Play Your Way To My Heart

Evie By the time Callum Reid was fifteen minutes late, I had imagined three different ways of murdering him. Nothing elaborate. Nothing that would require a criminal lawyer, which would be particularly unfortunate considering I was studying at Kingston Lakes University and knew at least four people who would happily lecture me about the Canadian Criminal Code before helping me hide a body. I was thinking more along the lines of throwing a hockey puck at his head. Accidentally, of course. I checked my phone. 4:15 p.m. Still no Callum. I'd sent him a message twenty minutes earlier explaining that I was waiting in the small room beside the main rink at North Arena. Delivered. Not read. Unbelievable. I'd spent my Sunday afternoon preparing for this session, printing consent forms, reviewing my questions, and packing enough stationery to supply a small primary school. This study mattered. A strong performance could help with postgraduate recommendations, and I needed every opportunity I could get. My scholarship covered most of my tuition, but textbooks, transport, and food still had a way of draining my bank account before the month was halfway through. I couldn't afford to take this project lightly. Apparently, my assigned athlete could. I glanced towards the narrow window in the door. My reflection stared back at me: ginger-coloured hair twisted into a messy bun, brown eyes behind thick-framed glasses, and dark circles that looked even worse against my pale skin. I looked exhausted. Which was fair. I'd spent the week surviving on too little sleep, too much coffee, and the kind of determination that made people tell you to relax when what you really needed was money and an extra six hours in the day. My phone vibrated. Naomi: So? How's your first day with the hockey boys? Naomi: Anybody made you so wet you felt like touching yourself just by looking at his face? I stared at the second message before laughing. Naomi had absolutely no shame. Me: One of them is fifteen minutes late. Naomi: Is he cute, though? Me: I haven't met him. Naomi: You've had fifteen minutes to imagine his entire personality. Me: I've imagined pushing him into the ice. Naomi: That's not a no. I shook my head, smiling. I wasn't interested in dating anyone. Between classes, research, and trying to keep my finances from becoming a disaster, romance felt like an expensive hobby. Which was funny, considering how often my mind wandered towards s*x. I had fantasies and needs, and I wasn't opposed to a little pleasure when life allowed it. But wanting someone was different from wanting the complications that came with letting them into your life. Besides, I had standards. I wanted someone who respected my time and didn't expect applause for doing the bare minimum. A man who arrived late to our first meeting wasn't making a promising start. The door swung open. I looked up, ready to explain that our scheduled time had passed and I had other things to do. Then I forgot what I was going to say. He was tall, with broad shoulders and the kind of effortless confidence that made it seem as though he belonged wherever he stood. His black hockey trousers were damp around the knees, and his dark training shirt clung to his chest. A towel hung around his neck, his equipment bag rested on one shoulder, and wet hair fell messily across his forehead. My gaze travelled down before I could stop it. The fit of his trousers did nothing to help my concentration. I dragged my eyes back to his face. Jesus, Evie. His eyes met mine. He glanced at the clock. "Oh." I waited. "You're Evie?" "That depends. Are you Callum?" His mouth twitched. "Depends what you've heard." I should have disliked him immediately. Instead, I noticed the small crease beside his mouth when he smiled, which irritated me almost as much as his lateness. "You're late." "Practice ran over." "You could have sent a message." He checked his phone. "Sorry. I didn't check it." "Well, you're here now." "See? We're already making progress." I looked down at my papers before he could see my expression. God help me. He dropped his bag beside the chair opposite mine and surveyed the forms. "What is all this?" "The study materials." He picked up a sheet, then another. "Wow. How many questions are there?" "That depends on which section we're discussing." He looked up. I looked back. "Okay," he said. "So this is going to be one of those sessions." "What does that mean?" "Nothing." "Then why did you say it?" He tilted his head, amusement flickering across his face. "Do you always ask this many questions?" "Only when people keep saying things that don't make sense." His smile widened. Two more people appeared in the doorway. "Reid! You coming or what?" one called. "Give me a minute." The guy behind him spotted me and grinned. "Oh, this is her?" I frowned. This is her? Callum gave him a warning look. "Go away, Mason." Mason ignored him and stepped inside. He had short hair, broad shoulders, and the sort of friendly face that probably got him out of trouble more often than it should have. "I'm Mason," he said, holding out a hand. "Teammate, best friend, occasional babysitter." "Evie." "Nice to meet you." He glanced at Callum. "He's been talking about this study all morning." "I have not," Callum said. "You asked whether the questions would be difficult. And whether the researcher would be hot." My head snapped up. Callum closed his eyes. "Mason." Heat crept into my cheeks. I hadn't expected to become a topic of conversation before meeting the man. Mason looked delighted. "Good luck, Evie." He disappeared, leaving Callum to pick up the first form. "So, am I being interrogated or what?" I blinked. "Excuse me?" He waved the paper. "All these questions. Feels like I'm about to confess to something." "It's a research study, Callum. Not a police interview." "That's reassuring." "Nobody's going to arrest you for ticking the wrong box." He laughed, and I looked away before I could decide whether I liked the sound. "First, read the participant information sheet. It explains the study, what you'll be asked to do, and how your information will be handled. Participation is voluntary, and you can withdraw if you change your mind." He looked at me properly. "Okay." The simple answer caught me off guard. I nodded towards the form. "You can start there." He read through the information while I arranged the next set of papers. To my surprise, he took it seriously, pausing to ask sensible questions about confidentiality. Then he frowned at one of the forms. "What's this asking? Previous experience with formal decision-making assessments?" "Have you participated in an assessment designed to measure your decision-making?" "Does a penalty shootout count?" "Not unless someone was formally assessing your decisions." "So, no?" "So, no." He marked the box. "You're trying to find out how my brain works, then?" "Not exactly. If I could work out how someone's entire brain works from a few questionnaires, I'd probably be getting paid a lot more than I am now." He laughed. I smiled before I could stop myself. "There it is," he said. I straightened my face. "What?" "You smiled." "No, I didn't." "Okay." "I didn't." He held up his hands. "I believe you." He absolutely did not. We continued through the paperwork until I noticed something missing from his intake form. "Callum? You missed your date of birth and the emergency contact section." He leaned over to inspect the page. "Huh." I waited. He picked up his pen. I waited a little longer. "You could just tell me what I'm missing instead of looking at me like that," he said. "Like what?" "Like I've personally disappointed you." I let out a disbelieving laugh. "I've known you for about twenty minutes." "Exactly. And I've already managed to disappoint you." Annoyingly, he had a point. "Please complete the form." He did, making a show of reading every question as though I'd handed him an examination paper. When he pushed it towards me, every section was complete. I felt an unreasonable amount of satisfaction. "Thank you." "You're welcome." He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder, but lingered beside the table. "So, are you always this serious?" I kept my attention on the papers. "Are you always this late?" He laughed under his breath. "Fair enough." "Next time, try arriving on time." "Next time, I'll try." "Try harder." He smiled as he walked out. I watched the door close behind him for a second before returning to my laptop. A few minutes later, Dr. Bennett walked in. "How did it go?" I gave her a look. She smiled. "That bad?" "He arrived seventeen minutes late." "Callum has always had a complicated relationship with punctuality." "Does he?" "Among other things." Before I could ask what that meant, she placed a folder on the table. "There's something I wanted to discuss before you schedule the next sessions. Callum will be your assigned athlete for the longitudinal part of the project." I looked up. "My assigned what?" "Your assigned athlete. You'll conduct the scheduled assessments and follow-up interviews, then compare his responses throughout the study." I stared at her. "Throughout the entire project?" "Yes." "With Callum?" "That's right." I looked towards the door he'd disappeared through, still smiling as though he'd had a perfectly pleasant afternoon. "Oh, you're kidding." Dr. Bennett laughed. "It's a good opportunity, Evie. He's an experienced varsity athlete, and his schedule works well with the study." "But he doesn't take anything seriously." "You've had one session." "One very long session." "Give him a chance." I sank back into my chair. Of course. Apparently, the universe had looked at my carefully organised semester and decided I needed a little character development. After Dr. Bennett left, I opened the folder. Callum Reid. Twenty-two years old. Fourth-year student. Varsity hockey centre. His attached photograph showed him in his team jersey, hair neatly styled and expression serious. He looked nothing like the boy who'd sat across from me making jokes about my paperwork. I studied it for a moment, then shut the folder. "No," I whispered. "Absolutely not." My phone vibrated. Naomi: Update. Did you meet him? Me: Yes. Naomi: And? I looked at the closed folder. Me: He's annoying. Naomi: Cute-annoying or actually-annoying? I thought about his smile and the way he'd looked at me when I'd smiled at something he said. Me: Actually annoying. I put my phone away before she could ask anything else. Outside, the sound of skates scraping against ice rose through the walls. Somewhere down the corridor, a group of hockey players burst into laughter. I didn't need to look to know Callum was probably among them. I'd come to North Arena expecting to study how athletes made decisions under pressure. I hadn't expected my first difficult decision to be whether I could tolerate Callum Reid for the next several months. And the truly unfortunate thing? A small, inconvenient part of me was already looking forward to finding out.