Chapter Two
Jason
I'm pretty sure I just made a complete ass of myself in front of the one girl on campus who actually seems worth talking to.
Sitting in the locker room after practice, I keep replaying the puck incident over and over in my head like some kind of masochistic highlight reel.
Did I really compare Violet's eyes to my mom's flowers?
What am I, a Victorian poet? Next thing you know, I'll be writing sonnets about her organizational skills and sending them via carrier pigeon.
"Dude, you're grinning like an idiot," Keith says, dropping down on the bench next to me. "Either you had a really good practice, or something happened with a certain equipment manager."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, because admitting that I'm thinking about a girl is basically an open invitation for my teammates to turn into a pack of middle schoolers.
"Right," Tyler chimes in from across the room. "That's why you spent twenty minutes helping her collect pucks instead of, you know, practicing."
"It was five minutes, max," I protest.
"Twenty," Keith corrects. "I timed it. Coach was about ready to make you run suicides."
Great. So not only did I probably come across like a complete weirdo to Violet, but I also managed to piss off Coach Higgins in the process. My NHL dreams are really on track here.
"She seems nice," Tyler continues, pulling his jersey over his head. "Smart, too. Did you see what she did with the equipment room? It's like she applied actual science to our mess."
This is true. Before Violet took over, finding anything in the equipment room was like an archaeological expedition. Now everything has a place, and somehow that place actually makes sense. She even labeled things, which shouldn't be revolutionary but apparently was exactly what we needed.
"Plus," Keith adds with a grin that means trouble, "she's cute. In that smart-girl-who-could-probably-build-a-robot-to-kick-your-ass kind of way."
Also true, though I'd phrase it more like "she's beautiful in that takes-your-breath-away-and-makes-you-forget-how-to-form-coherent-sentences kind of way." But I'm not about to share that particular observation with these two.
"Are you guys seriously gossiping about the equipment manager right now?" I ask, hoping to deflect attention from my obvious interest.
"We're not gossiping," Tyler says innocently. "We're strategizing. Someone needs to ask her out before some business major with a trust fund swoops in."
The thought of Violet dating some preppy finance bro in boat shoes makes my stomach twist in ways that have nothing to do with the protein shake I chugged after practice.
"Maybe she's not interested in dating anyone," I suggest weakly.
Keith and Tyler exchange a look that clearly communicates their opinion of my intelligence.
"Harrison," Keith says slowly, like he's explaining something to a small child, "she was flirting with you. Openly. In front of the entire team."
"That wasn't flirting," I protest. "That was just... friendly conversation."
"Friendly conversation," Tyler repeats. "Right. And I'm just 'friendly teammates' with Coach Higgins."
The truth is, I'm not entirely sure what happened out there on the ice.
One minute I'm running through my usual practice routine, trying to stay sharp in case lightning strikes and I actually get some playing time, and the next I'm watching Violet have what appears to be a small-scale disaster involving escaped pucks.
My first instinct was to help, because that's what decent human beings do. But then she looked up at me with those incredible violet eyes (and yes, I realize how pathetic it is that I've noticed the connection between her name and her eye color), and my brain basically short-circuited.
She was sitting there on the ice, surrounded by scattered pucks, looking frustrated and embarrassed and absolutely gorgeous, and I found myself wanting to do more than just help collect rubber discs.
I wanted to make her laugh, to see that little smile she gets when she's trying not to be amused by something, to figure out what makes her tick beyond her impressive organizational abilities.
The flower comment just slipped out, which is probably the most embarrassing thing I've done since I accidentally called Professor Morris "mom" in thermodynamics last semester.
But instead of looking at me like I'd lost my mind, Violet blushed in this sweet way that made me want to say a dozen more ridiculous things just to see that reaction again.
"I still can't believe Coach called you out like that," Keith continues, apparently determined to torture me with this conversation. "Stop flirting and get back in there. Classic Higgins."
"At least he didn't make you run laps," Tyler points out helpfully.
This is a fair point. Coach Higgins's discipline methods are legendary, and public embarrassment is usually just the appetizer before the main course of physical punishment.
"You should ask her out," Keith says, standing up to grab his street clothes. "Seriously. Life's too short to waste time overthinking."
Easy for him to say. Keith is the kind of guy who's never met a social situation he couldn't handle.
He's got that natural confidence that comes from being really, really good at something and knowing it.
Meanwhile, I'm the guy who's spent three years perfecting the art of warming the bench while maintaining a positive attitude.
Not exactly the kind of resume that screams "catch of the century. "
"I don't know," I say, pulling off my pads. "She's probably way too smart for me anyway. Did you hear her talking about word etymology? Who even knows that stuff?"
"Smart girls are the best girls," Tyler says firmly. "Trust me on this. My sister's a mechanical engineer, and she's scary smart. Also terrifying when she's angry, but that's beside the point."
I've met Tyler's sister exactly once, at a team barbecue last year, and "terrifying" is definitely an accurate description. She spent twenty minutes explaining why the grill setup was inefficient. It was simultaneously impressive and mildly intimidating.
"The point is," Tyler continues, "smart girls appreciate guys who can actually hold a conversation about something other than sports and beer. You're perfect for her."
"Perfect for her," I repeat skeptically. "Right. The third-string goalie who's never seen actual game time is perfect for the brilliant engineering student who could probably run NASA if she felt like it."
"Hey," Keith says, his voice getting serious for a moment. "You're a good goalie, Harrison. Better than good. Higgins's an idiot if he can't see that."
This is the thing about my teammates that makes this whole situation bearable—they've got my back, even when I don't particularly have my own.
Keith and Tyler have both been starters since freshman year, and they've never once made me feel like the charity case third-stringer.
If anything, they've gone out of their way to include me in everything, from team dinners to late-night study sessions to whatever social events we get invited to.
Which, to be honest, isn't that many. Being a third-string anything doesn't exactly make you the life of the party.
"Plus," Tyler adds, "Violet obviously sees something in you. She was watching you practice before the whole puck situation happened."
"She was watching practice," I correct. "It's literally her job to watch practice."
"She was watching you specifically," Keith clarifies. "I noticed because she kept timing her equipment checks to when you were in goal."
My heart does this stupid little skip at the thought that Violet might have been paying attention to me specifically, but I try to play it cool. "You guys are reading way too much into this."
"Are we?" Tyler grins. "Because I'm pretty sure she knows your practice schedule better than you do."
Actually, now that I think about it, Violet does seem to show up right around the time I usually take my turn in goal.
And she always finds something to organize or repair nearby, close enough to have a clear view of the net but far enough away to not be obvious about it.
Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part.
The truth is, I've been noticing Violet since her first day on the job two weeks ago. It's hard not to notice someone who transforms messes into order. But it's more than just her competence that caught my attention.
There's something about the way she approaches problems—methodical, creative, completely unintimidated by challenges that would send most people running for the hills.
Like when she spent an entire afternoon figuring out why the helmet sanitizer wasn't working properly, taking the whole machine apart and rebuilding it until it ran better than new.
Or the way she handles the players' endless equipment requests with this perfect balance of professionalism and barely concealed amusement. She's never condescending, never impatient, but you can tell she's mentally categorizing our various neuroses and equipment superstitions for future reference.
"Look," Keith says, interrupting my internal Violet appreciation session, "all I'm saying is that life's short, and opportunities don't come along that often. You like her, she obviously likes you, and you're both smart enough to figure out the rest."
"What if I mess it up?" I ask, voicing the fear that's been nagging at me since the moment I opened my mouth about flower comparisons. "What if I ask her out and it ruins whatever... friendship we might have?"
"What if you don't ask her out and spend the next two years wondering what might have happened?" Tyler counters.
"Besides," Keith adds, "you're not going to mess it up. You're a good guy, Harrison. Stop selling yourself short."
Easy for him to say. Keith has never had to watch his dreams from the sidelines while everyone else gets to live theirs.
Don't get me wrong—I'm not bitter about my position on the team.
I knew coming into college that making varsity as a walk-on was a long shot, and getting any scholarship money at all was basically winning the lottery.
But sometimes, usually late at night when I can't sleep, I wonder what might have happened if I'd gotten the chances that Keith and Tyler have had. If Coach Higgins saw what I could do with real game time instead of just practice sessions.
Then I remember that feeling sorry for myself isn't going to change anything, and I try to focus on the positives. Like the fact that I'm part of a great team, getting a solid education, and apparently catching the attention of the most interesting girl I've ever met.
"You know what?" I say, making a decision that's probably either really smart or completely stupid. "You guys are right. I should ask her out."
"Yes!" Tyler pumps his fist in celebration. "Finally!"
"But," I continue, "I need to do it right. Not just 'hey, want to grab dinner sometime.' Something that shows I've actually thought about it."
"Good plan," Keith nods approvingly. "What did you have in mind?"
Honestly, I have no idea. My dating experience consists mainly of a few casual coffee dates that never went anywhere and one disastrous attempt at a formal dinner that ended with me spilling wine on my date's dress.
Not exactly a track record that inspires confidence.
But Violet's different. She deserves better than my usual bumbling approach to romance.
"I'll think of something," I say, hoping that's actually true. "Give me a few days to come up with a plan."
"Don't overthink it," Tyler warns. "Girls like Violet appreciate sincerity more than grand gestures."
As we finish getting changed and head out of the locker room, I can't stop thinking about what Tyler said.
Sincerity. The thing is, being sincere with Violet feels both natural and terrifying.
Natural because she's easy to talk to, genuinely interesting, and seems to actually care about my answers when she asks how I'm doing.
Terrifying because sincerity means vulnerability, and vulnerability means the possibility of getting hurt.
Before I leave the rink, I write down her number from the team contact list then remember the way Violet looked at me today when she said I was better than I gave myself credit for. Like she really meant it and saw something in me that maybe I don't even see in myself.
And for the first time in three years, I start to think that maybe being the third-string goalie isn't the worst thing that could happen to me.
After all, if I'd been starting, I probably would have been too busy with games and press interviews to notice the brilliant, beautiful girl who's been quietly making my life better just by being in it.