3. Violet
Chapter 3
Violet
T he airport is painfully busy as I make my way through customs to the baggage claim area. It’s mid-morning, and while I managed some sleep on the flight, my internal clock is all messed up. I like taking the early flight because I adjust faster to the time difference, but the first twenty-four hours are always difficult. My body can’t decide if it wants sleep or caffeine.
“Letty!”
A loud, booming voice draws the attention of everyone in the surrounding area. I try to cover the smile that wants to bloom on my face by quickly looking away from the source of the noise. This is supposed to be a surprise, but I know exactly who’s calling my name, not just because my dad told me. Obie is the only person in my life who calls me “Letty.” He’s the only one allowed .
“Letty!”
At the second call, I lift my head and scan the crowd, looking for black hair. I know I’ll find it above the heads of most people. Obie isn’t exactly small, but he’s also jumping up and down. I stop walking and laugh.
“There she is! Letty!” Obie is moving through the crowd now, sliding with all the grace he possesses on the ice as he passes people. “Excuse me. Best friend coming through. Look out; she needs a James Juggle.”
I freeze when Obie says that, twisting around for a place to hide. The “James Juggle” started when we were teenagers. Obie grew five inches and gained twenty pounds of muscle in one summer as he trained with my dad, making our usual hugs imbalanced. My shorter stature became one of his favorite mechanisms for lifting weights and practicing his control. A James Juggle consists of being upended and hoisted over Obie’s shoulder before being spun around, dropped into a bone-crushing hug, and placed back on my feet. It’s disorienting.
It’s humiliating.
In short, it’s awful.
I love it.
Barely managing to drop the weekender bag and my purse at my feet, I cackle loudly when Obie’s shoulders press against my thighs, and I’m upended over him. There’s a bouncing that drives the curve of his shoulder into my stomach a little, but I keep laughing as I slap playfully against his back as we spin.
“Letty, my girl, you’ve been indulging!” Obie chides as I flip back into his crushing embrace. My toes skim the tile, but Obie keeps me upright, his teasing smile broad and warm. I press off his chest to level a glare into his green eyes. At least I try. I’m not sure I’m impactful when I’m looking up a solid six inches.
“You did not just comment on my weight. Maybe you’re just not benching enough during training.” I poke at his pectoral, causing him to squirm a step away. My feet are back on solid ground, so I push harder. “Los Angeles made you soft.”
He swats my intrusive finger away, dipping quickly to pick up my bags and sling them over one shoulder before tucking me against his side. With my giant best friend next to me, navigating the terminal becomes a lot easier.
“Guess it’s a good thing Cal brought me home to whip me into shape, huh?” Obie looks down at me for a reaction. I aim for surprise, but I think it comes across a little more like a grimace. Obie laughs and squeezes me. “You have always had a shit poker face. Was it the news or your dad that spilled?”
“You know I try not to follow hockey news anymore. Turned my alerts off, deleted the app and everything,” I reply. I wind my arm around his waist, steering him slightly under the signs indicating baggage claim. I catch Obie nodding his head. “Dad told me while I was packing. Is it public now?”
“Yeah. The Bridger news broke this morning, too.” Obie pauses to look at the video screens that indicate which carousel will have my suitcase.
“That’s going to be a mess, isn’t it?” I point at the information for number three. We turn together to find the right place, walking casually to wait by the conveyor.
“I’m not really sure. Cal has always kept Midnight things close to the chest, and I’ve been across the country.” Obie places my bags at his feet and crosses his arms thoughtfully. “I played against Bridger a few times. He’s not much of a menace on the ice—at least not like he thinks he is. And I haven’t had much cause to interact with him outside the schedule.” He gives a little shrug. “I have no idea what the team dynamic was like with him here. But I can say the line seems really welcoming in the group chat I was added to this morning.”
I see a shy smile cross Obie’s face, and I match him. Obadiah James is the best friend anyone would be lucky to have, but despite his outward appearance of being larger than life, he’s rather reserved around new people. His old teammates nicknamed him “Monk” for how little he participated in activities with the team off the ice. If he’s been added to a team chat already, I’m hopeful it means The Midnight is going to be a better place for him.
“That’s great, Obie.” The conveyor blares a loud alarm, signaling the arrival of luggage. “They’re going to be lucky to have you.”
“I’m excited.” Obie’s eyes roam the bags that begin to circle us. “What color is your bag?”
“Black.”
“Ah, so easy to find.” His sarcasm makes me glare at him over my shoulder before I go back to scanning the sea of black suitcases.
“Mine has a red phone booth keychain on it.” I made the impulsive purchase at a souvenir kiosk inside Heathrow Airport before checking in at the airline desk. One final reminder of the place I had called home.
“There it is!” Obie calls as the claim spits out my bulging suitcase, red keychain swinging playfully as it makes its way to us. With a single lift, Obie adds my wheelie case to my existing luggage, deftly hooking the straps of the weekender over the pull handle and pushing out of the growing group of passengers. I follow in the wake behind him.
“How tired are you?” Obie asks as we break through the sliding doors outside. He pulls a set of dark Ray BansRay-Bans from his back pocket before looking over at me. I reach for my purse from where it’s stacked atop the weekender, pulling out a pair of sunglasses for myself. It might be mid-morning, but late August on the East Coast is no joke. It’s bright as hell.
“I slept a few hours on the flight. Dad upgraded me.”
“Fancy.” Obie is making steady headway to where he must have parked. I follow along, content to let the day sink in.
“I’ll definitely need a nap later to try and get myself right. My brain thinks it’s the afternoon right now, but it also thinks it should be the middle of the night because I left the flat in the afternoon. It’s all mixed up.”
“You think you’d be up for going out later?” Obie guides us into the elevator of the parking structure, pushing the number four until it illuminates. A few other people crowd in, forcing me closer to Obie. I yawn and rest my head against his bicep for a moment.
“Dunno. I think Dad wants to have dinner, but I have a feeling today’s news is bound to make things go tits up. Why?”
“God, it’s weird when you talk like a Brit,” he laughs softly. “The guys in the chat, they’re the first line. I’ll be playing with them a lot. They want to get together for a drink.” I look up, but even hiding behind his sunglasses, I see Obie drop his brows. He’s nervous.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I answer. “But I think you should meet them without me.”
Obie hums in the back of his throat. He was drafted by Los Angeles right out of high school, and despite playing and living there for the last seven years, he didn’t feel comfortable playing for the Tide. Obie never thought he could be himself, so I’m hoping a move back home and playing for Dad’s team will give him the confidence to open up to his teammates.
The elevator doors open to the right level, where we walk halfway down an aisle, stopping before a sleek black Land Rover with California plates. It doesn’t scream professional hockey player, but it is a considerable step up from the family RAV4 Obie drove in high school.
I run my fingers along the stitching of the onyx interior, sinking into the buttery leather and listening for Obie to secure the tailgate. I inhale the scent that indicates Obie hasn’t had the car long, or maybe he had it detailed recently. It’s clean and crisp but a little artificial. I close my eyes and lean my head back. Caffeine. I’ve figured out I want caffeine.
“Still drink Americanos, or did you switch over to the leafy stuff in England?” Obie slides into the driver’s side and pushes the start button. A pleasant rumble starts thrumming through me as we back out and make for the highway, the hour-and-a-half journey north to Connecticut stretching out in front of us.
“I quite enjoy a cuppa, thank you.” I infuse my voice with my poshest accent, exaggerated slightly to enhance the joke. Weekend and holiday travels with Bea from London to the continent were made easier if I pretended to be British. I got really good at mimicking half a dozen dialects, picked up from nights in the pub or around the communal kettle in the office.
“They converted you?” Obie sounds offended, but I detect humor behind his words.
“Not today,” I grouse. “To Dunkin’—stat.”
I’ve sent a text to Dad and Bea, letting them know I've arrived safely when Obie cracks, asking the question I’ve been dreading. We’ve been in the car for approximately thirty-two minutes.
“Have you heard from him?”
I suck down the last few drops of the life-giving Americano before I exhale and rest my head against the pillowy headrest. I close my eyes against the onslaught of memories trying to break through.
Him. The way Obie spits the word means he’s only asking about one person: Olivier Ahlman. Swedish Hockey’s elite right winger. League top scorer for the last three years. Sweden’s reigning Sexiest Athlete. NHL hopeful.
And my ex-boyfriend.
“Not recently.” I open my eyes to glance over at my best friend. He’s focused on the road, but he nods approvingly.
Olivier and I met when I started working for Anders Lasch, a sports agent who was building his international office in London. He wanted to have his own set of in-house statisticians to help run numbers to refine contracts and build rosters of clients. The internship would give me the opportunity to work on both sides of the sport: game-play data and client contracts. The international travel associated with working with different clubs and teams was an added bonus. Anders was interested in my resume, knowledge, and enthusiasm.
I was assigned to work with a top hockey team in the Swedish League in Helsinki. Most of my work could be done remotely, but I flew to watch games and practice live as often as I could. On one of my early trips, I met Olivier. He swept me off my feet. I was planning my whole life around him, until it ended.
“Good. What an asshole.”
“Yep.” I stretch my arms out and turn the radio up. I don’t really want to talk about Olivier. I’m leaving that part of my life behind. “No more hockey players.”
Obie gives me a wry smile. “Sure.”
“Well, if you’re going to bring up my love life, we have to talk about yours.” We are halfway to the neighborhood where we grew up. Where my dad still has a house and I’ll be staying until I fully figure out what my next step is.
Next to me, Obie changes lanes as if it will help him get away from our conversation. He picks up his iced coffee, swirling the cup so the ice crashes in that addictive yet obnoxious sound. He pulls a long sip and presses his lips together.
“That bad, huh?” I turn more fully toward him.
“You know why I don’t date.” Obie’s face drops as he speaks. I reach across the console and thread my fingers through his, giving him a little squeeze in silent support. Obie came out to our families when we were sixteen, but he’s lived his entire professional life in the closet. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never confided in any of his teammates and deflects most questions about his personal life by saying he likes to focus on the game. It’s kept the press out of his business, but I know it hasn’t been easy for him.
“Sorry, love. I’m sure that’s lonely.”
“Can be.” Obie lifts our hands and kisses the back of mine. He lets go and replaces his own on the wheel. “I try not to think about it too much. Being home will help. It’s a new season, time for lots of things to change, right?”
“Let’s hope,” I reply before Obie starts humming along to the radio, hoping he’s right. We spend the rest of the trip singing throwbacks and catching up on neighborhood gossip. It feels good to be home.