Page 50 of Cold as Ice

It was statistics, which, even with Mal’s tutoring, was something he was never going to be good at and definitely never going to like.

Dr. Prosser went on to the next slide, explaining in detail how to solve the problem in a slow monotone that more often than not made Elliott want to fall asleep.

Still, he’d been astonished, that first test, at the F scrawled across the top.

Math wasn’t his strong suit, but he’d also never sucked at it. And despite the fact that nobody assumed student-athletes would carry their weight in class, Elliottmostlytried to stay up on his homework and reading.

Sure, he prioritized the stuff he enjoyed, like reading for one of his lit classes, but he did keep up with stats—and hadn’t understood how he could be flunking.

He wasn’t the best at math, but Elliott had still expected better.

The two times he’d shown up for Dr. Prosser’s office hours, to ask how he could improve his grades before Coach B had intervened, she’d been unavailable and the second time she’d claimed she had to step out for a last-minute errand. She’d promised to email him, but hadn’t.

Elliott was pretty sure she just had a problem with athletes. But then, if that was why, shouldn’t Malcolm have done worse in her class?

Of course, Malcolm was Malcolm.

Elliott shifted in his seat and tried to pay attention.

AKA tried not to think about Mal.

But it was harder even than normal because Malcolm and statistics had gotten tangled together in his head, and it felt like he couldn’t untangle them even if he’d wanted to.

Dr. Prosser continued droning about standard deviation and the more complicated forms of calculating it, and what different real-world applications they could have.

The only real-world applications Elliott had for statistics were for how they were calculated when he was in the pros, hockey becoming his primary career. But then, he hedged, that was probably why so many professors hated athletes. They weren’t even willing to pretend interest. Or that this wasn’t a massive waste of their time.

Elliott surreptitiously pulled his phone out of his pocket. Typed out a quick message.

This class would be a lot more fun if we could calculate everything with hockey stats.

Elliott didn’t expect Mal to respond right away—or frankly, at all.

Unlike the rest of the guys on the team, Mal took school incredibly seriously. Probably because he’d long declared that instead of pro hockey being the end result, it was only a stepping stone for him. Mal wanted to end up managing an NHL team. Making all the personnel and player decisions.

Making his club—and himself—a hell of a lot of money, probably.

Did Elliott think it was a fucking waste, with how well Mal played?

Hell yes.

But that decision wasn’t up to him.

To Elliott’s surprise, his phone buzzed.

Are you texting? During class?

Elliott rolled his eyes.

Yes, Dad. You caught me.

He was sure that would be it—Mal was painfully uptight about this kind of thing. Frankly, about alotof things.

But, a response appeared on his screen a moment later.If I was your father, I’d definitely let you know how inappropriate I found it.

Of course he would. This was standard Malcolm McCoy behavior. But there was something more to it, too. Almost a hint of flirtation, buried underneath all that proper, icy behavior. And Elliott had never been good at leaving well enough alone.

You gonna spank me, then?

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