10. Violet
Chapter 10
Violet
“ I can’t wait to get my own place. I love my dad, but I’m not used to living with him like this.” I’m sitting on my bed in my childhood bedroom, complaining to Bea over FaceTime, the iPad propped against the lamp on the nightstand. It’s a Saturday in late October, the midday sunlight doing little to warm my room as I catch up with my favorite girl.
“When do you move out?” she asks while twirling noodles around her fork. I’m joining her for a remote dinner; it’s the best we can do with the time difference. I look at my forgotten Pad Thai next to the lamp. It doesn’t quite taste the same at two o’clock in the afternoon, especially without Bea adding her unwanted bean sprouts to my bowl and stealing my extra lime wedge.
“Next week on the team’s off day. Dad insists on helping, so it has to wait until then. I’m glad I can make the new place work without a roommate, but I’m afraid I’ll feel lonely. Obie’s already living with Gus, so I can’t ask him to move in with me. And my best roommate is still busy living her dream across an ocean.” I pick up my fork, shoving a mouthful of noodles and peanut sauce into my mouth. I get a little hum of acknowledgement from the tablet.
“Tell me about the hockey player.” Bea gives a wicked smile, abruptly shifting topics.
“They’re all hockey players, babe,” I deadpan. I know exactly whom she’s referring to, but I’m not ready to talk about the man currently testing my willpower.
Crosby has officially become my work project. The day after our meeting, Ethan darkened the opening of my cubicle, announcing I was to run point on any and all content involving the new star center, and I needed to adhere to the specifications we laid out together. I wasn’t sure from the look on his face if he was happy about the arrangement Crosby clearly engineered, but I acquiesced. Crosby is willing to film one piece of home content and one away every two weeks, meaning I have to start traveling with the team at least twice a month.
“And you know exactly who I’m talking about, so don’t hide behind semantics.” Bea points her fork at the screen. “It’s been almost two weeks. How is it going with him?”
I flop against my pillows.
Crosby is a consummate professional in the emails we exchange to decide what he’s willing to film or when sending a quick approval on a photo. When we meet up in person in the facility—somewhere far away from my dad’s offices and the locker room—he remembers everyone’s name. From the temps that scurry from the mailroom and the equipment managers to our day security team and receptionists in the building. His personal acknowledgments of them show how much respect he has for his team and the people who work for it. People light up when they see him walking the halls. On top of that, Crosby does his homework, studying the previous videos filmed utilizing the trend we choose, and he’s always prepared. It’s an absolute dream.
“He’s really good at what he does,” I hedge. There’s a thumping noise from the screen. I look over and see Bea slapping at the camera. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t actually smack you in the head for the absolute bullshit you just spouted.” She stares intensely at me. I heave out a sigh. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t lie to her; she knows me too well. “I don’t want to hear about whether he’s good at his job. Thanks to you, I’m well aware the team is already blazing in the standings, and the ESPN notifications I get lead to articles praising the new lines Cal set.”
“Wow, Bea, did I rub off on you that much?” I blink innocently at her. When we lived together, she used to grumble at my hockey talk and immediately started outright hating it when Olivier broke my heart. Hearing she’s following the team I work for makes me want to cry. God, I miss her.
“Not the bloody point! You’re torn up about him, I can tell.” The curve of a glass comes into the picture. Bea takes a drink before softening her voice. “Come on, Petal. Talk to me.”
“Playing dirty, I see.” I glare at her use of the nickname she gave me. Bea looks completely unrepentant. “All right. Just—well—we’re just talking.”
“God, you can talk yourself in circles, woman. Get onto the goods,” Bea pushes. Now her expressive eyebrows are waggling.
“He’s gorgeous,” I finally blurt. Everything slips from me like sand in an hourglass. I can’t stop now that I’ve started. “He has curly hair that doesn’t need to be tamed; it always looks perfectly mussed. His eyes are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen; the two colors are so unique but fit him so well. He doesn’t smile a lot, but not because he’s grumpy. He’s genuinely funny and positive, but it’s almost as if he enjoys spending more time listening to everything before he allows himself to react.”
I sigh internally at how considerate and attentive Crosby is when we talk. Eyes always on mine, questions coming at the right time and in a thoughtful way. No distractions like his phone or other people taking up his attention.
“Crosby is patient. He hit on me when we first met, but since then, he’s been completely respectful of our work dynamic.” I shift in my seat on the bed, grabbing a pillow to do something with my hands, fluffing it absently. “I’ve seen him twice outside of work since that first night. Once, when he showed up at an impromptu ‘Best Friend’s Bowling Night,’ as Gus called it, and then after the San Diego game at the group’s favorite dive bar. There were a bunch of us again, but he did little things to show he was paying attention to just me.” I glance up at Bea’s face on the screen. Her eyebrows are lifted in silent question, and I fight off the blush that wants to creep up my neck. “Just things like refilling my water first. Saving me the end seat of the booth so I could slide out to go to the bathroom, even if it meant his knees hit the underside of the table. Even with that, there’s no pressure. I know he’s interested. It’s like he’s just waiting until I say the word.”
I’m practically panting by the end of my explanation because I didn’t stop to draw breath. I’ve held onto these thoughts for too long to have taken the time to linger on any one particular aspect of the man who is currently occupying more of my thoughts than I’d like to admit and working unconsciously to break down my defenses.
“Wow. Not a single word of what you just said was problematic,” Bea replies. “So why haven’t you given him the go-ahead?”
“Aside from my positively disastrous history with dating the hockey players I work with?”
“One man does not a history make,” Bea counters, sounding like some New Age wise woman. “The occupation of a man who treats you like an opportunity and not a privilege to delight in makes no difference. The only job that man is succeeding at is being a world-class asshole.”
“I know. It isn’t fair to compare Crosby to Olivier. They aren’t even remotely similar.”
I play with a loose string on my comforter. I twirl it around my finger, parceling out my thoughts. Thinking about Olivier doesn’t bring the same pain as it did before. My heart doesn’t feel like an exposed bruise. In fact, it strongly beats a rebellious rhythm when I try to consider Olivier and Crosby in the same thought. It pulses at me to leave the past firmly buried there, the tempo increasing when a memory of Crosby surfaces.
“He left breakfast for me the other morning.” I look up from under my lashes at Bea. She shovels another bite of Pad Thai and leans forward. It’s impossible to hold back my smile. “Just sitting on my desk: a chocolate croissant pinwheel inside this beautiful periwinkle box. There wasn’t a note, but the outside had a heart and ‘CW’ written on it.”
“Why is it always so hot when men do that?” Bea sighs.
“It’s the attention to detail,” I reply and grimace a little. “If he’s that observant about my breakfast pastries, how long do you think I have before he figures out his coach is my dad?”
The thumping sound emanates from the screen again. Bea looks furious.
“Violet Mae Cameron.”
I hold my hands up in surrender before covering my face with them and groaning.
“I know, ” I push the words out between my fingers. “I think I have PTSD when confessing who my father is.”
“I mean, I get it, but Crosby already plays for him! He’s not going to use that piece of information to try and better his career.” Bea still looks a little thunderous at my deception, but there’s a softness around her eyes that tells me she’s trying to be supportive.
“It’s just,” I start quietly. Admitting this is hard. It draws up issues I spent years working through in therapy as a kid whose mom left. Old, dark feelings creep out of the bowels of my nightmares, and I hate that traces of them were almost allowed to be reignited by one worthless man. Olivier damaged me in ways that went beyond a broken heart. “What if I’m not enough for him, Bea?”
“Petal. If you decide you’re willing to try with him, he’s going to be the luckiest person in the world. But it won’t matter if you’re not honest with him. You have to tell him.”
I’ve barely set my blue-light glasses next to my computer when the phone beside it chirps. Rubbing at the corner of one tired eye, I pick up the receiver with the other.
“Violet Cameron,” I say by way of a greeting.
“So she does answer the phone,” Obie says from the other end. I sigh loudly while twisting down to my purse and extracting my cell phone. Two missed calls and eight text messages.
“I’m sorry, Obadiah. I was busy, you know, working, ” I grouse back at him. “You don’t exactly see me banging on the glass when you’re running a four-corner D sequence during practice just because I need to tell you something.”
“Guess that’s fair,” he answers. I hear the smile in his voice. I listen closely to the noise behind him. Morning skate wrapped about twenty minutes ago. It sounds like Obie might still be in the locker rooms or training offices. “Anyway, I was just trying to let you know some of the guys are coming with me tomorrow to help you move.”
“What?!” I stand up so fast my rolling chair flies backward into the exterior wall of my cubicle.
“You okay, Violet?” I hear my coworker ask from down the hall, concerned at the shriek I let out.
“Yeah. Fine! Thank you!” I answer and grip the back of the chair to steady myself. Obie is laughing in my ear. “Shut up. What do you mean some of the guys are coming with you tomorrow? What guys? My dad is going to be there. ”
Obie shuffles and the background noise fades a little.
“How many of you will be there?” Sweat breaks out along my forehead. “How did they find out about this?”
“The usual.” Obie’s voice loses a little of its jovial tone. “Gus asked me what my plans are for our day off, and—well—I live with the guy. I couldn’t exactly lie to him. So he volunteered to come with me. And then Bones said he’d come, and it went from there,” he takes a breath. “Wellsy’s coming, Letty. I’ve stayed out of your business with him, but he’s going to ask questions when you start calling Cal ‘Dad’ tomorrow.”
I press my fingertips against the inner corner of my eyes.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.” Obie shuffles again, and I hear Gus and Tex’s voices clearly come closer. Obie says something back to them before speaking into the receiver, “Talk to you later.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The dial tone drones so long in my ear that it begins to make a buzzer sound before going dead. I replace the receiver on the cradle, picking up my cell phone, and finding my text thread with Crosby. It only contains work specifics, but I know it is time to cross that professional line.
Me
I know skate just ended, and you’re probably on your way to enjoy your day, but any chance you can swing by me upstairs?
It takes less than a second for the reply to come through.
Crosby
Sure. I was going to stop at the coffee cart, want anything?
I push back at the way my stomach is trying to launch its butterflies into orbit at Crosby’s sweet offer.
Me
I don’t think so. See you soon.
I listen to my email ping on my computer as I wait, spinning in half-circles in my chair, going over and over what it is I’m going to say when Crosby shows up. Despite my growing attraction to him, our relationship hasn’t been such that I need to divulge my family history to him. He even told me after we met that I didn’t owe anyone my life story. We work together. Talk hockey. I ignore the way my pulse races when he’s near me and how I have to stop myself from falling over to try and catch the delicious smell of his cologne.
So why did I feel so awful?
“I was afraid you were just trying to be nice, so I grabbed you a London Fog.” Crosby’s voice carries through the opening of my cubicle before he does.
Wearing dark wash denim and a black long-sleeve Henley thermal, Crosby is decidedly more put-together than the first time I brought him up here. He clutches two takeaway cups in one hand. The other holds a white wax wrapper disguising some kind of baked good. I trail my eyes up from his impressive hands to his multicolor eyes, soft and warm, and the shy upturn of a smile on his lips. His curls are still a little damp, peeking out from under a crooked black beanie. He extends his hand, rotating his fingers so the cup containing the tea latte is closest to me. I take it automatically and set it on my desk.
“Thank you,” I say, gesturing to the chair I know is too small to be comfortable for him but is all that fits in my space. Aside from Crosby, I don’t have much cause to have the players in my cubicle. “How did you know I like London Fogs?”
“Last week, in the afternoon, when I asked if you wanted anything, you said you don’t drink coffee after 10:00 a.m., but London Fogs work in a pinch. They just make you miss bees.” Crosby is smiling, balancing his to-go cup on his knee. He holds out the wrapped pastry to me. “You also said something about how bees make good biscuits, but they didn’t have any, so I got a shortbread cookie.”
“Bea,” I correct, cradling the treat in my hand. Crosby tilts his head in question. “I didn’t say ‘bees’ like the insect. I said ‘Bea,’ B-E-A, my best friend who’s still in London. She introduced me to the drink, and ‘biscuits’ really are shortbread cookies. I sometimes forget to switch over the colloquial phrases.” My nose burns, and my eyes sting a little. I suck my teeth and spin away for a moment looking at the picture of Bea and me on the shelf. Crosby has no idea how deeply his gesture hits.
“Oh, that makes more sense.” I nod while he speaks, breathing through the threat of tears. Crosby’s warm hand splays across my shoulder blade. “You okay, Violet?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I will not cry. Not at the reminder of Bea. Her words of honesty echoing in my mind. I will rip the Band-Aid off the reason I asked Crosby here and deal with the fallout like an adult. Clearing the emotion out of my throat, I’m very aware Crosby’s hand has not left my back. Instead, his thumb moves in little sweeps against me. I focus on that, letting his ministrations steady me before spinning around and breaking the contact.
“Thank you for this.” I gesture at the drink and cookie. “It will be helpful in getting me through the afternoon.”
“Sure.” Crosby readjusts, his elbows pulling in against his sides. It looks like he’s sitting in a child’s chair. “What did you need to see me about?”
“My dad is Coach Andrews.”