12. Violet
Chapter 12
Violet
Crosby
I’ll be there in 30
I keep staring at the message. You told him to come over. You want him to come over. This will be okay. I’ve repeated those three sentences for the last twenty-five minutes, pacing around my new townhome, trying in vain to mitigate the sheer chaos moving brings. I shove my phone into my side pocket.
I’m pulling a throw blanket out of a box marked “living room” to put across the new couch when the doorbell rings. I straighten, brushing non-existent dust from the Whitehall FC sweatshirt I’m wearing over a trusted pair of black leggings as I cross to the front door. I managed a quick shower once Dad and the rest of the guys left this afternoon, but I’ve been unpacking boxes since then. When I finally worked up the nerve to text Crosby, with Gus’ enthusiastic encouragement, I belatedly had an existential crisis over what to wear. I settled on the most accessible and comfortable elements of my wardrobe, telling myself this isn’t a date, so it doesn’t matter.
I’m working on believing that as I grasp the doorknob.
I pull open the door to see Crosby standing on my front stoop in an equally comfortable Midnight hoodie and black joggers. He’s looking around at my new house before landing that multicolored gaze on me. It makes my mouth go a little dry when I feel the full weight of his attention.
“Hey.” He smiles brightly at me.
“Hi,” I answer, fighting the smile I want to give him in return. The one he knows I resist giving. My heart lurched painfully yesterday when he pointed it out; a necessary chastisement that I’m not being myself around him. I’m still hiding away because I’m scared. He was right. Messaging him this afternoon was my first step in trying to change that. He lifts a few plastic bags in his hand between us.
“Thought you might be hungry.”
It’s then the scent of takeout hits my nostrils. It’s full of spices and warmth, immediately causing a reactionary growl from my stomach. I don’t even have time to process how that might be embarrassing because the bright red logo of my favorite Chinese place catches my eye. I look up at Crosby and don’t fight the grin that breaks out.
“There it is,” Crosby says, reaching up his other hand to brush at the crinkle in my cheek. He’s caressing my smile, a simple thing, but he’s looking at me like I just handed over the Stanley Cup. “I’m not even mad that it’s for the food and not me.”
I laugh, turning just slightly as he drops his hand, gesturing into the entryway. He steps inside, toeing off his sneakers to line them up next to my own near the door.
“That’s my absolute favorite restaurant in town.” I point back to the takeout. “I celebrated my birthday there four years in a row as a kid. The owners used to bring me extra almond cookies.”
I turn to close and lock the door, hearing Crosby rustle in the bags.
“These cookies?” He’s holding up three almond cookies in their signature plastic wrappers with green writing. I feel like I’m eight again, unsuccessfully shoving the extra treat under my napkin while my dad smiles. An unexpected perk of having a July birthday meant Dad was always home. No training. No practices. No games. Just the two of us for a whole month.
“The very ones,” I say, reaching a hand out to take the offering. Clutching them close, I lead the way to the eat-in kitchen. There are large IKEA boxes leaning against the wall of the dining space, my new table not put together yet. Uncle Palmer promised to do it tomorrow while I pack for my first away game. I won’t be flying with the team, as the private plane is reserved for players and essential personnel only. My commercial flight is only behind them by about an hour, and I have my own room in the same hotel for the night.
Crosby navigates to a free spot on the island to drop the bags and unpacks the containers. Something about the relaxed way he’s adopted the space makes me sigh contentedly. Our conversation yesterday changed things between us. I don’t know how yet, but I’m finally excited to figure it out.
“I have absolutely no idea which of these contains plates.” I point to the stacks of boxes labeled “kitchen” but little other indicators of the contents. I stash the almond cookies next to my unplugged electric kettle. “I hadn’t fully thought out dinner plans tonight.”
“We have chopsticks.” Crosby holds up the paper-wrapped utensil. “I know how to share if you do.”
“I’m an only child, of course I know how to share,” I say, taking the offered chopsticks and opening containers. There’s kung pao chicken, dumplings, Yangzhou fried rice, sweet and sour shrimp, vegetable lo mein, egg rolls, wantons, and two fortune cookies. I’m smiling again, shaking my head a little in wonder. “You have all my favorites.”
Crosby clears his throat and looks a little abashed, hooking his hand behind his neck in the way he did the first time we met. It’s charming in an innocent way. Honest and sweet. Exactly how I think of Crosby.
“I may have had a little help,” he confesses, pulling his chopsticks out and breaking them apart. He rubs them together to rid them of loose slivers, avoiding looking at me as he continues. “I had already decided I’d bring food with me if you texted today because moving means you never remember to eat. At least, I never do. But I asked Obie to help me with what to bring. Hope that’s all right.”
“It’s really thoughtful, Crosby. Thank you.” I break my chopsticks and consider pinching a dumpling before spinning around for a moment, looking for the best place to sit. Before I find a solution, Crosby’s stacking a few boxes and shifting them to the floor, effectively clearing the island off. He lifts an eyebrow and cocks his head at the empty countertop. I shrug before climbing up. We settle with the food between us.
It’s hilarious watching Crosby fold his long legs underneath himself into a crisscross style, but he manages to do so without falling off backward, then picks up an eggroll, demolishing it in two bites. I finally pick up a dumpling, close my eyes, and chew happily around the familiar flavor.
“God, that’s so good,” I groan. I open my eyes to see Crosby frozen with a steaming orangey shrimp halfway to his open mouth. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shovels the shrimp in, blinking a few times as he chews. I reach for the lo mein, twirling the saucy noodles around for the perfect bite. “So, the move go okay today? I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to help.”
“Things went fine; don’t worry about it,” I say, angling the straggling noodles into my mouth. When I’ve swallowed another perfect bite, I ask, “You said you had physio today. Is everything all right? You’re not injured, are you?”
“No. No, I’m good.” Crosby’s looking at the containers, clearly deciding which one to attack next. I pick up the fried rice and hand it to him. He nods in thanks. “When your dad moved me to the first line this season, I reached out to our physio department and set up a regular schedule of stretching sessions and evaluations. We do a lot of them throughout the season and always have someone with us at games, but I wanted to make sure that even on the off days I had someone looking out for me. The more I know about how my body is performing, the better I can use it.”
I grip my chopsticks a little harder, twirling them around the pea pods and sprouts. Crosby is talking about his job, and I’m trying really hard to be respectful of that. But the man’s body—and talking about how to use it—is doing things to me. The feeling slinks through my blood, rippling and pulsing in a way talking about hockey has never done for me before. It’s been way too long since I’ve gotten laid.
I chance a look up. If Crosby knows he just lit a fire in my belly, his face doesn’t show it. He’s gone after the kung pao chicken, lifting the container to make sure the sauce doesn’t drip. But it coats his lips as he takes a bite, and I can’t help but follow the path his tongue takes as he licks them clean.
Shit.
“That’s—” I start, hoping I’ve kept the flush off my cheeks, coughing a little to cover any pinkness that may have developed there. If I blame it on the spicy food, maybe Crosby won’t notice. “That’s smart. It shows a lot of dedication and game intelligence. It’s probably part of why you already have four goals this season. I remember Dad used to have a massage therapist on call.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Crosby sets his chopsticks across the top of a container. “You don’t have to answer. It’s just something I’ve always been curious about and never thought I’d have an answer to.”
The way Crosby is asking feels like he isn’t pressuring me, but I still take a full five seconds before I nod.
“Like most of us on the team, I knew of Callum Andrews before I came to New Haven. I grew up watching him play. But when your dad brought me on, I wanted to know as much as I could about him. Your name was never released to the media, and Coach hasn’t publicly dated anyone that I know of.” He’s choosing his words carefully, but I have an idea of where he’s heading.
“It’s just me and Dad,” I interject the first time he pauses. “He ended up a single father when he and my mom split before I was born. She made her choice to have me but not raise me. Dad was still pretty new in the league, but he was getting a fair amount of attention, so he put measures in place to try and protect me. I have a different last name. He avoided bringing me around to events with media coverage and tried really hard to give me as normal of a life as possible.”
“Do you ever miss your mom? Wonder where she is?”
“No,” I say. I give a little shrug of my shoulders. I covered this topic on multiple occasions with the family therapist my dad and I saw throughout my school years. “I’ve never wanted to look any further than the man who raised me. Sure, it was hard. My childhood was lonely at times: a professional hockey player for a father? He was gone a lot. But his best friends from high school took care of me when he couldn’t be there.”
“Obie’s mom and dad, right?”
“That’s right. He became the brother I never knew I wanted.” I pinch another dumpling, taking a bite, gesturing for Crosby to do the same. He doesn’t pinch one between his chopsticks, opting for skewering the food on the end of one. He swallows it in one bite. “What about you? Where are your parents? I know from your team bio you’re from Maine.”
Crosby’s hand stills as he attempts to spear another dumpling. The lightness I’ve felt from him since he arrived bleeds from him, deflating like a balloon. His broad shoulders curl a little, caving protectively around him.
“Hey.” I take the forgotten chopstick from him, standing it upright in the box. Instinctually, I lace my fingers through his and squeeze.
“It’s all right. I was raised by a single father, too,” he lets out, rubbing his thumb across the back of our clasped hands. I love how it feels. There’s a roughness to the pad, worn and calloused from playing, but the motion is soothing. Suddenly, I’m not sure if I’m comforting him or he’s comforting me. Before I can think too much longer on it, he lifts our hands and presses the briefest of kisses to the spot his thumb touched. “Sorry. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”
“It’s okay. If it isn’t something you want to talk about, we don’t have to,” I offer him the out. I can tell he doesn’t really want to get into this tonight.
“Thanks.” He gives me a shy smile of gratitude. “It’s not the happiest of stories, and I’m having a good time with you.”
“Sure,” I whisper as he pulls back. “Not everyone likes to bond over past parent trauma.” Crosby lets out a laugh.
“My therapist would argue finding commonality with someone who understands is a sign of good communication.” He stabs another dumpling, lifting it to me. The jovial, upbeat energy returns to him, happiness spreading across his face when I take a bite of the offering. He tucks the rest away with a few quick chews, swallowing with a satisfied sigh.
“Here’s to single parents, good therapists, and being well-adjusted adults.” I salute, which Crosby returns before we both continue hunting for our next bite.
We spend the rest of the meal comfortably discussing the team, their game tomorrow night in Columbus, and my brief explanation of living in London. I fill that topic with a lot of superficial things: Bea, our quest for the perfect pint, the seasons and sights, what I miss the most. I appreciate Crosby’s curiosity. I feel his sincerity; he’s genuinely trying to get to know me. It makes it easy to open up to him, especially when he is an attentive listener: he’s silent or chewing thoughtfully and looks me in the eyes when I speak.
When we finish the containers down to the dregs of delicious sauce or singular grains of rice, Crosby packages everything back into the plastic bags. He deposits the waste in the trash can before opening the closest box and asking where I want the mugs he finds inside. We spend the next hour unpacking and setting up my kitchen before I’m yawning more than talking.
“I should probably head out.” We’ve just stacked the last of the empty boxes, my plates taunting us from the bottom of it. I’m about to tell him he’s welcome to stay longer, but another unexpected yawn answers for me. We both laugh, rounding the far end of the island to head to the front door.
“Wait!” I cry, swiping the forgotten fortune cookies and passing one to Crosby. “We didn’t open these. I can’t imagine worse luck.”
Crosby cracks his open, his large fingers deftly pulling the slip of paper from the cookie crumbles.
“If we wait until we are ready, we’ll be waiting the rest of our lives.” He pops the pieces into his mouth, turning his expectant gaze toward me.
I split my cookie into two equal halves, extracting the stiff paper from one side, reading clearly: “Vulnerability sounds like faith and looks like courage.”
I nibble a corner of the slightly sweet and cardboard-textured dessert, staring at my fortune with equal parts disdain and wonder. A tidal wave of emotion threatens to swell within me. The doubts and fears of being with Crosby tonight mix with the hurt and anger of my past with Olivier. I push the feelings of guilt and frustration away as I continue looking at a takeout fortune threatening to upend me after a nearly perfect evening.
Then Crosby is there, pulling the offending paper with his large hand. He takes it from me, affixing it with his own by a small magnet to the outside of my fridge. It’s enough distance to bring me back to the present. I look at the fortunes intertwined, the messages so similar, and realize I’m not the only one who is represented there. The man walking back to me has nothing but openness in his eyes. He takes a deep breath as he steps into my space. With the island counter at my back, I have nowhere to go, but at this moment, I wouldn’t want to move even if I could. He looks down at me as heat radiates off his chest.
“You want to go out with me sometime?” Crosby’s voice is inviting and kind. He reaches out to hook my hand with his. I stare up at him, a battle waging inside. He pulls me slightly closer, playfully, teasingly. There’s barely a space between us now, and the resistance I’ve fought to keep up for the last month crumbles. I let out an unsteady exhale when he leans down repeating himself with a huskier tone in my ear, “Go out with me, Violet.”
“All right.”