leave.

"Can I have your number?" I blurted, and he stared at me. "For fixing dates and things."

"Ask Oli to add you to our chat or a new chat."

"I will."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

He hesitated at the door, then turned to me and leaned down. His lips were this close to my ear. He smelled of sweat and yuck and exercise, but fuck, it was good.

"That was one of the hottest hookups of my entire life," he whispered and left.

Holy hell.

I was hard and shaky because Craig was a potent mix of every chemical and physical thing that turned me on.

I had to stop myself from calling him back.