Chapter Three #2
He spots me through the window and waves, flashing that crooked smile that makes my stomach do acrobatic routines. When he walks into the café, I realize I'm probably grinning like an idiot, but I can't seem to stop.
"Hey," he says, sliding into the chair across from me. "Thanks for agreeing to this. I hope you don't mind that I'm probably going to ask a million questions."
"Questions are good," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "It means you're actually interested in learning."
"Oh, I'm definitely interested," he says, and there's something in the way he says it that makes me think he's not just talking about mechanical engineering.
Jason gets up to order coffee, and I use the momentary break to try to calm my racing heart. This is going well so far. We're both here, we're both interested in continuing the conversation, and he seems genuinely excited to learn about my major instead of just humoring me.
When he returns with what appears to be the largest coffee size available, I can't help but laugh.
"Big day ahead?" I ask, nodding at his enormous cup.
"Late night," he admits. "I was up until two AM trying to figure out what questions to ask you that wouldn't make me sound like a complete idiot."
The fact that he put thought into this, that he was nervous enough to stay up late preparing, makes something warm and fluttery bloom in my chest.
"Well," I say, opening my textbook to a chapter on mechanical systems, "let's start with the basics. What do you think mechanical engineers actually do?"
"Build machines?" he guesses.
"Sometimes," I agree. "But mostly we solve problems. Like, everything around us has been designed by someone, right?
The heating system in this building, the mechanism that makes the coffee machine work, even the hinges on that door over there.
Mechanical engineers figure out how to make all of that stuff work efficiently and safely. "
Jason leans forward, genuinely interested. "So you're basically professional problem solvers."
"Exactly!" I say, probably with more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary.
"Like, see this?" I point to the mechanism on the coffee shop's window.
"Someone had to figure out the optimal gear ratio to make sure the window opens smoothly without being too hard to turn. That's mechanical engineering."
"That's actually really cool," Jason says, and he sounds like he means it. "I never thought about all the tiny engineering decisions that go into everyday stuff."
For the next hour, we talk about everything from thermodynamics to mechanical design, and Jason asks thoughtful questions that show he's actually listening instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.
When I explain how heat transfer works, he connects it to the ice rink cooling system.
When I describe stress analysis, he asks how it applies to hockey equipment design.
"You know," he says, stirring his coffee, "this explains a lot about why you're so good at organizing equipment. You're literally trained to think about how systems work together."
"It's all about optimization," I agree. "Finding the most efficient way to arrange things so everything functions smoothly."
"Like putting the goalies' backup pads near the bench instead of in the back corner where they used to be?"
I'm impressed that he noticed such a small change. "Exactly. It saves thirty seconds every time someone needs to swap out equipment, which doesn't sound like much, but it adds up."
"Thirty seconds can be the difference between winning and losing a game," Jason says seriously.
There's something in his voice when he talks about winning and losing that makes me think about what Tyler mentioned yesterday—how Jason deserves some good luck for once.
I want to ask him about it, about what it's like to be so talented but not get the opportunities he deserves, but I'm not sure how to bring it up without sounding like I'm pitying him.
Instead, I ask, "What made you choose hockey? Were you one of those kids who was on skates before you could walk?"
Jason laughs. "Actually, I was the kid who was afraid of ice until I was eight. My dad finally convinced me to try skating, and I spent the entire first lesson clinging to the boards like my life depended on it."
"What changed?"
"I watched the goalie during a local game and realized that being in net meant I didn't have to skate around as much," he admits with a grin. "Turns out I was naturally good at it, but my original motivation was pure laziness."
"That's the best origin story ever," I laugh. "From ice-phobic to hockey star through strategic laziness."
"I wouldn't exactly call myself a star," Jason says, his expression shifting slightly.
And there it is—the opening I was looking for.
"Are you kidding me?" I say, leaning forward. "Jason, I've watched you practice. You're incredible. The way you read plays, your positioning, your reflexes—you're better than both the starting goalies."
He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting me to be so direct about it.
"You really think so?" he asks quietly.
"I know so," I say firmly. "And I think Coach Higgins is making a huge mistake by not giving you more opportunities."
For a moment, Jason just looks at me, and I worry that I've overstepped somehow. But then his face breaks into this soft smile that's different from his usual grin—more genuine, more grateful.
"Thank you," he says."
The moment stretches between us, warm and genuine, and I realize that somewhere between explaining heat transfer and discussing hockey dreams, this stopped feeling like a casual coffee date and started feeling like something much more important.