8. Crosby
Chapter 8
Crosby
“ G od damn it, Obadiah! You’ve got to know the fucking deke is coming on the left in this formation! Get to the fucking puck!” Coach yells from the bench in the arena. There’s a whistle from one of our assistant coaches, and we all stop skating, listening as Coach continues his tirade. I lean against my stick, angling my eyes down and trying in vain to keep my thoughts from wandering to last night.
Violet Cameron.
With one dance, she turned my whole world upside down. The way she moved. The way she smelled. The way her lips would lift in the corners only to flatten like her brain was actively reminding her body she wasn’t supposed to be smiling.
Violet gave me one dance and left like a thief in the night with all my attention. And, if I were being honest, maybe a little piece of my heart.
I stared at the exit of the club long after she told the group she would be calling it a night and grabbing an Uber shortly after we left the dance floor. Obie walked her out, shooting the group a text, saying he was going to save her the cost and take her home.
When I got home a little while later, it felt too late to text Obie for more details about her. I didn’t see him until today at practice, and there hasn’t been much chance to ask questions.
“Did you hear me, Wells?”
I snap my head toward Coach Andrews. He looks thunderous. I quickly scan for the information floating between my ears, trying to latch onto the instructions he just finished shouting at me. Run it again.
“Yes, sir.” I nod. “We’re running it again.” I push down on my right blade, skating to the other side of the midline and cutting a half circle to settle in. Next to me, Bones taps the ice twice with his stick, calling for the puck from Tex on my other side, and we’re off.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sucking down water from a Gatorade bottle on the bench, elbows on my knees as I watch the other lines run the same drill when Coach blows the final whistle. With just a few reminders of when to report back for the short trip in the morning for the DC game tomorrow night, we’re filing out of the rink.
“Wells,” Coach calls from where he stands at the boards. “Your meeting with social is in twenty. Don’t be late.”
“Got it.” I don’t—I almost forgot. I hustle up the tunnel, stripping off my gear and skates before diving for a lightning-fast shower. I give a quick wave to the boys as I run out of the locker room.
I pull on my Midnight hoodie in the elevator, shaking my hair a little to work the last of the water from it, wishing I had dressed a little more professionally. This season feels like my first in the league, only more important. I’ve always wanted to do well, be successful on the ice. But with a bigger spotlight and years of experience behind me, I know I can do more now. Showing leadership in all my relationships in the organization is a big part of that, and I’m about to meet the head of social media in black joggers and a pair of Nikes. I know I’ve been too distracted the last couple of days. This is just the proof staring back at me in the reflective metal of the elevator doors. It doesn’t matter that I’m meeting Ethan, someone I know and have worked with a few times before. He’s never been my favorite staffer to interact with; something about his working style always rubs me a little wrong.
The doors open, cutting off all thoughts about Ethan and social media, revealing the last person I expect to see.
“Hello, Crosby.” Violet stands stiffly in a perfectly distressed vintage Midnight T-shirt tucked into black wide-leg trousers, one hand tucked into a pocket. Her brown curls have flattened into waves as they fall from the high ponytail she sports, showing off her high cheekbones and gunmetal blue eyes. She gives me a little smile before I notice the doors starting to close. I lunge to keep them open and step out onto the floor next to her.
“What are you doing here?” I scan her head to toe, disbelieving that she’s here. My eyes snag on the credentials hanging on a clip at her hip. The identification card is similar to the one on my lanyard in the locker room. “You work here?”
“Yep. Come on, it’s this way,” she clips, taking a purposeful step through the glass doors at our left. My body responds as my brain catches up, walking in stride with her as she weaves us toward a cubicle along the glass windows overlooking the ice I was just on. The space is a little tight with both of us in it, especially since I’m not a small person.
Violet spins an office chair away from the desk pressed against the windows, dropping into it gracefully while gesturing to a similar chair to the right of the cubicle opening. I eye it a little dubiously, then settle into it by tucking my elbows against my sides and drawing my legs up to fit.
“I’m sorry. Ethan is stuck on a call in the conference room, so he asked me to take the meeting with you. I know my ‘office’ is a little small for this.” Violet cringes around the word “office” and frowns as she looks at the space. I follow her eyes, trying to see it the way she does, but I like her cubicle.
There’s a little red statue of a British phone booth near a pen cup on her desk. A picture frame with a younger Violet and who, I assume, is a younger Obie sitting on a shelf near perfectly organized black binders. Their faces are covered in chocolate and marshmallow as they hold up matching gooey s’mores. Next to it, is a photograph of Violet and a woman with wildly curly hair along a beautiful coastline. I think I see Cinque Terre in the background.
“So, this meeting is to determine what your requests and refusals are for working with the social media department throughout the season.” She pulls a legal pad off the desk, balancing it on her crossed knee to take notes. She’s sitting perfectly straight in her chair, body and voice a perfect reflection of the professionalism she’s projecting. Compared to the woman I met last night, it feels as if Violet is putting on a persona.
I don’t like it.
I want the sass. The shyness. The dichotomy of her personality.
I thought about it last night, lying in bed hoping for sleep but thinking of her instead. I don’t think Violet trusted herself very much in the club once she met all of us. The confident woman I watched hip-check a guy to get to the bar vanished as introductions started. I know now she came because Obie asked. She stayed long enough to meet everyone, tantalizing me in the process, but left before anyone could press with the “getting to know you” questions.
Now, sitting in her cubicle at work— my work —she’s practically robotic.
“Violet—” I start.
“Yes, I should have said last night that I worked here. But I genuinely didn’t think I’d come in today and be told I was going to be working with you directly. I thought I’d be able to ease my connection to the team into a conversation further down the road. Or at least not feel so awkward about it when the time came. It was wrong. I’m sorry.”
I blink a few times. Violet’s drawing in little circles at the top corner of the legal pad. She’s not looking me in the eye, and I find I dislike that even more than the efficient delivery of her apology. An apology, I don’t think, is necessary.
“Violet,” I start again, reaching out to stop her doodling. There’s a pleasant little thrum in my blood when I finally come into contact with her skin. She’s warm and soft under my bigger and rougher palm. I run my thumb along the inside of her wrist just once before pulling back. “I appreciate the professionalism, but you didn’t owe anyone your life story last night.” Her blue eyes hold mine as she nods once. It makes the waves in her ponytail bounce a little. “Am I surprised to see you here? Absolutely. Is that a bad thing? No. I could say more, but then I’d be the unprofessional one.”
The most beautiful shade of pink splashes across her cheeks, and her lips form a little “o” as she lets out a gasping exhale. I like the shape of her mouth that way. A dark corner of my brain sparks to life, trying to figure out how I can make it look like that again for a reason other than shock.
“Well, um, let’s just maybe focus on why we’re here?” Violet transitions us away from the moment. She’s cute when feeling a little flustered or awkward, but I’m happy to switch back to business. For now.
“Sure.” I lean back into my chair, letting Violet adjust herself and lock her focus on me. “This is the first year I’ve had one of these meetings. I’m used to the social team being around a few times a week to film content or whatever, but I’ve always just been in the background.”
“That’s because you’ve been stuck on a line you really shouldn’t have been. Management focused on the wrong player,” Violet says, making a quick note on the legal pad.
“How would you know I wasn’t exactly where I should have been? It takes time to build up the skill and respect to end up a starter.” I fold my fingers across my lap, tilting my head slightly at her.
“Crosby, even on the third line, you managed eighteen goals in a season, and last year when you were on the second line, you had a career-high of twenty-nine. That’s insane, considering how ice time is split between lines statistically. That record alone should have guaranteed you a spot on the first line whether Bridger was here or not.” Violet’s voice is finally full of life. Her eyes spark with passion, and she’s leveling me with a look that speaks to how little she’ll accept an argument back. I shrug. “Not to mention, you had a hat trick in the playoff game you started last season!”
“Still got eliminated.” I can’t help pushing her just a little. She huffs at me. She’s irresistible like this: all fire and brimstone, like a preacher at the pulpit, but instead of heaven and hell, she’s worshipping at the altar of what I’ve built my life around. And, maybe, if my ego ruled my brain, me.
“Yeah, well, that series would have gone differently if you had started all the games. I bet even Andrews thinks so.”
“Really?” I’m surprised to hear that. During that round against Milwaukee, Coach told me he had faith in me when Bridger was benched, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe he had wanted to start me for the entire series. It’s a nice idea.
“Who wouldn’t?” Violet queries. “Anyway, the point is, you are where your talent can really shine now. And according to my research, you’re also a successful draw on the team’s social media accounts. Posts featuring you in the past have a 5 percent higher engagement than ones that don’t. Since it was announced The Midnight wouldn’t be seeking another center, all content tagged with your name is currently increasing traffic to the account as well. It makes sense the organization wants to capitalize on it.”
“Wow.” I hook a hand behind my neck. First, it was getting a position on the starting line. Then, it was the press. Now, it’s social media. I press my fingertips into the base of my skull, trying not to get overwhelmed. I love to play hockey, but I regularly remind myself I don’t think I’m built for the attention it brings me.
“Hey.” Violet’s voice softens into a warm, sweet tone. “This meeting is for you to tell me what you do or don’t want to do. There are some minimal interaction requirements we have to meet because of your contract, but if you don’t want to do anything more than that, I’ll make sure you’re left alone.”
“Personally?” I ask. I can’t help but hope Violet will be my contact for this department. I’ll take any excuse to spend more time with her, to get to know her. She rolls her lips before flattening them against each other. I watch as their plumpness returns when she speaks.
“I don’t know. This is my first year working in the department, and while I’ve been told I might have to work directly with the players from time to time, I was also brought in more to analyze how the accounts perform.”
“So, that’s not a no.”
“It’s not a no,” she replies, giving me the tiniest hint of a smile—her first since we sat down.
“I’ll take what I can get for now, Violet.” For the first time in my career, I’m figuring out if I have enough professional gravity to ensure I can pull Violet Cameron into my orbit because I don’t think I want to go into this with anyone else by my side.