He’s older than I thought, a man, not a kid. He’s likely in his twenties, but closer to my age than to an undergrad. He has a broad forehead and a strong, clean-shaven jaw that narrows into a pointed chin. His deep-set eyes look hazel, but the light in my office isn’t great, so I can’t be sure.
“Thanks for seeing me,” he says as he sits in the chair across the desk from me. It looks laughably small beneath him.
He runs a hand through soft brown hair that’s several inches long on top. It falls back around his face in a way that gives him a slightly unkempt look, which – now that I’m no longer on edge – is sexy as hell. The hair would easily cover his eyes if he combed it forward, but it’s only long enough to cover his neck further down. Somehow the whole package is both boyish and rugged at the same time.
I guess he’s a graduate student, or he wants to be. Potential grad students often visit professors they want to study with before applying toa school, but I pray he’s not here to ask me to be his research advisor.
I recently published a study on trash talk that catapulted me into the spotlight as an ‘expert’ on the subject. Since then, students have asked me about working on similar studies, but if that’s what this man wants, I’ll have to turn him away. There’s no way I’d be able to work with him and not have filthy, sinful thoughts that would risk getting me fired.
As it is, I hate myself for caring that my hair is hastily thrown up into a messy bun today or that the florescent lights in this office make it look dirty blonde rather than golden like it is in the sun. I’m also wearing a shapeless cardigan over an even more shapeless skirt.
The man eases back in his small chair, trying to get comfortable, and I note the way his long legs stick out in a manspread.
“Dr. Mackey, I’m Ash Gunnarsson,” he says and pauses.
I cock my head, waiting for more. It seems like he expects me to know the name, but honestly, it sounds made up.
I nod. “Good to meet you, Ash. What can I do for you?”
“You…study trash talk, right?”
“I do.”
He pauses. “Do you know who I am?”
I frown, and now I’m worried. Please don’t let him be the son of the dean or the president of the university. I don’t have tenure yet, and I’ll be fired before the end of the year if I have to take him on as a student.
“No,” I say. “Should I?”
He looks relieved. “It’s probably better you don’t,” he says, “and I need you to keep this visit confidential.”
My frown deepens. “Confidential? Why? Who are you?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Confidential, right?” he asks. “There’s some law or something about that, isn’t there? You can’t tell anyone what I tell you?”
I smile. “This isn’t a confessional, Mr. Gunnarsson, and I’m not a priest. The law you’re talking about is FERPA, the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act. It’s a federal law that protects student educationalrecords. It means I can’t tell people things like your grades without your permission, but it only applies to students, and I have a feeling you’re not a student here.”
His face falls, and I have mercy on him.
“That being said, I have no desire or reason to tell anyone your business, so why don’t you just tell me what you need.”
He eyes me, obviously weighing if he can trust me or not. At this point, my curiosity is piqued enough that I need to know why he’s here.
“I’m one of the centers for the Hartford Hydra,” he says finally.
It takes a moment for my brain to make sense of that, but then it hits me. He’s a professional hockey player on Connecticut’s new team. Or their relatively new one. If I recall, the team was formed last year and didn’t have the most auspicious start.
Trying to get a new sports team off the ground in Connecticut is an uphill battle. We’re a small state, and we’re wedged between Boston and New York, two professional sports powerhouses, both with their own NHL teams. The Hartford Hydra’s owner, billionaire Max Kaladin, seems to have more money than brains, though, so good luck to him.
“New to the team?” I guess.
“Yes,” Ash says. “Mr. Kaladin brought me on this season to help turn the team around, but I have a problem we…I hope you can help with.”
My brow furrows. “How exactly can I help?”
He hesitates. “I’m a great player,” he says. “Probably one of the best centers in the league if I put modesty aside, but I have a problem staying focused when guys are chirping at me.”
My brows pinch deeper. “Chirping at you? As in…”
