Page 10 of Spiral
“That sounds… promising, Dr. Hennessy,” she finally said, her tone shifting from skeptical to intrigued. “I will need a detailed outline of this proposal on my desk by midday on Friday. Can you manage that?”
I glanced at the calendar. I only had a few days to frame a hypothetical research application into a compelling grant proposal. “Yes, I can do that,” I responded, a mixture of dread and excitement swirling within me.
“Very well,” Ms. Millstone said. “We’ll look forward to it. Good day, Dr. Hennessy.”
As I hung up, the challenge sparked something—an eagerness, a purpose, and a reason to talk to the Storm, AKA Craig mostly, and maybe turn the debacle of our sexual encounter into something like a date. I turned back to the video of Craig; his movements were now a display of athletic prowess and a dance of numbers and possibilities. I could save my research with this new angle and add a new dimension.
I scrambled off my bed and threw the door open, stumbling down to the office Oli had given me free rein to use. I fell so hard into the chair that it rolled backward. Signing in took too long, but finally, I had all my research sources up and an empty document to start typing.
“Dynamic Patterns and Predictive Models: Integrating the Fibonacci Spiral and Chaos Theory in Sports Performance Optimization,” I said as I typed, then backspaced a few times to ensure I was happy. I’d need to gather data, and I probably needed a football player, one of those with the funny-shaped balls like our rugby, who threw them a long way when they were spinning. Maybe a gymnast, and I needed a hockey player, maybe one who did spirals on the ice.
Hell. Who was I kidding?
This was me making plans to talk to Craig and get a date.
The coach’soffice was cramped and cluttered. It was a small space dominated by a large, worn desk littered with play diagrams and performance reports. A whiteboard on one wall was packed with tactical notes and team rosters in various dry-erase markers. The air smelled of old coffee and the faint musk of sweat—a scent that seemed embedded into the very fabric of the place.
I sat in one of the two squeaky chairs opposite the couch, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to stop them from trembling. Coach stared across at me with a mix of curiosity and impatience, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. I’d already talked to team management, and they’d fobbed me off with a coach who, they said, would understand way more about my work than they did.
“So, what is this about, Dr. Hennessy?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, which creaked under his weight.
“Please call me Jamie,” I said, then I cleared my throat, aware the explanation I had prepared might not bridge the gap between mathematical theory and ice hockey directly enough for him. “My research concerns the application of mathematical patterns—specifically, the Fibonacci spiral—and their manifestation in strategic plays in hockey. By analyzing the natural spiraling movements that players naturally employ during games, we can potentially enhance predictive modeling and training methods,” I explained, my voice steady despite my inner tremor. “I suggested Craig Beaulieu because of his figure skating experience as a child, but I understand if he’s not interested in working with me.”
Coach Daniels stared at me, his expression unreadable for a long moment, and I wondered if he was seeing through the lie. Then, without a word, he blinked, his face settling into stunned confusion. “You lost me, but I’m a stats man, and if it helps the team, I’m all ears.”
There was a knock, and the door opened, and Craig stepped in. He was dressed in his practice gear, a towel draped around his neck. His presence suddenly filled the small room, andawkward tension hovered between us—unspoken and heavy with the memory of that night.
“You wanted to see me, Coach?” Craig asked, frowning. His eyes flicked briefly to mine before settling back on him. He was stiff and seemed worried, but I guess this was like being called into a principal’s office. Maybe he thought he was in trouble.
Oh shit! Did he think I was in here talking about the sex? I shook my head at him, and his frown deepened. Did I say something? Did I reassure him before he started defending what we did and?—
“Jamie here was just telling me about some… math stuff. Spirals in hockey or something,” Coach said, waving a hand vaguely in my direction. He turned to Craig. “I’m getting coffee, and I’ll let him explain it to you directly.”
Craig nodded, shifting his gaze back to me. His eyebrows raised in silent invitation to continue as soon as Coach ambled off.
“This wasn’t about the sex,” I exclaimed.
Craig winced, his gaze not meeting mine for a moment. “Okay, and?”
“We can forget about the sex; I mean, I don’t want to because it was delicious, and your cock was perfect and… shit…” I placed a hand over my mouth as Craig’s lips twitched. “Focus, Jamie,” I muttered, then took a deep breath. “Craig, I’m working on a research project that involves the application of the Fibonacci sequence and chaos theory in sports. Specifically, I believe that your on-ice movements, particularly your skating patterns that echo your childhood training as a figure skater, could provide valuable data for predictive analytics in sports training,” I tried to sound as confident as possible.
Craig listened, his expression thoughtful. “Okay… and what do you need from me?”
“About ten hours of your time spread out according to what suits your schedule. I want to record some of your practice sessions, talk about your figure skating past, and possibly discuss your experiences and thoughts about your movements and decisions during games.”
Craig considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly. “You just want to watch?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t have to write anything, study, or…”
“Nope.”
“Okay, then. Let me know the dates and times, and we’ll sort it out,” Craig replied, standing as if he were going to leave.
“Can I have your number?” I blurted, and he stared at me. “For fixing dates and things.”
“Ask Oli to add you to our chat or a new chat.”
