“Water would be great. Thanks,” I say.
He leads me into an open kitchen-living room area, and my eyes widen at the wall of windows that overlook the Sound. I can’t see if there’s a beach directly behind his house, but lights from a marina dot the view a couple miles down the shore to the left.
The team may be called the Hartford Hydra, but they’re not actually based in the capital, which sits in the middle of the state. Instead, Max Kaladin – perhaps wisely – built his stadium down near the shore, close to the casinos. It’s not surprising then, that high-earning players like Ash found housing on the water.
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the plush sofa in the living room, and I head over to sit down.
Ash veers off into the kitchen, which looks like something out of aModern Homemagazine. It’s sleek and simple with clean lines and lots of granite and stainless steel, and I wonder if he actually does his own cooking. He grabs a glass out of the cabinet and starts to fill it from a watercooler, then stops and checks the jug on top.
“Dammit.”
He puts the glass down and disappears for a second into another room before he comes back holding a new five-gallon water jug by the handle. Even from the couch I see the muscles and veins in his hands and forearms flex as he replaces the empty container with the new one.
“Sorry, the water won’t be cold just yet,” he says as he grabs some ice cubes from the freezer to add them to my glass before retrying the cooler. “I can get you some more when the new water chills enough.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
He fills a second glass and brings both over, handing one to me beforethumping down into the loveseat next to the couch. He sits in the middle of it and manspreads, which once again emphasizes how long his legs are.
I’m surprised to see him drink water instead of beer, but then again, he’s an athlete, and I’m sure they’re on strict diets.
“So how does this work?” Ash asks, looking at me expectantly.
I huff a laugh. “Good question. Like I said, I’m not a clinical psychologist, so I don’t have this all worked out, but I can tell you what my study found, and we can go from there. Does that work?”
He nods. “Sounds great.”
“I assume you didn’t read the article on the study?” I ask as I settle back and cross one leg over the other.
His eyes widen, and he looks like I just told him there’s a pop quiz he didn’t study for.
I wave a hand. “Never mind. I was just curious, but I can tell you everything you need to know.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”
I wave my hand again. “Really, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ve been busy with practice and training. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot, and, honestly, unless you have a background in statistics, half the article won’t make sense to you anyway.”
His shoulders ease, and I feel like a jerk for having asked now.
“What I found was fairly simple,” I say.
I stop, stumped at where to begin. Yes, the study was simple, but that’s provided you have some basic knowledge of social scientific concepts and theories. I’m not sure how to explain this to a layperson.
It’s not that I assume Ash is a dumb jock. I learned long ago not to buy into that stereotype, but the sheer amount of background information I could give him paralyzes me as I collect my thoughts.
“Alright,” I say, regrouping. “I looked specifically at mental and emotional effects. The results suggested at first that trash talk mentally distracted participants when they engaged in a competitive activity, but when I separated those results out by gender, they broke down. Womenwere mentally distracted by the trash talk, but men weren’t, presumably because they’re used to hearing it, so they find it easier to filter out.”
He’s frowning, and I realize I probably could’ve left all this out since it doesn’t apply to him anyway.
I grimace. “Sorry, it’s not relevant, so forget I brought it up. The part that’s relevant to you-”
I stop again.
“Excuse me for not asking earlier, but you do gender identify as male, right?” I ask. I’m sure I would’ve heard about it in the news if he didn’t, but better safe than sorry.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Do I not look male to you?” he asks.
Fuck me. He looks very, very male to me, but that’s beside the point.
