21. Violet
Chapter 21
Violet
“ H ave you figured out what you’re wearing yet?” Bea asks the dreaded question in my ear as I dig through my closet. We've been talking for so long—a good catch-up session after a whirlwind few weeks—my headphone is beginning to pinch.
After the game against Portland, Bea and I used the next two days to spend as much time together as possible while the team’s schedule called for back-to-back practices and another away game. Having the opportunity to sit on the couch with my best friend and gush about my night with Crosby helped ease the nerves his unavoidable distance brought on.
But I found after she returned to England, an easy normality settled upon my life. Crosby had his job, one I was all too used to handling, and I had mine. We worked, collaborating when necessary; now with the added bonus of sneaky kisses in the empty elevator or a trailing finger along the curve of my waist, but never publicly indulging in the shift in our relationship. I double and triple-checked my contract and the handbook from HR, only finding discouraging language about romantic relationships between members of the same department. Surely that didn’t apply to Crosby and me, even if he worked exclusively with me in social media.
When I finally got the nerve to seek out Ava’s advice after a week, she simply smiled and told me it wasn’t the first time she was aware of front office staff and members of the team being romantically interested in each other. She only cautioned me about the additional pressure of my dad’s position and the increased media coverage on Crosby after the Portland game. Ava kindly recommended I talk it out with the coach, have HR make a note in my file, and get Crosby to reach out to his NHL Players Association representative.
My dad knew about us, a conversation I entered into with a particular sense of dread. But Dad merely asked me if I was happy with Crosby. When I told him I was, he let me know there would be nothing he could do to the man if things were to go poorly between us. It wasn’t exactly a clear endorsement until he said of all the men on his team, Crosby is who he trusted the most.
Now, almost four weeks later, I couldn’t agree with my dad more. Crosby is everything I hoped he could be and more. Tonight, we are attending the team’s Christmas Eve party together, our first official public outing.
“Violet? Where did you go?” Bea calls my attention back as I continue to riffle through the offerings of my limited wardrobe.
“I’m here. Just wishing I had taken yesterday afternoon off to do a little shopping. I suddenly don’t like anything I own.” I flop on the floor, momentarily sulking.
“What’s the dress code again?” Bea asks. I dig around for my phone, opening the email to check the details. The event is being held inside The Davis, a historic hotel downtown with an upscale restaurant, which is closed for our party.
“It unhelpfully says ‘festive cocktail attire,’ which could mean anything from actual cocktail attire to more casual festive outfits like ugly sweaters.” I groan again. I think I have an old crewneck with a fuzzy depiction of The Grinch on it at the back of a drawer, but I dismiss the idea almost immediately. I switch Bea over to a video call so I can see her. “I know it’s kind of stupid because we’ve been seen together by almost every person who will be attending, but I just want there to be this moment where I can stand with Crosby, and they think, ‘yeah, that makes sense.’”
“Who doesn’t want that when you manage to end up on the arm of one of the hottest men in sports right now?” Bea acknowledges, always backing me up, the familiar kindness in her eyes. She’s right about that. Crosby’s popularity has soared since someone took a video of his penalty box declaration. Luckily, at the angle of the recording, it wasn’t clear who he was talking to, saving me from becoming a viral sensation. Despite the majority of the organization being curious, tonight will be the first time we’ve publicly gone out together where we didn’t feel as though we controlled the situation—and its narrative. Post-game celebrations have been held at Lowry’s, where Morgan’s low tolerance of bullshit kept any potential non-regulars from braving the tiny dive bar, or back at one of the players’ houses. I’ve also managed to dodge some of the more personal inquiries at work, with most of my coworkers accepting that I don’t like talking about my personal life.
Crosby mentioned he would be wearing all black tonight, a standard uniform for him. He joked he would be easy to spot in the crowd when I arrived. When I gave him a hard time about basically wearing the same outfit he does for every game arrival and what the rest of the team will likely be in tonight, he smiled.
“If I wear all black, I give a background to make you stand out, Sparks. As much as I might regret it, I want people staring at you. I want them to know you are with me, that you belong with me, that you’re mine.” My heart fluttered so hard at the simple reasoning, I thought it was going to break a rib.
“What about the red dress we bought on Boxing Day last year? Do you still have that?” Bea prompts. “The cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline? Makes your tits look great. Would that work?”
I stand up, shuffling Bea to one hand as I push to the back of the closet. The dress I had forgotten about sits on a hanger, needing a steam, but still bearing the tag from the killer day-after-Christmas sale. I bought it on a whim and haven’t had an opportunity to wear it yet, but I’m glad Bea remembered it exists.
The stretchy material clings to my curves while still remaining comfortable. It’s a perfectly vibrant red, readily accomplishing the “festive” directive in the email. The length hits mid-calf, keeping the balance between formal and casual. I finger the neckline Bea mentioned, remembering how it really does make my chest look amazing.
“You’re an angel, Bea,” I tell her, removing the dress and holding it up for her inspection. She nods, offering an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
The hotel lobby has four large Christmas trees twinkling with white lights, reflecting off the glittering silver and gold baubles hanging in the branches. From the hints of pine in the air, I’m impressed to discover they may actually be real. I gently touch the tips of a bough as I round the last one to draw close to the entrance of the restaurant. Glenn and Derek, our arena’s heads of security, are posted next to the copper doors, standing sentry between the public and private space for the night. That makes me feel better as I pass a few Midnight fans lingering around the lobby couches, jerseys and phones in hand, awaiting the team’s arrival.
There’s a commotion behind me, and Crosby walks through the hotel doors, long, thick legs clad in tailored slacks. His black button-down has the top three buttons undone, exposing a tantalizing peek of pale skin. The final touch on his black suit is a crushed-velvet blazer with satin edging, elevating the entire look to a level of sexy I was not expecting. His hair has been delicately styled, his natural curls taking center stage. The entire effect is devastating. I duck a little behind the massive tree to watch him enter.
Halfway across the lobby, a little girl with braided pigtails and a toothy grin confidently breaks from her parents and heads straight toward him. Warmth blossoms in my chest when he immediately drops to a knee upon her approach. I’m too far away to hear the conversation, but he’s looking her in the eye and nodding when she speaks to him. Her parents stand off to the side when she thrusts a black rally towel to him and a silver Sharpie. With gentle instruction, he directs her to turn around so he can use her shoulders to sign it. When he hands it back, he stands, extending a hand in greeting to her parents before reaching down a hand to the side of the girl’s head when she wraps herself around him in a hug.
I admire how he’s grown into handling his new level of fame. He’s gracious and polite with people no matter the setting: the practice facility, the front office, at the airport, or at away games. Watching how Crosby has managed to embrace the responsibility of being a public figure while remaining kind has my heart practicing somersaults.
“Daddy says it isn’t polite to stare.”
I startle in my heels, teetering for a moment before turning to find the owner of the voice currently scolding me for admiring my boyfriend. With my balance regained, I see Nicky first, a sheepish look on his usually serious face. I follow the length of his arm to where he’s holding hands with an adorable little girl with her other hand on her hip and a scowl on her face.
“You must be Natalia. I’m Violet,” I say, squatting carefully to reach her level. “Your daddy’s right, it isn’t polite to stare at strangers. But I was waiting for that man, and I didn’t want to interrupt him. That would be just as impolite, but I’m sure your daddy told you that, too.”
“Wellsy’s my friend.” There’s suspicion in her eyes, and I adore her protectiveness.
“He’s mine, too,” I assure her.
Nicky Baladin’s daughter sizes me up for another moment, clearly thinking through what I’ve said before dropping the hand from her hip and the scowl from her face. She gives me a singular nod before turning back to her dad and asking something in Russian. His quiet da is the only part I understand.
“Have a good night, Vi. Merry Christmas,” Nicky says, the barest smile on his face, but it feels genuine, so I smile in return. Natalia waves almost cheerfully before they start off in the direction they are heading.
I stand back to my full height, a breath passing through my lips at the exchange. I’m not sure if I passed whatever test that was, but I hope I did.
“You should hear her in the off-season when we don’t beat our previous push-up count. Absolutely brutal.” Crosby has laughter in his voice and a banked heat in his eyes when I look at him over my shoulder. “One time, when she was three, she sat on my shoulders because she thought I needed more of a challenge. I could barely lift my arms the next day.”
“Sounds like my kind of girl,” I reply, happily walking into his open embrace. I kiss him, his lips feeling smooth and welcoming against mine. His taste is becoming as familiar as home. I pull back and check that my stay-put lipstick isn’t transferring; Mistletoe Mayhem doesn’t really seem like his shade, and I’m happy when I see the advertising living up to its promise.
“You’re my kind of girl.” Crosby breaks into a cheesy grin before kissing me again, arms wrapping tightly behind my back, a hand wandering a little south to hold the top of my ass. “God damn, Sparks. This dress? I don’t even want to go to dinner.”
“Yes, you do,” I tell him. I run my hands along the soft lapels of his luxurious jacket. “You’ve told me how much you like this party, that it’s become one of your favorite holiday traditions.”
He sighs as he drops his face into the crook of my neck. I skate my fingers down the buttons of his shirt until they rest on his belt. A heavy groan rumbles against my skin.
“C’mon, take me to this dinner with everyone. I’ll let you have me for dessert.”
I gasp when Crosby’s teeth nip the sensitive skin along my pulse before he straightens, grabs my hand, and walks us to the restaurant doors.
“Evening, fellas,” Crosby says to a smiling Derek and a blushing Glenn. I don’t have a chance to feel embarrassed that they were well within view of us, I just giggle and offer a small wave.
Crosby pulls open the large door, ushering me into the modern steakhouse with a light touch on the small of my back. The restaurant is equally as festive as the lobby but in a more understated fashion. Large garlands of greenery and icicles hang from the exposed wooden beams across the ceiling, while centerpieces with poinsettia in red and white sit in the middle of the tables. There are enough twinkle lights thoughtfully spread throughout the space to add a gentle glow catching on the glassware and the faux icicles. It’s warm and intimate, made more comfortable by the faces I recognize milling between tables and giving the room a quiet hum of conversation.
I see my dad near the large fireplace talking with Todd Montgomery, the team owner, and Ava sitting in a large leather chair just beside them. She lifts her glass of wine in greeting and winks. Crosby’s arm fully wraps around my waist a second later, stealing my breath.
“These are our people, Sparks. They’re our friends and family. Nothing about us being here together will surprise them, and the judgment you think they’ll pass is non-existent.” His words are the exact reassurance I need. He presses a chaste kiss at my temple before steering us toward our usual group of friends.
“No. Shit,” Gus draws out both words, shaking his hand after touching Crosby’s jacket like it stings, a silly smile lighting up his face. His shoulder-length hair has been pulled high on his head in a bun. “This jacket is fucking fire, and now I’m a little mad I let you wear it. Maybe I would have ended up with a date this gorgeous.”
I chuckle as Gus steals me away from Crosby, crushing me in a tight hug. Always the radiant source of joy in this merry band of lovable blockheads, my light laughter practically turns to a cackle when he spins me a little before setting me down.
“Quick, leave this loser and be mine,” he says, leaving me in near hysterics as he sets me down.
“And be responsible for breaking so many of your female fans’ hearts? Never.” I step back, letting my giggle fizzle before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. From the moment he awkwardly propositioned me for Crosby’s benefit, Gus has become one of my favorite people. Jovial and easygoing off the ice, he’s like a giant puppy seeking attention. I adore him.
“Hands off the best friend,” Obie growls from behind me. His face is all smiles, a complete contradiction to his tone. I turn to give him a kiss in greeting as well, running a finger up and down the emerald jacket he’s paired with a cream sweater and black pants.
“Pretty sure we have to share them both now,” Gus replies. “When our best friends become a couple, the custody gets split evenly. So, go hug Wellsy and give me back our girl.”
“She’s my girl,” Crosby says from his spot next to Henri. “And it’s her choice whom she spends her time with, dumbasses.”
Gus and Obie open their mouths to protest or argue with each other, I’m not sure which, but I hold up a hand to stop them. With a playful wink and smile to Crosby, I cross to Charlie, who has stood stoic and silent the whole time.
“Hey, Charlie, want to get a drink with me?”