Chapter 2 #2
He brightens, and for the first time since he arrived, he looks almost as if he’s about to smile.
“Great. So when can we do this?” he asks. “How long will it take?”
I sigh as I realize he’s misunderstood.
Despite its pervasiveness in competitive activities, trash talk is understudied. I found precious few scholastic articles on it when I did my study. Only philosophers had a lot to say about it, and most of that was an attempt to argue the immorality of the practice.
My own study really just established what most people already knew: trash talk can negatively affect the performance of its target. There were a few other key points, but that was the primary one, and thanks to my university’s stellar PR department, I became big news.
None of this qualifies me to psychologically treat a professional athlete, though.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but you misunderstand. I don’t have an intervention for you. Interventions have to be designed and tested. They can take months at minimum, if not years. There’s no intervention that currently exists for dealing with trash talk.”
His face falls again, and his eyes go soft. “Please,” he says, holding out his hands as if to make me see reason. “You have to help me. Hockey is my life, and I’m in danger of losing everything I’ve worked for.”
My heart twists, and I feel like I just kicked a six-and-a-half-foot puppy. I want to take it all back and promise to fix him.
“Even if I had something that could help you,” I say, trying to hold on to my resolve, “the semester just started. I have classes, advising, and university service. Do you have any idea how many committees I’m on?”
He doesn’t, and I’m sure he doesn’t care, but I’m trying to convince myself more than him that I don’t have time for this.
He leans back to fish in the pocket of his pants, and I’m treated to a view of his groin thrusting my way, which is just cruel. He pulls out a business card and hands it to me.
“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 find something 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.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” I remind him.
He winks at me. “No, but this way I’m all set when you do,” he says with a grin, and – God help me – he has dimples.
Thankfully I still have half an hour until class because I’m sure there’s now a wet spot on my skirt that will need to dry before then.
Ash stands, and I do as well. I’m 5’7” – not exactly short – but even from across the desk I can tell he towers over me. He extends a hand, and I shake it.
“It was nice to meet you,” he says. “Regardless of whether you end up working with me or not, text me if you ever want to attend a game, and I’ll set you up with a couple tickets.”
“Thank you. That’s really sweet of you,” I say, careful not to promise anything on either count.
He flips the hood back over his head and turns to leave. I’m not sure how many people will recognize him on campus, but better to be safe.
It occurs to me I don’t know why he doesn’t want to be recognized.
“You don’t want anyone to know you came to see me because…,” I say, inviting him to fill in the blank.
He shrugs. “It’s probably moot at this point, but our PR guy doesn’t want anyone to know I’m working with you.
Or could be working with you,” he corrects.
“He says that will only confirm for people how big the issue is, and he doesn’t want word getting around more than it already has.
When they send over those contracts, there will be an NDA clause that prevents you from talking about anything that happens between us. ”
So much for getting a publication out of this.
“Understood,” I say, and he opens the door to leave.
Now that I know he’s not a student, I allow myself a quick once-over of his physique. I can’t tell a lot with his baggy jeans and hoodie, but I see enough to know he’s probably ripped under all that clothing.
It’s been about a year since I’ve had sex, and it must finally be getting to me because I’m ready to text him right now and take him up on that offer of hockey tickets.
Ash turns down the hall, and I give him a good ten seconds before I sit back down and google him. I’ve reached a new low, but I don’t care.
Ash Dagur Gunnarsson. His family moved to the US from Iceland a few years before he was born, then they moved to Canada when he was five.
He came back to the US when he was drafted by the Tampa Bay Lightning.
He’s twenty-seven years old now, three years younger than me, and at 6’4”, he’s one of the taller forwards to play in the NHL, since forwards are typically the smaller players on a hockey team.
I look up news about him and find half a dozen articles that blame him for Tampa Bay losing their chance at the Stanley Cup last year.
As Ash suggested, he started out playing great, but he played more and more erratically as the season went on, and he imploded by the end.
The Lightning were up three games to one in the semi-finals, but Ash seemed to lose steam, and the other team crept back in.
He rallied in game seven to score a goal in the first period, but then he did nothing for the rest of the game and spent a lot of time in the penalty box.
The Lightning lost that game, 3-2, and with it, their chance at the Cup.
I’m not sure it’s fair to blame Ash for the loss, given that there were plenty of other players on the ice that could’ve done their part, but maybe I’m missing some context. I don’t know enough about hockey to judge how his loss of focus might’ve affected his teammates.
I scroll further but regret it as a gossip article about him dating an actress named Grace comes up.
She’s not an A-lister by any means, just a woman I’ve seen play a one-off character in the law dramas and buddy-cop shows I watch.
She’s beautiful, though, and Ash looks happy as he poses for pictures with his arm around her.
The article is from a year and a half ago when he was still in Florida, but I can’t find any recent mention of whether or not they’re still together.
By the time I finish nosing around the internet, it’s almost time for my class. I forward the contracts from Kaladin Global Group to my department head, Melinda, with a quick note that I need to talk to her, then shut my laptop down and mentally prepared to go lecture.
I generally enjoy teaching, but I’m an introvert at heart, so I have to psych myself up to face a room full of three hundred undergrads.
Teaching is like a performance in a way, and it takes a lot out of me.
I much prefer to do my research, but that’s not my primary responsibility at the university.
I sigh and stand to go to class. I’m counting on Melinda to veto the idea of working with Ash because part of me really wants to work with him, and that alone tells me this isn’t a good idea. I don’t make good decisions when it comes to men.
I text my best friend Celena on my way.
Gray
Free tonight? I need wine.
I get a text back seconds later.
Celena
What did your students do now?
Gray
Nothing. Ash Gunnarsson. Familiarize yourself and be prepared to discuss.
I’m aware it took me less than an hour to break my promise to Ash about not telling anyone he came to see me, but there’s no official NDA in place yet, and I’m pretty sure BFFs are exempt in situations like this anyway. I have to tell someone, and Celena can keep a secret.
A minute passes before my phone pings again with her reply.
Celena
Oh my.
Oh my is right.