“Call this number,” he says.
I take the card. It has a name, title, phone number, and the name of the company on it. Kaladin Global Group.
“Mr. Kaladin told me to give you that and have you call,” he says.
Fine, I’ll bite. I pick up the landline on my desk and dial the number. It rings twice before a male voice answers.
“Hello, this is Dr. Gray Mackey,” I say. “I’m here with Ash Gunnarsson from the Hartford Hydra. He gave me this number and…”
I listen as the man on the other end starts talking, and my eyes widen as he lays out the absurdly generous compensation package Mr. Kaladin has approved for my work with his player. It includes a staggering amount of grant funding for both myself and my department if I actually succeed in curing Ash of his trash talk issue.
“I’ll send over the contracts for you to sign,” the man says after more-or-less telling me I won the lottery.
“Hold off on that for now,” I say. “I have to talk to the head of my department before I agree to anything.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the phone that’s pregnant with incredulity after the numbers the man just gave me.
“I’ll email you the contracts anyway,” he says. “Show them to your department head and the university’s lawyers if you want.”
“Fine,” I agree. I start to give the man my email address, but he assures me he has it.
I hang up the phone and catch Ash’s eye. He looks so hopeful, but I’m not sure I can agree to do this. I don’t actually know how to help him.
On the other hand, developing inoculations and interventions was ultimately my goal when I decided to study trash talk, and this may be just the opportunity I was looking for to see what works and what doesn’t. I hate to make Ash my guinea pig, but if there’s a chance I can findsomething that helps both him and me, maybe it’s worth it. It’s not exactly good science to do it this way, but for the money Kaladin is offering, maybe I can bend the rules this once.
Better yet, if I document my process and do this as by-the-book as I can, I might be able to publish the results. I’d need to go through the proper channels and get Ash to sign off on participating, but…
I look again at the gorgeous specimen of male athleticism sitting in front of me and my stomach drops. Nope. It’s my original problem all over again. Working closely with this man would be a hockey season of wet dreams waiting to happen, and I don’t have enough extra money floating around to buy the amount of lube it will take to make it until…When does hockey season end anyway?
Then I recall I’ll have plenty of extra money if I agree to help.
This is also the opportunity of a lifetime, and I’m not even talking about the funds. Having access to a professional athlete on a project like this is the goal of just about any researcher doing sport-related scholarship. Passing this up would be stupid.
That’s assuming I don’t screw Ash up or make him worse.
“So you’ll help me?” he asks.
“What I told the guy on the phone stands,” I say. “I need to run this by my department head before I can agree to anything. I’ll need to see if she has any concerns I haven’t thought of.”
And she will. I’m sure of it, so I’ll let her be the ‘bad guy’ and nix this.
Ash nods. “Okay. No problem.”
I’m treated to another thrust of his groin as he roots in his pocket again, this time to pull out his phone.
“What’s your number?” he asks.
“I can just email you when I have an answer,” I say.
He looks at me, thumbs poised over the phone screen, and I’m a hundred percent certain I’m the only woman who’s ever tried to avoid giving him my phone number.
I sigh and give him my cell number.
He enters it in his phone, and seconds later, my cell pings on my desk with an incoming text from an unknown number. I pick it up and read.
Unknown
Looking forward to working with you, Doc.
