Chapter Fourteen
Violet
I'm trying to focus on heat transfer equations instead of the way Jason looked at me this morning when he said he loved me. It's been three hours since I left his room, and I still feel like I'm glowing from the inside out.
"You're smiling at your textbook," Sage observes from her desk, where she's surrounded by psychology notes. "That's either really concerning or really good news."
"Maybe both," I admit, closing the book because I'm clearly not absorbing any information about thermal conductivity. "I think I understand now why people write songs about this feeling."
"This feeling?"
"Being completely, ridiculously in love with someone who loves you back."
Sage grins. "So the relationship strategies are working?"
"Better than I projected," I say, which makes her laugh. "Though I think we've moved into uncharted territory."
"The best relationships usually do," Sage says. "Sometimes you have to stop analyzing and just trust the process."
I'm about to respond when there's a knock on our door. Sage and I exchange glances—it's not quite noon on a Saturday, and neither of us is expecting anyone.
When I open the door, Madison is standing in the hallway, wearing a perfectly coordinated outfit and an expression that I can't quite read.
"Hi, Violet," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Could we talk for a minute?"
"Um," I glance back at Sage, who's watching with obvious curiosity. "Sure. What about?"
"It's kind of personal," Madison says, shooting a meaningful look at Sage. "Maybe we could step outside?"
Every instinct I have is telling me this conversation isn't going to be pleasant, but I follow her into the hallway anyway.
"What's going on?" I ask once we're alone.
Madison takes a deep breath, like she's preparing for something difficult. "Look, I really debated whether to tell you this, but if I were in your position, I'd want to know."
My stomach starts to twist. "Know what?"
"About Jason's opportunity," she says gently. "The professional hockey thing."
I stare at her for a moment, trying to process what she just said. "What professional hockey thing?"
Madison's face shifts to surprise, then something that looks like pity. "Oh God. He hasn't told you."
"Told me what?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
"Violet, I'm so sorry. I thought you knew." Madison reaches out like she's going to touch my arm, but I step back. "Jason got contacted by an AHL team. They want him to leave school and join their organization."
The words hit me like a physical blow. AHL. Professional hockey. Leave school.
"That's impossible," I say weakly. "He would have told me something like that."
"Would he?" Madison asks softly. "I mean, you just started dating, and this is his dream, right? Maybe he's trying to figure out how to break it to you gently."
Break it to me. Like our relationship is something that needs to be handled delicately before being discarded.
"How do you know about this?" I ask, because part of my brain is still trying to find logical explanations, alternative possibilities.
"My dad works in sports management," Madison explains. "He heard about it through his contacts. Apparently, the agent's been pushing for a decision, and Jason's been considering it seriously."
Considering it seriously. Without telling me. After yesterday, after everything we shared, after saying he loved me.
"When?" I ask quietly.
"When what?"
"When did he find out about this opportunity?"
Madison looks uncomfortable. "I'm not sure exactly, but... probably a few days ago? These things don't happen overnight."
A few days ago. Which means he knew when we had dinner yesterday. He knew when we implemented our communication protocols. He knew when we made love and said we loved each other. He knew, and he didn't tell me.
"I'm really sorry, Violet," Madison continues. "I just thought you should know before you got in any deeper. Long-distance relationships are really hard, especially when one person is focused on a professional career and the other is still in school."
I barely hear her words because my brain is spinning through every conversation Jason and I have had in the last few days, looking for signs I missed, clues that he was keeping something this significant from me.
This morning, when his phone was buzzing and he said it was "just team stuff." The way he closed it quickly when I came out of the bathroom. The slight hesitation before he answered.
He lied to me. Directly lied to me, hours after we established that honest communication was essential to making our relationship work.
"I should go," I say abruptly, turning back toward my room.
"Violet, wait," Madison calls after me. "I know this is a lot to process, but maybe—"
I close the door before she can finish, leaving her in the hallway.
Sage takes one look at my face and immediately closes her textbook. "What happened?"
"Jason's leaving," I say, and hearing the words out loud makes them feel more real. "For professional hockey. And he didn't tell me."
I explain what Madison said while Sage listens with increasingly worried expressions. When I finish, she's quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," she says finally. "Before we panic, let's think about this logically. Madison isn't exactly a neutral source here."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean she's been trying to get Jason's attention since he became campus famous, and she sees you as competition. Maybe she's exaggerating, or maybe she's lying entirely."
"Why would she lie about something so specific?" I ask. "I can verify if Jason got contacted by an AHL team."
"Right, but you can't verify his intentions or his timeline or how seriously he's considering it. Those details came from Madison, and Madison has motivation to make this seem worse than it is."
Sage has a point, but it doesn't change the fundamental issue. Even if Madison is exaggerating some details, the core fact remains: Jason got a significant opportunity and didn't tell me about it.
"I need to talk to him," I say, reaching for my phone.
But when I call Jason, it goes straight to voicemail. Same when I text. My rational brain knows he could be at practice or in meetings or any number of legitimate places, but my emotional brain is starting to spiral.
"Maybe I should go to the rink," I say.
"Maybe you should take a breath first," Sage suggests gently. "You're upset, and rightfully so, but having this conversation when you're this emotional might not be the best approach."
"I'm not emotional," I protest. "I'm applying logical analysis to available data."
"Vi, you're pacing around our room like you're trying to wear a path in the floor. That's emotional."
She's right. I am pacing, and my hands are shaking slightly, and I can feel my heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.
"What if he's already decided?" I ask quietly. "What if yesterday was just... goodbye?"
"Then he's an idiot," Sage says firmly. "But Violet, you don't know that. You don't know anything yet except that he got an opportunity and hasn't told you about it. Everything else is speculation."
I try to focus on her words, try to apply the same systematic thinking that I use for engineering problems. But this isn't an engineering problem. This is my heart breaking in real time, and there's no optimization strategy for that.
My phone finally buzzes with a text from Jason: Hey, can we meet? I need to talk to you about something important.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Something important. After hours of not responding to my calls.
Where? I text back.
Our spot by the library? 20 minutes?
Our spot. The quiet bench where we had our first real conversation, where everything started to develop between us. The fact that he wants to meet there feels significant, though I'm not sure if it's romantic or ominous.
"He wants to meet," I tell Sage.
"Good. That's good, right? He's going to tell you what's going on."
"Or he's going to break up with me," I say, voicing the fear that's been growing since Madison appeared at our door.
"You don't know that."
"I don't know anything," I reply. "And that's the problem."
The walk to the library feels endless. I keep checking my phone, hoping for some clarification message from Jason, some explanation that will make this whole situation make sense. But there's nothing.
Jason is already waiting when I get there, sitting on our bench with his head in his hands. When he sees me approaching, he stands up, and the expression on his face confirms my worst fears. He looks guilty.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hey," I reply, staying standing instead of sitting down. "You said you needed to talk to me about something important."
"Yeah." Jason runs his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I've learned to recognize. "Violet, I should have told you this earlier, but I got some news yesterday that I'm still trying to process." Yesterday. He's known since yesterday and said nothing.
"What kind of news?" I ask, even though I already know.
"An AHL team wants to offer me a tryout contract," he says in a rush. "It's the Charlotte Checkers, and they need a goalie immediately, and it's exactly the kind of opportunity I've been working toward my entire life."
"The American Hockey League," I say quietly.
"Yeah. It's professional hockey, Violet. Real professional hockey."
"And when did you find out about this?"
Jason hesitates just long enough to confirm what I already suspected. "Yesterday morning."
Yesterday morning. After we spent the night together. After we said we loved each other. And after we had the conversation about honest communication being essential to our relationship.
"Yesterday morning," I repeat. "So when I asked you about your phone buzzing, and you said it was 'just team stuff,' that was a lie."
"I wasn't ready to talk about it yet," Jason says defensively. "I didn't know what it meant or what I wanted to do about it."
"But you knew it was important enough to keep from me."