Page 80 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
I turned to find a woman with a press badge approaching, her eyebrows raised in what looked like genuine surprise.
"I'm Melissa Chen from Sports Today. I thought you looked familiar—I just read your paper on plasmid-mediated resistance in the Journal of Antimicrobial Chemotherapy. I did pre-med before switching to journalism."
"Oh! That's... unexpected," I said, genuinely surprised to be recognized for my research in this setting.
"What brings you to tonight's game?" she asked, then her eyes widened as she caught sight of my jersey with Austin's name and number. "Wait, are you here with Callahan?"
Before I could answer, another reporter joined us, this one with a camera slung around his neck. "You covering the WAGs angle, Mel? Who's this?"
"This is Dr. Kate Ellis," Melissa said, emphasizing my title. "She's a microbiologist whose work on antibiotic resistance was just published in JAC."
The photographer looked unimpressed. "Cool. But why is she waiting outside the locker room?"
I shifted uncomfortably. "I'm here with Austin Callahan."
His eyebrows shot up, and he immediately raised his camera. The flash caught me off-guard, making me blink rapidly.
"So you're Stone's new girlfriend? How'd you two meet?"
Melissa frowned at her colleague. "Maybe dial it back, Dave. Dr. Ellis, I'd actually love to talk about the statistical modelingyou used in your research. The predictive analytics reminded me of some sports performance metrics we use."
Grateful for the subject change, I launched into an explanation of my methodology, barely noticing as Dave snapped more photos. "The probability distribution functions we applied could absolutely translate to athletic performance tracking. You could model injury recovery trajectories with similar parameters."
"Fascinating," Melissa said, scribbling notes. "So you could theoretically predict recovery timelines more accurately?"
"In theory, yes, though human variables introduce significant complexity." I was warming to the topic, forgetting my surroundings entirely. "Austin's recovery actually exceeded standard projections by nearly 22%, which statistically speaking is?—"
I caught myself, realizing I was veering into personal territory. But before I could redirect, the locker room doors opened, and players began emerging. Austin was among the last, his hair still damp from the shower, his expression lightening when he spotted me.
"There he is," I said, unable to keep the affection from my voice.
Dave's camera clicked again, capturing the moment Austin pulled me into a tight embrace.
"You were incredible," I whispered against his chest. "But don't ever scare me like that again or I'll culture flesh-eating bacteria in your protein shakes."
Austin laughed, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Noted. Ready to go home?"
Home. The word still gave me butterflies.
The next morning, I woke to Austin's phone buzzing incessantly. He groaned, reaching across me to grab it from the nightstand, his body warm and solid against mine.
"Dennis, it's fucking 7 AM on a rest day," he growled into the phone. "This better be—What article?"
I blinked sleepily, curling closer against him, but froze when his entire body tensed.
"Send me the link." His voice had turned to ice. "Now."
"What's wrong?" I asked, fully awake now.
Austin didn't answer, just stared at his phone with a darkening expression. When he finally looked at me, his eyes held a fury I'd never seen before.
"Some asshole wrote a piece about you." He handed me the phone, jaw clenched tight.
The headline made my stomach drop:
STONE COLD: CALLAHAN'S LATEST PUCK BUNNY CLAIMS TO BE SCIENTIST
Below it was the photo from last night—me mid-sentence, gesturing enthusiastically, looking slightly disheveled in Austin's oversized jersey. The caption read: "Callahan's newest conquest tried impressing reporters with scientific jargon while waiting for her hockey boyfriend."
