Page 19 of Pucker Up
“Lots of different reasons. Mostly legal ones, I think. That was what the Detroit soccer coach said.”
“Soccer?” Dad’s brow furrowed. “I guess they do hit the ball with their heads, but if you want to study TBI, boxers or hockey players are where it’s at.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“Wait.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “You’ve spent all this time looking for subjects for your study, when the whole Toronto Tigers team practices down the street from your school?”
I pushed a piece of chicken around on my plate. “I wasn’t sure if that would be ethically okay for me to study your team.”
Dad looked at me like I was a stranger, and then a smile spread across his face. He opened his arms wide. “Goldie Girl, I’ll clear it with management tomorrow. You’ll have a whole team of guys who have had their bells rung one too many times.”
It couldn’t be this easy. “Dad, I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want people to think that I used my connections to get ahead in life. You know, the whole nepo baby thing.”
“What’s a nepo baby?” Dad slurped a noodle.
“Never mind. It’s not really fair; no one else in my program has a dad that can pull strings like you.”
Dad blotted his mouth with a napkin. “Can you put together a synopsis? This research is important. If a stranger approached me with a kick-ass elevator pitch for your study, I’d go to bat with the executives for them.”
I doubted that was true, but my study would help his players. Giving up and walking away now wouldn’t help anyone. I tapped my finger on the marble countertop as I pondered my options. Excitement had started to brew in my stomach, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. There had to be some kind of implications to the relationship I had to the team members, but Dad was right. The Toronto Tigers were my ideal subject, and if I wanted them, all I had to do was ask.
After a deep breath, I met Dad’s eyes. “I’ll have to clear it with my advisor.” I set down my fork and crossed my fingers. “I’m going to help a lot of people. If you are okay with me studying a couple of your players, it would help me get this study published. My advisor already has peers lined up to review it. All I need is some data.”
“Will it impact their ability to play?”
It was a valid question. “No. I’m just going to be making observations and asking them some questions.”
“Consider it done, Goldie Girl.”
I was usually “kiddo.” Mel was the only one that called me Goldie Girl. I didn’t mind the nickname, but I had only recently noticed that it had rubbed off on other people. Relief flooded my body, bringing with it my appetite. “Thank you, Dad.”
“No. Thank you, kiddo. I’m so happy that I can do something for you. ”
“Me too.” The damn tears were back for both of us. “Thank you.”
He handed me another tissue, and then the two of us finished our leftovers under the ever-watchful eye of Morton. The key to my study had been right in front of me all this time and I had been too stubborn to turn it.
After helping dad clean up, Morton and I returned to the carriage house. That night, I slipped into bed with a renewed sense of excitement. If Dad could convince the team’s management, and if I could get approval from my advisor, I was going to have one damn good research project. I tossed and turned, thinking about all of the possibilities, until it dawned on me. The only guy that had made me think about sex in the past couple of years had potentially just turned into one of my test subjects.
SIX
ACE
Steam fizzedoff our wet hair as Mikey Holmes and I left the stadium.
“Is it just me, or are our practices getting more and more brutal?” Holmes rubbed his elbow. “I don’t remember the last time I took that many slap shots in a row.”
The brisk winter air hitting my face was like a shot of caffeine after a long day. “It’s not just you.” I rubbed my gloves together and blew into my hands. “Coach is going to kill one of us if he keeps pushing us like that.”
Holmes, Banksy, Ethan, and I left practice with the intent of going to get something healthy to eat, but somehow had ended up at a bar in the west end, drinking more than we were eating.
By the third pitcher of craft beer, the stuff was starting to taste almost okay. “I might as well be drinking a loaf of bread.” I held up the glass of dark beer that was supposed to have hints of hops and verbena, but the notes I detected were closer to that of a Reuben sandwich. Cringing, I gulped down the dark liquid. I preferred to eat my cured meat sandwiches rather than drink them.
Holmes chugged his beer and proceeded to fill up all of our glasses while simultaneously ordering another round. The pretty bartender who was taking care of our table was doing a damn good job making sure our glasses never dipped below half full. Other than the bar patrons, we were her only table. I think it had something to do with Banksy.
