Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“One thing I did note tonight was the relationship between personality and performance—”
“I hope you don’t take offense to this, but you don’t really seem to get people, so how the hell were you a psych major?”
“I like psych because I don’t understand people. I don’t understand their motivations and how seemingly similar people can react in completely different ways to the same stimulus. So I study. A lot. I had some units from neuroscience that cross listed, and—”
“Neuroscience? Why did you give that up?” He smirks. “Too hard?”
I scowl. “Too easy. It’s systematic. When it comes to understanding people, I really have to try. And the most fascinating thing about it is you can have a very stereotypical subject in front of you who doesn’t meet any of the basic criteria that stereotype portrays. They’re the ones I find most confusing. Because how can someone embody a perfect image but think differently than how all the textbooks say they’re supposed to?”
Foster averts his gaze. “Interesting. So, what? You wanna become a psychologist or something?”
“God no. I’d be terrible. I want to get my doctorate then go into social psychology which is all focused on research.”
“Huh.” He looks around. “Why is your room so empty?”
I blink at the sudden subject change. “What?”
Foster looks around, his normally disarming brown eyes studying the bare walls. “Your room at UVM was the same.”
“How do you know—”
“Met Seth there a handful of times.” He turns his attention back to me and the second our eyes meet, I hurry to look away. “You don’t have anything personal?”
I shift a photo of me and Seth from behind my laptop. “I have this.”
He stares at it for a moment, and nothing about his expression gives him away, but it makes me wish I’d kept the photo to myself. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t have that printed yourself?”
“Seth did it.”
“Thought so. Is that all you have? Where are your books?”
I tap my phone screen.
“One photo. Well, at least I know you’re not a hoarder.”
“Do you have any other questions, or can we return to sports psychology now?” My cheeks are starting to become uncomfortably hot, so I place my pizza on a napkin and quickly turn to my desk so he can’t see.
“I think you’re approaching it the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you understand the team, right? There’s one goal—to win. But you’re then trying to work out each person as a whole when we’re all different. Yeah, we all want to win, but maybe one teammate wants to win so their parents will get off their back, but another teammate wants the glory.”
“Why do you want to win?”
“To earn my place in the NHL.”
My eyebrows jump up. “You think you’re good enough?”
“Should I be offended?” he shoots back.
“I … what?”
“You don’t think I’m good enough.”
I twist back to face him. “What … no. I didn’t say that.”
“The disbelief in your voice did.”
Disbelief? Once again, I’m completely confused about how I’ve ended up in a conversation with an annoyed jock, and considering how it ended up the last time … I hurry to shake my head. “Not disbelief, curiosity. Most people underestimate their skills. It was interesting to me that you sounded self-assured.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s not that you shouldn’t …” Oh sweet Jesus, I need to abort this conversation. “So, if each person has their own motivations for reaching the common goal, how do those motivations impact the team?” My voice is getting louder. “The zone of optimal functioning theory seems the most appropriate in light of your—”
“Zach.”
“Which would mean each person functions best at an individualized state of stress and arousal, but if that’s the case, how do you get those separate entities to work cohesively?”
“Zach.”
“What do you think your optimal state of stress and arousal is?”
Foster’s eyes are wide, and he looks torn between laughing and … well, something that’s not laughing but seems equally offensive. “I think I might have just found it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind. Look, I think we should put a pin in it tonight. Think about practice, but try to narrow it down to how each person behaved out there, rather than looking at the team as a whole.”
I scowl. “Well, that’s not going to work.”
“Why?”
“Because I was only paying attention to you.”
That shuts him up—for approximately a second—before he smirks, and the sharp tug that cocky smile creates deep in my gut cannot be healthy. “Maybe that’s why you got nothing from practice?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were too distracted by my awesomeness.”
That’s … actually a fair theory. Because while I might not have learned anything about hockey or team mentality, I did learn something about myself.
I am certainly not immune to the alpha male effect.
The primitive aggression, the smooth athleticism, the peacocking attitude …
I’d never understood how those could be prized behaviors until I discovered how incredibly, well, hot they were to observe.