Page 5 of Three Pucks and a Baby

I stifled a groan. The chair of the English Department loved to torture the first-year students by having the other professors make them read a poem written in Old English. Even for someone like me who adored old texts, it was like asking them to read and interpret a text that read like a foreign language.

“There’s a book in the reference section that will help you break it down line by line.”

“Can’t I just use Google?”

With a smile, I replied, “Assuming this is for Dr. Barlowe’s class, he’ll want your evidence from scholarly sources.”

He grimaced. “Oh yeah, I do need those.”

I motioned to one of the tables. “Have a seat, and I’ll go grab the book.”

As I walked deeper into the stacks, I could’ve sworn I felt eyes on me. Glancing over my shoulder, I found no one in the aisle with me. Craning my neck, I eyed the row to my left before turning to my right. A tall figure stood with his head buried in a book, but he wasn’t looking my way. Since it was October, I guess I was getting a head start on spooking myself. Usually, I reserved that for the library basement.

Once I located the book, my heels clicked back down the tiles to the waiting student. While he sat at the table, I put the book down in front of him. After flipping to the middle section, I tapped on the article. “First, you can read the line in Old English and then the modern translation. Then you–”

At a loud bang and a bellowed, “Fuck!”, Amir and I jerked our attention from the text over to the stacks. A guy gave us a sheepish look. “Sorry,” he muttered as he rubbed his head before disappearing behind the shelves.

“As I was saying, then you’ll find scholarly articles. There’s one on the theme of loneliness.” I flipped a couple of pages. “Here’s one on the theme of religion, and then if I remember correctly, there’s one on suffering.”

Amir smiled. “This isn’t your first time at the rodeo with this one, huh?”

I laughed. “Nope. You’re not the only one to be stumped by this poem.”

“Thanks for the help.”

“No problem. I’m going to make a sweep to see if anyone else needs me, and then I’ll come back to check on you.”

“Great.”

As I left Amir for the next table, I saw two discarded books. “Can I put these up for you?” I asked three girls buried under numerous multi-colored graph printouts.

“Yeah, thanks.”

After taking the books in my hands, I started eyeing the Dewey Decimal numbers on the spine. When I whirled around the corner of the stacks, I smacked into a wall of hard, male flesh. The books in my arms tumbled at his feet. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

The guy was so ridiculously tall that I had to pull my neck back to gaze into his ridiculously handsome face.Get a grip, Viv. He’s a student, not a piece of meat to be ogled.

His sandy blonde hair was buzzed short on the sides but fell longer across his forehead. Even if he hadn’t been wearing one of Southeastern’s bulky warmup jackets, I would’ve known he was a hockey player. He had the build.

He grinned down at me. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t. I was paying too much attention to the decimal numbers and not where I was going.”

After reluctantly tearing my gaze from his, I eyed the books at his feet. “Here let me,” he offered.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” I replied.

At that moment, we both bent over, banging our heads together. I groaned more in mortification than pain. As I pulled back and rubbed my head, I said, “Once again, I’m so sorry!”

Squatting down, he peered up at me with a teasing smirk. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to taking hard hits.” After sweeping the books into his hands, he rose back up. With a wink, he added, “Of course, usually I’ve got my gear on to protect me.”

“Wait a minute. I think I know you. You’re Grant Collins.”

“Grayson, actually.”

I winced. “Sorry. I knew it started with a G.”

“It’s all good.” When he grinned, two adorable dimples popped out on his cheeks. “Are you a Southeastern hockey fan?”

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