Page 54 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“I figured science breakthroughs require fuel.” He watched me eat with an intensity that made my skin tingle. “How long before this compound becomes something real? Like a medication?”
“Years, probably. Clinical trials, FDA approvals, manufacturing scale-up.” I sighed. “The system moves like a glacier. Sometimes I wish?—”
“That you could help people faster,” he finished for me. “I get that.”
I set down my fork, suddenly curious. “You never told me about your pre-game rituals. I bet you have some, don’t you?”
Austin’s expression shifted, almost embarrassed. “What makes you think that?”
“Please. You alphabetize your spices and organize your protein powder by consumption time. You definitely have game-day superstitions.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I’d come to recognize as his tell when he felt exposed. “It’s stupid.”
“Tell me anyway,” I urged, genuinely interested in this glimpse into his world.
“I have to tape my stick exactly two hours before game time,” he admitted. “Left to right, starting from the heel. Same pattern every time.”
“That’s not so weird.”
“I also wear the same pair of socks for every home game,” he continued. “I wash them, but they have to be those specific socks.”
I grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What else?”
“I eat the same meal: grilled chicken, brown rice, steamed vegetables. Four hours before puck drop. If the game goes to overtime, I blame any deviation from the routine.”
“That’s adorably irrational for someone so logical about everything else,” I teased.
“Says the scientist who names her bacterial cultures after TV characters.”
“They have personalities!” I protested. “Dwight is particularly aggressive, while Jim is more laid-back but equally effective.”
Austin laughed, the sound warming me from the inside. “We’re both weird in our own ways, aren’t we?”
“Complementary weirdness,” I agreed, finishing the last of my pasta. “It works.”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted our moment, startling us both.
“Are you expecting someone?” Austin asked, glancing at his watch with a frown.
“At midnight? Definitely not.” I stood, setting my empty plate on the coffee table.
The knocking came again, more insistent this time. I padded across the apartment with Austin following close behind, his body language subtly protective in a way that made my heart flutter despite the confusion.
I peered through the peephole and gasped. “Dr. Chen? What the hell?”
I swung the door open to find my colleague, James Chen, standing there with a metal container tucked under his arm and a triumphant expression on his face.
“Kate! I knew you’d still be up,” he said, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation. “I synthesized that recombinant plasmid you were asking about—the one with the modified restriction sites? I figured you’d want it right away for your resistance project.”
James finally noticed Austin standing behind me, his lab enthusiasm momentarily derailed. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t realizeyou had...company.” He extended his hand. “Dr. James Chen, microbiology.”
“Austin Callahan,” Austin replied simply, shaking James’s hand with what appeared to be extra firmness.
“Wait, Callahan? The hockey player?” James’s eyebrows rose. “Kate, you never mentioned?—”
“James, it’s midnight,” I interrupted, both embarrassed and slightly annoyed. “Why are you delivering research materials to my home address?”
“You mentioned needing it ASAP in your email,” he said, blinking owlishly behind his designer glasses. “And after I saw your preliminary results in the shared drive—brilliant work, by the way—I knew this would help you take it to the next level. The methylation patterns on this construct should inhibit the horizontal gene transfer you’re targeting.”
