Page 83 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
The realization hit me like a crosscheck I hadn't braced for. Just as Kate and I were finding our rhythm, building something real, my career was threatening to pull us apart.
"I need to talk to Kate," I muttered, already reaching for my phone.
"Before you do anything rash," Tom cautioned, "remember that this deal could set you up for post-hockey opportunities. Think long-term."
I did think long-term. But increasingly, my vision of the future included Kate—her chaotic energy, her brilliant mind, her body wrapped around mine at night. And no endorsement deal seemed worth risking that.
When I unlocked the door to our apartment—and yes, I'd started thinking of it asours, even though Kate's name wasn't on the lease—I heard her voice before I saw her.
"Yes, Dad, he does read actual books. No, not just playbooks."
I followed the sound to the living room, where Kate sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on her knees. Her hair was piled in that messy bun I loved, and she wore my Blizzard t-shirt over leggings. On her screen, I could make out two older faces peering back at her with identical expressions of academic skepticism.
"He's extremely intelligent, just in different ways than we measure in academia," Kate continued, not noticing me yet. "His spatial awareness and strategic thinking are off the charts. You should see how he breaks down game footage—it's like watching you analyze research methodologies."
My chest tightened at Kate's words. She was defending me to her parents—not my hockey skills or career accomplishments, but my intelligence. My worth beyond the ice.
"And what about this media attention?" a stern male voice asked. "These photos of you two are circulating in scientific circles now. Dr. Ramirez mentioned seeing you in some sports tabloid."
"That was an unfortunate misunderstanding that we've addressed," Kate replied, her tone remarkably patient. "Besides, Mom, didn't you always say science needs better public ambassadors? I'm reaching audiences that would never read a microbiology journal."
I leaned against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt but unable to stop watching. Kate tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture I now recognized as her gathering patience.
"We're just concerned about distractions," her mother said. "Your research is at a critical juncture?—"
"And I'm handling it," Kate interjected firmly. "Austin actually helps with my focus. He's the most disciplined person I've ever met, Mom. Yesterday he organized our refrigerator contents by nutritional value and expiration date."
I winced. Not my most manly moment to highlight.
"He approaches his recovery and training with the same rigor you apply to peer review. Different subject matter, identical methodology." Kate smiled softly. "Plus, he makes me laugh,which statistically correlates with increased cognitive function and creativity. I have the journal articles to prove it."
I must have made some involuntary sound, because Kate's head whipped around. Her expression transformed from exasperation to delight when she spotted me.
"Speaking of the man himself," she announced to her parents. "I've got to go. Love you both, talk soon!"
She ended the call before they could protest, closing her laptop with finality.
"How much of that did you hear?" she asked, pushing off the couch and walking toward me.
"Enough to know your parents think you're dating several standard deviations below your potential."
Kate rolled her eyes as she wrapped her arms around my waist. "They're academics. Overthinking things is their favorite pasttime."
I kissed her forehead, inhaling the vanilla scent of her shampoo. "You didn't have to defend me to them."
"Yes, I did. Because they're wrong, and I'm a scientist committed to facts." She tilted her face up, kissing me properly. "Besides, wait until they discover that beneath that stoic hockey exterior beats the heart of a closeted math nerd who calculates shooting angles in his head."
I laughed despite myself. "Statistical analysis of game situations is not the same as being a math nerd."
"Keep telling yourself that, Callahan." Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of my neck. "How was your day with the media vultures?"
I hesitated, reluctant to break our moment. But we'd promised each other honesty, even when it was difficult.
"The Rime deal is finalized," I said, guiding her back to the couch. "It's good money, but there are... complications."
Kate listened intently as I outlined the travel commitments, the agency's concerns about her not fitting the "hockey girlfriend mold," and my own worries about what this would mean for us. As I spoke, her expression shifted from curiosity to concern to a tightly controlled anger.
"So basically," she summarized when I finished, "your agent thinks I'm too smart and not decorative enough for your brand image, and we'll barely see each other for months."
