Page 36 of Spiral
What he meant by that was I needed to be on standby in case Jackson’s job got in the way. I didn’t know how the three of us in the house worked, but we did. Jackson was a good guy—an annoying bastard, but a good guy. He loved Oli, and both Oli and the girls came before everything—but he didn’t have control over his work life the same as Oli and I did.
“I’m around if he needs me,” I said with a grin, turning off the tap and drying my hands. As I wiped down the last of the counters, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment with the life I was building here. Oli was looking for a new place, something to buy instead of renting, something bigger, and it didn’t escape my notice that he was checking out places with more than one building on the property. He wanted me to stay, as his best friend, for the girls, and I was totally good with all of that. Happy. Add in this new thing with Craig—this love—and I was just about as happy as I’d ever been. Despite the chaos of a messy breakfast and the mundane cleaning task, my heart felt surprisingly light. Being here with my best friend, my girls, in love with Craig and thinking about him in even the smallest, most ordinary moments—it all made sense.
As if being happy was the most natural thing in the world.
With the kitchen tidied, I headed into the office. The space was half filled with boxes Oli had never unpacked, but I knew what was in them—pucks, photos, jerseys, all ready to decorate the walls of his study in his forever home. I squeezed past them and sat behind the desk, wondering if Craig had a similar collection. First goal, first hat trick, and jerseys from when he was a kid. Maybe he would have memorabilia from when he was a figure skater? I’d watched every single clip of him online, most of them shaky home videos from his parents and trainer, but it was the more recent videos that made me warm, and I pulled out a notebook, ready to take notes. I needed to do the same thing for Ian’s football games and Annabelle’s floor exercises, but yeah, I was obsessed with Craig.
Biased even.
Something I’d need to get a handle on. Otherwise, my data would be skewed.
But I’d do all that after I rewatched an old hockey clip onYouTube—highlights from a classic match where the Stormfaced off against the New York Nighthawks. This particular game held a special significance for me, not just because it featured both Craig and Oli, back when Oli was still with the Nighthawks, but because this was Craig’s first career hat trick, and watching him move was mesmerizing.
The game had been fierce, but Craig brought his unique flair to the game that often left traditional players like Oli grappling to keep up. His agility and finesse had been on full display that night, making him a formidable opponent even for someone as seasoned as Oli.
One moment, in particular, always stood out vividly, and it was hotter now I knew what he was like in bed. God, his confidence and competence had me so hard I could cut steel. Craig had the puck, and he was barreling toward the goal with a Nighthawk defender on his tail. Oli was in position, his stance wide, ready to intercept him. But Craig was a whirlwind on skates—his figure skating prowess shining through as he executed a perfect pirouette that bypassed Oli and left my best friend momentarily disoriented.
After spinning past Oli, Craig skated along the barrier right before the Nighthawks’ bench. It was a bold, almost taunting action, his control complete as he glided effortlessly, the puck still at the tip of his stick. The crowd in the recording roared with delight, a sound that brought a smile to my face. Watching him so in control, so full of life and power on the ice, was so fucking hot.
Oli’s reaction was a typical mix of frustration and reluctant respect, the latter I knew because he’d mentioned it to me once, laughing over beers about how Craig had run rings around him that night. It was funny to think of them now, teammates and friends, when they had once been adversaries on the ice.
The video was only a recording, a moment in time, yet it felt alive to me, infused with the energy and passion of thegame, and that damn sexy spiral he’d used to get away from the defense.
Turning off the video, I leaned back, lost in thought about my research and what was next.
I lasted about ten minutes of academic thinking and then watched the video again.
Just once.
Well, twice, but no one was here to accuse me of shirking my responsibilities to my study.
And who the hell would comment if I happened to have it on repeat as I worked?
No one, that’s who.
The first call, a harried request for help from Jackson, came in at two. He was heading into an interview room and wasn’t sure when he’d be out. I set an alarm to pick up the girls and was nearly done with figuring out why my phone wasn’t using a twenty-four-hour clock, when the damn thing rung again. Jackson again, telling me he was going to be half an hour later than the first time he gave me and not to forget.
“I won’t forget!” I muttered. I’d never shirked my responsibility to the girls, and I’d been doing it way longer than him.
When the phone rang a third time I flicked the call up and put it on loudspeaker.
“I said I’m on it, arsehole. Stop checking up on me.”
Silence, then the sound of someone who was decidedly not Jackson, clearing their throat. I glanced at the screen and my heart fell. Barbara Millstone from the University Grants Commission, and I’d just called her, or Jackson anyway, an arsehole.
“Umm, Dr. Hennessy?” she said with caution.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Sorry, I thought you were someone else. Sorry.” I apologized twice—I mean, a man can never apologize enough, right?
“Okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound warm, and my chest got all squirrelly then tight. “I’ve had some feedback on the initial reports you submitted, and a couple of the board have some concerns.”
Concerns? Already? All they’d had so far was my initial groundwork, hypothesis, and background. I’d covered every base, analyzed the potential income that could be generated by my study should they choose to sell it on to teams. Only last season, a football team in Montana had paid out seventeen million to a company for how they could optimize grass for god’s sake. My research was bigger than that.
More than that.
“Okay…” I prompted.
