“Okay, so change of plan,” Oliver said as he entered the kitchen, hands in his front pockets. “Jamie isn’t up to cooking, so we’ll head to a little Italian place I know nearby. They have great manicotti.”
I pushed to my feet, bobbed my head, and followed Oliver outside. Jamie sat somewhere in that big house with the bikes in the yard, alone, hurt, and filled with regret. I longed to go back inside to talk to him about last night, but my heart warned me against it. It’s better to let things end here. One ragged and painful cut now would heal quickly.
I hoped.
Chapter Five
Jamie
Wouldmy reaction have been different if, instead of staring at me like an idiot, Craig had immediately fallen to his knees and apologized for sneaking off? Maybe I wouldn’t have been so irrational. Perhaps I would have pulled him into my arms, hugged him, and enjoyed more kisses.
But no, he stared at me in horror, and my hackles went up, and I got all prickly. Like some demented, threatened hedgehog.
I paced back and forth across my room, the restless energy of said hedgehog finally loosening its grip. He probably regretted sleeping with me, not that there had been much sleeping, and like me and any good Brit worth their weight in tea, he was being very un-American and avoiding the awkward situation. I needed to pull up my big boy’s pants and get over myself.
I collapsed onto the bed, sprawling with limbs in every direction, and I lay staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some answers on dealing with the acute embarrassment of overreacting. Instead, my hand found my phone by habit, and before I knew it, I was unlocking it and tapping on Instagram. It wasn’t my intention to check on Craig. I told myself it was just a scroll, just a way to pass the time.
But there I was, somehow ending up on the Storm’s official page. One more tap, I was staring at a photo of Craig smiling broadly in the middle of a group of kids at some community event. The caption praised his ongoing commitment to a charity supporting dyslexia awareness, and the kids were grinning so hard I could feel their happiness in my chest. Craig wasn’t only skilled on the ice; he was genuinely good, his actions speaking as loud as any of his game-winning goals.
I swiped on, my thumb mechanically moving while my mind raced. Another post, this time Craig at a local animal shelter, a small dog cradled in his arms, his expression soft and open. It wasn’t just an image meant to tug at heartstrings for likes; it was real, it was him. Oli said he was kind and compassionate, so I had to believe he wasn’t trying to hurt me by running and avoiding me. It had to be regret, that was all.
He regretted what we’d done on our drunken night of sex.
I needed to get over it and not take it so damn personally.
And as I lay there, the glow of my phone illuminating fragments of Craig’s life, I couldn’t help but whisper to myself, “Fuck my life.”
I didn’t want to get over it. I wanted to accidentally find myself in a situation where we had sex again and then talked and maybe even went out for a date. I’d take that in any order I could.
Somehow, I scrolled back on the Storm’s social media, stopping at the announcement of Oli being traded in, and I recalled the moment he’d told me he was leaving New York to head west with the girls. I’d finally found a best friend, and I’d been so close to losing him, and there had never been any question I’d follow him here.
I wondered if Sean had known I would go wherever Oli and the girls went. I wondered if he had seen how much they were my family when I had none. Had I chased him away even before he stole my research and turned into a raging arsehole?
Fuck. Was him breaking my academic heart all my fault?
“Stop it,” I told myself, forcing all that guilt and self-accusation back where it belonged, way down…waydown. I hadn’t forced Sean to steal my ideas; he’d done that himself. I hadn’t forced him to fuck the intern with the mohawk over our sofa when he knew I was due home.
The following post was a throwback Thursday-type post, and front and center, set to some hip hop song (I think), was a montage of Craig and… wait… he could do handstands on the ice? In all his gear, and wait… that was him doing a pirouette and then sliding along the top of the boards on his ass, and spinning on the ice and…
“That is sexy,” I told the room. I really needed to stop talking to my damn room. Hockey players were supposed to be stampeding about, shoving, and checking with force, right? Not being all light on their skates and spinning in circles.
I was rewatching the video for the second time—well, thirtieth probably, but who was counting—when the phone rang, and the video disappeared. When I saw who was calling, I reluctantly picked up, hoping my voice wouldn’t hold the irritation of being disturbed.
“Dr. Hennessy, this is Barbara Millstone from the University Grants Commission,” the voice on the other end introduced herself, all business and brisk efficiency. “I’m calling regarding the continuation of your funding for the research.”
My heart sank. UCLA had been holding up the second installment of my funding, and without it, my research was as good as stalled. I knew Oli wouldn’t kick me out of his house. I wasn’t paying rent and didn’t spend much money, but my reserves were running out, and I needed something to show for all my degrees.
“Yes, Ms. Millstone, I appreciate your call,” I replied, trying to mask my anxiety with politeness.
“The committee has reviewed your initial findings, Dr. Hennessy. While they’re academically intriguing, there’s concern about their practical applications outside of academia. The committee suggests we need to see a tangible connection to real-world uses to continue funding.”
Sean had taken nearly all my practical applications with him, leaving me with theories but nothing to show for them. I swallowed, the reminder of my stolen work in New York burning fresh in my memory. I needed anything that could tie mathematical principles’ abstract beauty to everyday life’s gritty reality.
As Ms. Millstone awaited my response, my thoughts returned to Craig, spinning effortlessly on the ice, his body a perfect embodiment of grace through angles and spirals. Then inspiration struck—a vivid, sudden rush of possibility.
“Actually, Ms. Millstone, I’ve been developing a concept on how the Fibonacci sequence can be applied to predict and enhance performance in professional athletics,” I exclaimed, my mind racing ahead of my words. “Particularly, I’m looking at applications in sports training and real-time performance analytics, which could revolutionize strategies and outcomes.”
There was a pause, and I held my breath, hoping my impromptu idea sounded as promising aloud as it did in my head.
