Shots Taken (Midnight #1)

1. Violet

Chapter 1

Violet

“ D on’t forget to print your ticket.”

“Dad, I have it in the app on my phone. And there’s a confirmation in my email.”

“Which would be fine if you remembered your portable charger,” my dad’s voice chastises from the speaker on my phone. It’s currently sitting on the nightstand as I struggle to shove three more shirts into a suitcase on my bed. The zipper strains against the extra clothing.

“One time. It happened one time when I was seventeen, Dad. Guess you’re just never going to let me live it down.” I grunt one more time, leaning heavily on the top of the luggage. Only once did I almost miss a flight because I hadn’t charged my phone the night before. Approaching the gate with 3 percent power and a prayer hadn’t been one of my finer moments of air travel. “The charger is currently plugged in next to my purse. I’ll have it with me. Promise. Ha!” I shout victoriously as a satisfying little jingle sounds, signaling the meeting of the zippers.

“What’s going on, Violet? I can’t see anything!” Dad calls through the speaker. He’s been staring at the ceiling since I set my phone down. Oops.

I pick it up again, tilting to show him the bulging black suitcase.

“I got everything in one!” I raise my arm in a celebratory pose. I can see my dad’s face relax, his lips thinning, and I know what he’s going to say next.

“And how many boxes are being shipped?”

I turn the phone so he can see my face again and bite on the inside of my cheek.

“A dozen.”

“Twelve?!” Dad’s voice rises just a pitch, his dark eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

“That makes it sound like so many!” I sigh exasperatedly but give a laugh. “A dozen gives the impression of being manageable. Easy.”

“It absolutely does not,” Dad answers. “It sounds expensive.”

“What’s a little transatlantic shipping cost when it means your favorite daughter is finally coming home for good?”

“You’re my only daughter.” Dad tries to sound irritated, but I see the smile creeping at the corner of his lips.

I’ve lived in London for three years, and Dad has begged me to come home at the end of every single one of them. It’s always been just the two of us in the family, but I grew up with plenty of time apart from him. It was a natural byproduct of having a professional hockey player as a father.

I took a chance when I finished my undergrad, applying to a prestigious overseas program solely for the experience. I grew up with travel as part of life, so moving to London to complete my Master’s Degree in Statistics seemed like a natural choice. When my schooling was finished, I took on what I thought was my dream job: a sports statistician internship for an international hockey team. The dream lasted six months before I switched to a less glamorous position at the Whitehall Football Club.

Despite the requests to return home, Dad was supportive of my acceptance in London, even if it came at a time when he was starting his first season as the head coach for the New Haven Midnight. He was the youngest head coach in the NHL, an unexpected life change, but a welcome way to keep the game he loved so much in his life.

Nine years ago, Callum Andrews went from the most feared defenseman in the league to retiring in the blink of an eye during a fast and furious playoff series. A brutal entanglement on the ice left him with injuries that would have led to a recovery time eclipsing the entire next season. While he would have been willing to do anything to get back to playing, at thirty-six, he saw the injuries for the sign they were: his career as a player was over. Instead, he rehabbed his body, played stay-at-home Dad while I finished high school, and began working as an assistant coach when I went off to college.

Now forty-five and just about to start his fourth pre-season, Dad is excited to have me around. Despite their record when Dad was a player, The Midnight haven’t won a Stanley Cup in nearly forty years. Now, after building a team of strong talent, The Midnight have started making waves in the NHL under his leadership, reaching the playoffs the last two seasons. Dad and I have always had hockey, from watching his career as a child to the FaceTime calls after games he coached. I am excited to return to Connecticut. I can't wait to see how my dad works with the organization he spent his career playing for.

“Who’s in charge of shipping the boxes?”

Dad’s voice pulls me back to the quiet of my bedroom. I glance around at the empty shelves, blank mattress, and barren walls. My heart gives a little pang at the finality of moving back home.

“Bea will take care of them tomorrow.” I flip the camera to show Dad the doorway where my best friend has appeared. Her curly brown hair is tied on top of her head, but stray curls fly away from her face, touching the doorframe where she leans. Her warm brown eyes are watery as she looks around before giving me a soft smile.

Beatrice Farrow barged into my life on the first day of post-graduate university when she snagged the seat I wanted in a lecture. When I took the one next to her, she introduced herself, and we never looked back. Bea and I became inseparable; roommates and family when Dad’s schedule made going home for the holidays hard. I’m going to miss her so much.

“Hi, Cal.” Bea waves as she walks in, a dismissive sniffle to keep her tears away. She traces a finger over the top of the boxes stacked nearby before giving a disapproving look at my suitcase. “You have more than one suitcase. You should use it.”

“I only get one checked bag for free. I don’t want to pay fifty bucks for another!” I reply as Bea tests the zippers. The bag does look like it could burst at any moment. Bea frowns and pins me with a look. It reminds me of the summer we took a trip to Germany, and I complained the whole time about my backpack being heavy. Bea had packed far less and split it between a backpack and a carry-on tote. I guess I just like keeping things simple, even if they’re not easy.

“But she’s sending twelve boxes. Very frugal, this one,” Dad grumbles in my hand. Bea leaves the room and walks back in with a large weekender bag. She drops it on the bed before lifting a finger and pointing. Her silent instructions are clear. I roll my eyes but hand her my phone to begin shifting clothes out of the overpacked suitcase. Now that I’m on camera, I hear my dad pick up the conversation with Bea once more. I’m lucky they get along, but having Dad visit every summer in his off-season has helped them connect. “Thank you for sending over Violet’s things. Will you be taking her to the airport?”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Bea’s voice holds a little tremor. We’ve tried not to talk about my leaving too much over the last few weeks. Our conversations resulted in nothing but blubbering tears and snot on each other’s shoulders when we hugged. Bea is staying in her native city—happily employed at Cunningham running a little further seemed necessary to start over. Especially if it promised me a chance to be happy. It was time to go home. Even if it meant missing my best friend more than I was able to think about. And having to figure out what to do with my life.

“Good. Just make sure she’s there two hours before the flight in case there are any issues,” Dad continues from the phone, and Bea rolls her eyes with a smile.

“We’ve got it,” I try to reassure him as I take the phone back. I’m still holding him in one hand as I pick up my suitcases from the bed with the other. Bea steps in and wheels the larger one down the hall to set it next to the front door. I bite my lip as reality crashes into me again. I’ve spent my last night in this flat. I’m really leaving.

I clear my throat to rid myself of the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I need to stay focused. “Are you still picking me up?”

I glance down at Dad, just in time to see him look away and grimace.

“I take that as a ‘no.’” I frown at him.

“I was planning on it,” Dad replies as Bea comes back into the room. “But then Todd scheduled a meeting to talk about Bridger’s contract.”

“I thought The Midnight released Bridger? What is there to talk about?” I sit on the empty bed. Bea settles on the floor next to my legs. She leans against me, listening quietly. Bea doesn’t really like hockey, but I don’t know if it’s because it isn’t as popular here or because she knows I’m having a difficult time loving it right now, and she wants to be supportive.

“Remember, you’re not supposed to know that information. Anyway, he wants to activate his fucking trade clause, cutting us off at the knees for salary cap this season.” Dad’s getting fired up. He usually does when talking about the finer inner workings of the hockey team. Especially if it involves decisions the team’s owner, Todd Montgomery, has made. The guy has an abrasive ego and a big bank account. He has very little understanding of how to own and operate a hockey team. “I could murder someone for agreeing to that fucking ridiculous stipulation when we signed him two years ago,” Dad goes on. “Bridger turned out to be an absolute dipshit, but the team will get punished for getting rid of him because we can’t go after the talent we want and pay out the rest of his contract. It’s almost six million dollars! Motherfucker.”

“Tell us how you really feel, Cal,” Bea calls toward the phone with laughter. I giggle along. For an easygoing, level-headed guy, my dad can get enthusiastic at times when it comes to his job.

Which means he starts to cuss.

A lot.

“Sorry.” Dad lets out a breath. “All of that means I can’t pick you up like I wanted to. But I’m sending someone I think you’ll be happy to see.”

“I’m going to try and ignore how, coming from anyone else, that would feel vaguely ominous.” Bea pinches my leg. I slap her hand away. I’m going to miss this. “Who is it?”

“I don’t want to tell you.” Dad is grumbling but also smiling.

“But if I don’t know who to look for, I’ll end up taking an Uber,” I push back. “And if my phone isn’t charged, it could die on the ride. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

I know I’m playing dirty. It’s not nice to toy with how protective Dad gets when I travel, but it seems to work.

“Fine. He’ll be mad at me for ruining his surprise, but you have a good point,” Dad concedes. “It’s Obadiah.”

“Obie’s coming to get me?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice as my eyebrows shoot up my forehead. Bea twists to look up at me, a huge smile on her face.

Obadiah James. My other best friend.

Obie and I grew up together in the way only children who spend too much time together can: as close as actual siblings. Our parents met when they were teenagers—Obie’s parents are a few years older—but remained close even when Dad’s NHL career started. Our houses were three blocks apart, and I would stay with them when Dad had a road game. Obie’s parents also stepped in at other times to help when Dad wasn’t available, so I wasn’t always with a nanny. Obie became the brother I never had.

Obie went on to follow in my dad’s footsteps, playing in the NHL in Los Angeles after a year of college. We’ve been best friends our whole lives. Being on the same continent again means we don’t have to just theorize about all the trouble we can get up to via text messages, we’ll be able to do some of it. I’m surprised to learn Obie’s in Connecticut. He managed to keep this a secret from me in our near daily conversations.

“Is he home to visit his parents? I bet Temperance and Palmer are thrilled!”

Temperance and Palmer James are my other unofficial set of parents. With my mom out of the picture, I grew up in their house and with their support because of Dad’s schedule. Aunt Tempe took care of me, along with Obie, whenever Dad was at practice or an away game. Uncle Palmer took Obie and me to Dad’s home games when they fit with our school schedule, enduring the experience with two overly eager kids trading smack talk and falling asleep in equal turn on the drive home. The Jameses embraced hockey life, supporting my dad by loving me.

“Not exactly.” Dad grins. The corners of his mouth twist up so I can see the mischief behind it. “We just signed him. Despite Bridger’s fuckery, Obie’s a Midnight now.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait. Obie’s going to be on your team?” I look down at Bea, whose surprise mirrors my own. Bea and Obie have never met in person, but since they’re my two best friends, they’ve gotten to know each other in our share of group chats and video calls.

“Yep,” Dad responds succinctly. Before I can ask any other questions, Dad clears his throat and fixes his stare at me. “Better get off the phone now, kid. You need to finish up and get to the airport.”

“Oh, all right. I have so many questions, though,” I protest. Dad gives me a little smile.

“Going to need some patience. Don’t go texting Obie about it, either. He’ll know I gave away his secret, and I’ll lose all professional credibility with him. Can’t have that before the season starts.” One of Dad’s fingers waggles in front of the phone camera, filling the screen.

“But I can text Aunt Tempe!” I tease. Dad lets out a huff, knowing he’s been outsmarted for the moment. Bea offers me a high- five for being so clever. I slap at it as Dad’s voice pushes me to get moving.

“I want updates. Thanks for everything, Bea!” His voice softens as he gives me a look that has his eyes just a little misty. Or maybe it’s my own that makes the picture waver a little on the screen. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I love you, kid. Be careful.”

“I love you, too,” I answer more thickly than I anticipate before tapping the red button to end the call. I slip it into my back pocket. Bea disconnects the portable battery pack to tuck into the side compartment of my purse.

“Right,” Bea announces to me after a beat of silence.

It’s always made me laugh; that irrepressible British thing that steers a conversation or deflects an emotion in such an easy way. Americans can’t begin to mimic it. Linking her arm through mine, she brings us out of my room into the main part of the flat. She heads to the table by the door for her keys, jingling them excitedly. “I’m not letting you leave me without one last attempt to drown you in a proper pint. C’mon then.”

I let out a good-natured groan, but I grab my jacket from the hook. Not long after becoming friends, Bea single-handedly made it her mission to find just one type of beer I could consume an entire pint of. Three years, two months, and eighteen days later, the score stands at Violet Cameron: 18, British Beer I like: 0.