11. Crosby
Chapter 11
Crosby
“ Y our dad is Coach Andrews?” I hear the words pass through my lips, but my brain is still catching up to the surprising information Violet just blurted out. She looks as shocked as I feel. Her eyes wide but searching, her hands gripping the armrests of her office chair. She gives me a very slow nod yes.
”Huh,” I offer. The girl I like is my coach’s daughter.
More alarm bells should be ringing in my head, but they aren’t. A lot about Violet from the last few weeks is starting to make sense. Her cagey behavior. Her knowledge of hockey. How she and Obadiah have been best friends their whole lives.
“Wait. He obviously knows you work here. It’s not like I’m going to be skating suicides until I puke for talking to you, right?” I ask. “There shouldn’t be a reason for him to care, is there? We just work together, and we’re adults.”
I’m not sure if I’m saying it to let her off the hook in case she isn’t interested in me or to remind her it’s okay if she is.
Violet shakes her head and crosses one leg over the other. The polka dot skirt of her outfit flutters against her calf. It’s almost distracting enough for me to miss the quick flush of pink in her cheeks. But I don’t miss it. After three weeks of being professional and proper every time we interact, is it possible Violet has been struggling as much as I have been when we’re together?
I’ve hoped for as much when we’re together. When I feel her eyes linger on me or hear her breath hitch every time our fingers brush as we walk the halls. I still see how she fights the smile threatening to break out and the polite laugh she gives when I make a joke.
Every night since we met, I’ve fallen asleep to visions of the silky brown hair that tumbles down her back and across her shoulders. I wonder if it’s as soft as I think it is. Does it smell like her? That euphoric mixture of apple blossoms and crisp green leaves I can’t ever get out of my memory. It’s the smell of summertime and possibilities, a hopeful mixture I lean into and steal lungfuls of when we’re in the elevator.
I dream of her eyes, a color so unique it’s a mixture of a cloudless sky and molten metal. There are flickers of bright silver in the irises that spark the more animatedly she talks. Those little sparks are mesmerizing.
I’ve made it my job to know as much as she’s willing to share with me in our limited time together. It was a little underhanded of me to insist I only work with her for these social media things, but I didn’t know what else to do. She told me she doesn’t date hockey players. But if that were true, why would she think it would be a big deal if I know who her dad is?
“Violet, is there a reason your dad would care that we work together?” I ask again. “He had to remind me about my first meeting with this department, so I would think he already knows we’ve met.”
“No, he doesn’t care about that,” she answers. “But he might care if…”
“If what?” The paper of my coffee cup is starting to slip against my palm. I watch her carefully, trying in vain to catch which direction her thoughts are going. I’ve taken every chance I can get to learn her, but dancing to the newest pop song or answering fan questions hasn’t left me nearly as much time with her like this—unguarded. Raw. Alone. I don’t know what the little pinch of her brows or the twitch in her jaw mean. It makes me nervous as hell.
“I just don’t want you to be surprised tomorrow when my dad is there to help me move, and it’s the first time you're learning he’s also your coach.” Her voice grows in confidence as she speaks, but the way she purses her lips at the end means it isn’t what she’s actually thinking. I think Violet is relieved this secret isn’t between us anymore, but there are more truths she’s keeping close. I want her to give them to me when she’s ready. I won’t take them from her.
“Thanks for letting me know.” I try for casual as I drink a sip of coffee. I don’t really want it, but I couldn’t just show up with something for Violet. I was afraid it was weird enough when I left her breakfast once before. Swallowing thickly, the acidic taste burns a little as it goes down. This stuff tastes like shit. How does anyone drink it?
“You’re not mad at me?” Violet reaches for her own cup, rolling it between her hands tentatively. The movement matches the tone of her voice.
“Not at all.” I smile when she finally takes a drink, smacking her lips just a little before trying to hide a grimace. She sets the cup back on her desk, pushing the drink farther away from where she put it originally.
I laugh, and her eyes fly to mine searchingly.
“I had no idea the coffee cart was so horrible,” I huff out after a moment. Violet looks back at her cup and then at the one in my hand. She folds her hands together in her lap and lets out her own laugh.
It’s light and full, tickling up from her throat to join my own that’s beginning to ebb away. She spins back to her desk to pick up the shortbread, offering it up in between us.
“Do I dare?” she asks, pulling the wax paper away.
“Absolutely not.” I wrap my hand around hers and the cookie. I don’t miss the way she sucks in a breath at my touch. Taking a chance, I run my thumb along the inside of her wrist, just like the last time I sat here with her. “I wouldn’t want to risk you cracking a tooth and damaging that beautiful smile—even if you do hide it from me.”
“No, I don’t,” Violet protests. She hasn’t pulled away, and I indulge in the softness of her skin under my rougher thumb.
“You do. But I’ll get it out of you sometime. I don’t mind working for it.” I let go of her hand, plucking the dubious baked good from her fingers before hefting it into the trash. The resounding thunk at the bottom of the basket echoes ominously.
“About tomorrow, I can’t be there until the afternoon because I have a standing appointment with our physio in the morning. I think the rest of the guys will be there, so you should have plenty of help.” I carefully set my still-full coffee cup into the trash next to the discarded cookie, reaching back blindly for Violet’s drink. No way will she be drinking this if it’s anywhere half as bad as her face indicated it was.
I straighten, arching my back a little to stretch. Sitting hunched over like I’m in a kindergartener’s chair hurts. I stand up while I wait for Violet’s answer. She stands, too, the lift of her black heels puts her at my shoulder. Speaking of kindergarten, my brain unhelpfully supplies as the whole of her polka dot dress is revealed. She looks like a sexy primary school teacher in the black and white patterned ensemble, fitted and flared in just the right places. It makes a certain part of me sit up attentively. Damn.
“Is it all right if I text you?”
“Sure,” I reply before gesturing to the trash. “Sorry about that. Guess I’ll have to make it up somehow.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to finding out where that chocolate croissant came from.” Violet smirks.
“If I told you, I wouldn’t get to take you there one day. Can’t have that.” Her lips pop open a little, the light catching on those irresistible flecks of silver in her blue eyes. I’m being more forward with her, pushing again because I like to see how far she’ll let me go. I hook a finger under her jaw to close her mouth. “See you tomorrow, Sparks.”
Me
I’m heading to your house.
Gus
Okay. Bring pizza. I’m hungry.
Me
Fine. Your usual?
Gus
Yeah. And a large BBQ chicken with extra sauce. Obie and I are watching film.
I park my SUV in the driveway behind Gus’ truck, hefting the three pizza boxes from the passenger seat to balance on one hand before I close my door. As I climb the three steps to the front door, it swings wide open to show Gus leaning against the frame. He reaches grabby hands at me, relieving me of the boxes.
“About time. I’m fucking starving.” He carries the pizzas through the entry into the living room on the left, depositing them on the large coffee table. There are a few notebooks I recognize from the arena scattered and pens next to them. He lifts each lid until he finds his Hawaiian-style pie, scooping up a slice and eating half in a single bite.
“You’re welcome,” I say, looping around the back of the couch toward the chair in the corner of the room. I slap Obie’s shoulder in greeting as I pass him in his spot on the couch before he leans forward and pulls his box toward himself.
“Thanks, man. I’ll send you my share. Just let me know what I owe you.” Obie nods in appreciation before taking a deep inhale of the smoky flavor wafting from the open cardboard.
“Don’t worry about it.” I sit on the plush leather of the club chair, reaching a hand toward Gus, who is currently engrossed in swallowing his second slice. He doesn’t see it, so I lean forward and swipe my unopened box from in front of him. I flick my eyes to the screen before digging into my own meal. “That the Portland footage?”
“Yeah, just started watching,” Gus says, never taking his eyes off the game while he reaches for his next piece. “Their third line is going to be a nightmare. There’s some new guy on the team—absolute goon shit, but he’s fast.”
“That’s Olivier Ahlman. Swedish right winger,” Obie supplies. He wears the darkest look I’ve ever seen on his face. Obie might be quiet sometimes, but he’s a generally positive person, even when he’s cross-checking our opponents. “I fucking hate that guy. I had no idea he was in the league.”
“This is last night’s footage. They must have just signed him,” Gus answers. I watch the player, marked by a number seven on his back fly down his shooting lane before slamming my old Austin teammate into the boards. I grimace a little. The puck wasn’t even in play near them, which doesn’t make the play illegal—just rough. I’ve spent my whole life playing this sport, I understand playing hard is part of it. I’ve had my fair share of contusions and aches to show that it gets brutal. I still hate watching guys play like assholes.
“God damn it,” Obie practically snarls as he watches the TV with narrowed eyes. Then, he’s dropping his pizza, pushing up from his seat, and heading to the hallway. “I need to make a phone call.”
In the silence that follows, Gus and I eat and watch. We don’t play Portland until after our road game, but with a new player in the mix, it doesn’t hurt to get a head start on understanding what we’re up against. The first period comes to an end. I finish my slice of meat lover’s while Gus makes some last notes, his empty pizza box on the floor next to the coffee table.
Obie comes back into the living room, a less thunderous look on his face, but there’s still a troubled annoyance rolling off him. I’d like to ask him about it, but I don’t feel as if I know him well enough to intrude on whatever is going on. Instead, I set my pizza box on the floor, brushing my hands together, hoping I’m not about to make things worse.
“Violet is Coach’s daughter,” I say.
Gus drops his pen, whipping his head back and forth between us. His eyes are wide, and there’s a mischievous grin on his face. He looks like Christmas just came early.
“What?” he draws out the question in a little singsong voice as he looks at Obie. It’s like he’s doing a terrible impression of Deadpool.
“Wasn’t my information to tell.” Obie holds his hands up with innocence but offers me an apologetic look. “Just happy you know. Everyone’s going to find out tomorrow, anyway.”
“Which makes me wonder,” Gus turns back to me, “why did you get early access?”
I hear the curiosity in his tone. It’s not just because I know before he does. Gus has suspected I like Violet since Obie introduced her to the group. He’s spent more time away from work with her than I have due to Obie living here—which he has enjoyed telling me about. Gus has been obnoxious in bringing her up in seemingly innocent ways in conversation, but my best friend can’t bullshit me. I see the little smirk he gives me, hear the leading questions he drops, waiting for me to rise to the occasion. I haven’t. But it’s time to come clean to my best friend. And Violet’s.
“She asked me to come see her before I left the facility today. She seemed concerned I would be worried about it.” My words are for Gus, but I keep my eyes on Obie. He doesn’t give much away, just a little nod.
“Are you worried about it?” he asks. I hear the protectiveness there. Violet has only ever talked about Obie with familial affection. The pair of them behave like siblings when they’re together, so Obie sounding like a big brother now doesn't surprise me.
“Not at all.” I lean forward on my knees. “I like Violet. A lot.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gus give a little fist pump. Obie lifts his chin expectantly. “I can tell she has her reasons to be wary, but I don’t plan on giving her any reason not to trust me. Not because I’m afraid of what it will do to my life on the team but because she deserves it.”
“All right,” Obie replies. I nod back to him. I’ve never been one to think approval is necessary to go after a girl I like, but having support is important. Making the people in Violet’s life matter to me as much as they do to her is a good step in giving her the confidence to let down her guard. To let me in.
“I can’t be there tomorrow for most of the moving. What can I do to help, Obie? What would she like?” Now that I feel like I have an ally, I’m not above asking for a little insider information.