Chapter 23
KATE
Ipressed my nose against the glass, wincing as two massive bodies collided with a sickening thud that reverberated through the arena. The Chicago crowd roared while I clutched my heart like a Victorian lady having a fainting spell.
"You'll get used to it," Sarah assured me, passing a beer my way. "I still flinch when Dennis takes a hard hit, but I've stopped gasping out loud. Progress, right?"
"Hockey is essentially organized violence on ice," I muttered, accepting the drink gratefully. "The kinetic energy transfer in these collisions is enough to cause significant neural trauma, and yet they get up like it's nothing."
Sarah laughed. "And this is why we love you, Kate. Only you could make violence sound so... scientific."
I was still getting used to this—being part of "the WAGs" as they called themselves, sitting in the special section reserved for players' partners during away games.
When Austin had asked me to join him for the Chicago road trip, I'd hesitated.
My cultures needed attention, my draft paper needed revisions, and I'd never taken time away from work for a relationship before.
But then he'd looked at me with those damn blue eyes and said, "I sleep better when you're there," and suddenly my bacteria seemed perfectly capable of surviving without me for three days.
"There they go!" Sarah nudged me as the players returned to the ice for the second period.
I spotted Austin immediately—number 4, his powerful stride distinctive even from this distance. The way he moved was pure efficiency, no wasted motion. It made my scientist brain happy and other parts of me significantly happier.
"So, talk to me about pregame rituals," I said to Sarah as play resumed. "Austin refuses to let me watch his, says I'll think he's crazy."
Sarah snorted. "They're all certifiable. Dennis has to put his gear on left to right—left skate, right skate, left pad, right pad. Taps his stick on the ground seven times before stepping onto the ice."
"That's fascinating," I said, genuinely intrigued. "Scientists have our own versions. I have a specific sequence for setting up my microscope—counterclockwise focus adjustment first, then sample placement. My colleague Brian whistles the chorus of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' while culturing bacteria."
"See? Not so different," Sarah agreed.
I was about to respond when Austin intercepted a sloppy pass at center ice, driving forward with startling speed. My breath caught as he deked past one defender, then another, closing in on the goal.
"Holy shit, he's gonna—"
The puck flew off his stick, sailing over the goalie's shoulder into the top corner of the net.
"YESSS!" I screamed, jumping to my feet. "DID YOU SEE THAT ANGLE OF TRAJECTORY? THE CALCULATION REQUIRED TO HIT THAT CORNER IS STATISTICALLY IMPROBABLE!"
Sarah was laughing, tugging at my jersey. "Kate! You're on the Jumbotron!"
I looked up just in time to see myself on the massive screen—wild-haired, eyes wide, hands gesturing frantically as I appeared to be explaining physics to a row of bemused hockey partners. The camera lingered for a moment before cutting away to Austin's celebration with his teammates.
"Oh god," I groaned, sinking into my seat. "I just screamed about statistical trajectories on national television, didn't I?"
"Loudly and proudly," Sarah confirmed, clinking her beer against mine. "And Austin just looked up here and winked. I'd say he approves."
Later that night, when Austin pressed me against the hotel room wall, his body still humming with post-game adrenaline and victory, I couldn't bring myself to regret a thing.
"I saw you on the screen," he murmured against my neck, his hands sliding under my jersey. "Screaming about trajectory angles."
I gasped as his teeth grazed my sensitive skin. "In my defense, it was an incredibly difficult shot from a purely physics-based perspective."
"Fuck, I love your brain," he growled, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrapped around his waist, the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against me through too many layers of clothing.
"Is this how you celebrate all your goals?" I asked breathlessly as he carried me to the bed.
Austin's eyes darkened, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Only with you."
His lips crashed into mine with bruising intensity, stealing my breath and any coherent thought. I fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt—the team's required post-game attire—suddenly furious at formal clothing.
"Too many fucking buttons," I complained, yanking impatiently until one popped off.
Austin laughed, a low rumble that vibrated through my body. "Impatient scientist," he teased, helping me push the offending garment off his shoulders, revealing the muscled expanse I never tired of exploring.
"I find efficiency sexually arousing," I informed him solemnly, my fingers tracing the defined ridges of his abdomen.
"Is that why you reorganized my sock drawer by thickness and absorbency?"
"That was for performance optimization, not sexuality," I corrected, gasping as his hands found their way under my shirt, cupping my breasts with perfect pressure. "Though the two aren't mutually exclusive."
"Only you could make sock organization sound hot," he murmured, effectively ending the conversation by tugging my shirt over my head.
What followed was a symphony of desperate touches, breathless moans, and whispered demands as we celebrated his victory in the most primal way possible. By the time we collapsed, sweaty and sated, the analytical part of my brain had completely surrendered to pure sensation.
"I'm beginning to see the appeal of away games," I mumbled into his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his skin.
Austin's arms tightened around me. "Having you here makes everything better."
I fell asleep feeling like I'd finally found where I belonged—in the arms of a man who loved both my brilliant mind and my chaotic heart.
The bubble burst the next morning over room service coffee.
"What the fuck is this?" Austin growled, staring at his phone with an expression I'd only seen directed at opposing players who'd committed particularly egregious fouls.
"What?" I asked, reaching for the device. He hesitated before handing it over.
The headline made my stomach drop
DR. KATHERINE ELLIS: SCIENTIST OR HOCKEY BUNNY? CAREER TAKES BACKSEAT TO NHL BOYFRIEND
"Oh no," I whispered, scanning the article with growing horror.
It described my "excessive" celebration at the game, questioning whether my scientific career was "merely a hobby" while I followed my hockey player boyfriend around the country.
Worse, it quoted "lab sources close to Dr. Ellis" suggesting my work was suffering due to my relationship.
"'Lab sources?'" I read aloud, my voice shaking. "Who the hell would—" I stopped as realization dawned. "Chen. That pretentious asshole."
Austin was already on his feet, pacing the room like a caged predator. "This is bullshit. Complete fucking bullshit. I'm calling the team's PR department."
"No," I said firmly, setting the phone down. "Don't."
"Kate, they're attacking your professional reputation. I can't just—"
"Yes, you can," I interrupted, standing to block his path. "This is my career, Austin. My battle to fight."
He stopped, frustration evident in every line of his body. "I hate that they're using me to undermine you."
"Welcome to being a woman in science," I said grimly. "Our competence is constantly questioned, especially when we dare to have personal lives."
I picked up my laptop, determination replacing the initial shock. "Hand me my phone. I need to draft a response."
For the next hour, I worked methodically, pulling up my publication list, citation statistics, and research metrics. Austin watched in silence, occasionally refilling my coffee.
"There," I said finally, pushing back from the table. "Professional, factual, and just a hint of 'fuck you' between the lines."
Austin read over my shoulder, his breathing gradually steadying. "This is... impressively restrained."
"I've learned that in academia, the most devastating response is cold, hard data." I clicked send on the email to the publication, then opened my social media accounts to post a series of updates about my recent research achievements.
"And now," I announced, closing my laptop, "I'm going to post about bacterial conjugation and enzyme kinetics until everyone remembers I'm a scientist first and your girlfriend second."
Austin pulled me to my feet, his expression a mixture of pride and something deeper. "You're extraordinary," he said simply.
"I know," I replied, attempting to lighten the mood. "That's why you're sleeping with me."
He didn't laugh. Instead, his hands framed my face with unexpected tenderness. "No, Kate. That's why I'm in love with you."
Later, as we prepared to leave for the arena for Austin's second game, my phone buzzed with messages from colleagues who'd seen the article—and my response.
"Dr. Barnes says, and I quote, 'Excellent utilization of empirical evidence to counter unfounded assertions. The department stands behind you.'" I grinned at Austin. "That's basically her version of 'you go girl.'"
Austin wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my head. "You okay?"
I considered the question carefully. "I'm learning that being with you means parts of my life become public property. It's not ideal, but..."
"But?"
I turned in his arms, rising on tiptoes to kiss him. "But you're worth it. Besides, if they want to follow my life so badly, they're about to get an education in microbiology they never asked for."
As we left the hotel room, I felt strangely lighter.