35. Violet
Chapter 35
Violet
V ideo plays of Crosby and Olivier on the ice next to each other. The audio comes through clearly.
“Has she moved on to being shared now? Guess it makes sense she’d take care of her daddy’s whole team. Do you like getting in on it, too? You do seem awfully close to a few of your teammates.”
A quick edit jumps to the moment Olivier shoves Crosby and the vice-like grip Crosby puts him in in return.
“Trying to pull my hair, Wells? I liked it better when your girlfriend did it.”
I want to look away from the television as the story cuts back to the familiar faces of the anchors for Center Ice on the NHL channel. But I can’t do it. Not when my face appears in a small split screen icon in the upper right corner, set between Crosby and Olivier’s roster photos. The horrible headline, Pucking Around , sits under the headshots.
“Our coverage of the audio from last month’s All-Star tournament explaining the altercation between New Haven Midnight center Crosby Wells and Portland Searchers center Olivier Ahlman is still developing, but as you just heard, this drama is taking place on and off the ice,” Dave Poston, the show’s host begins.
Despite my dad’s warning the story was going to go live tonight, I’m unprepared for how desperately I want to sink into the couch. I wish Crosby were with me. Or Obie. Or Bea. Or anyone I know I could trust to hold my hand and tell me everything will be okay, even if it feels like the ground is crumbling beneath me.
“When we reached out to both teams, we were told a comment would be forthcoming after internal reviews with team personnel and the players. In the meantime, I want to bring in some of our own experts to talk about what this story means and what we do know.” The camera changes angles to a wide shot of Dave, Tara Upton, and former player Gabriel Belanger. “I want to start with you, Gabriel.”
Blond with kind blue eyes and blinding white veneers, I remember Gabriel from my dad’s retirement party. I spent most of the night trying to keep Obie calm in a room full of his heroes and sneaking sips of champagne. But Gabriel’s three-year-old son was a holy terror, wrecking havoc as his dad tried to talk with people until I corralled him on my lap, determined to teach him rock, paper, scissors. I was thanked profusely when Gabriel was finally able to say hello without being interrupted for the next twenty minutes.
“This is completely unacceptable.” Gabriel’s face is twisted in disgust, his pen tapping against the desk in emphasis. I feel the smallest flutter of appreciation for him. “Locker room talk belongs in the locker room. It should never make it to the ice, should never be talked about in a game-play setting. If two players have both been with the same woman, they can talk about it behind closed doors like regular men. On the ice, the only thing that should come between them is the puck.”
The flutter abruptly dies.
As Gabriel continues to wax poetic about the importance of player code, a.k.a. the beyond antiquated and pathetic sports equivalent of “bro code,” I check my phone. Given the circumstances, it’s pretty quiet. My Instagram profile was already set to private, my contact information for The Midnight was never publicly accessible on the team’s website, and most people who would need to be calling me are unreachable, asleep, or have already checked in.
“I have to interject here.” Tara’s voice is sharp, her hand slicing the air. The camera zooms in on her. “I refuse to accept that discussing a woman in such a degrading manner is ever acceptable. In a locker room or out of it.”
“I’m not suggesting it is.” The camera cuts wide to show Gabriel looking equal parts angry and offended.
“But you are not advocating against it, either.” Tara does little more than smirk at him, her annoyance clear. “I can appreciate your history with the sport, Gabe, respect the relationships you built as a player and as a broadcaster. But you’re selling an old song here. One I’m quite tired of dancing to. Women deserve better.”
I sit a little taller.
“I think we’re focusing on the wrong part of this,” Dave interjects. “This audio implies Violet Cameron, daughter of Midnight head coach Callum Andrews, might have a history of helping players through her relationships with them.”
“That’s a fair point, Dave,” Gabe eagerly jumps on the change of topic. I feel sick to my stomach as they begin theorizing timelines they clearly can’t comprehend. “We know from the audio that she was once romantically involved with Olivier Ahlman and is currently in a relationship with Crosby Wells. Is she responsible for the relative success both of these players have had this season? Ahlman was practically unknown to anyone outside of Europe, and Wells was promoted to first line.”
“You’re actually suggesting these guys didn’t get where they are on their own?” Tara asks. I appreciate her lending some common sense to the discussion.
“Not exactly,” Gabe returns. He folds his hands together on the desk in front of him. “But there are hundreds of players out there just waiting for their shot in the NHL or to get more ice time. Wells and Ahlman are both excellent players in their respective positions, but it feels a little too coincidental to ignore the connection both of these guys have to a woman with connections to the league and the huge changes to their playing careers this season.”
“Crosby himself refused to give you answers during your interview before the very game this exchange took place in, Tara,” Dave adds.
The camera cuts back to Tara for a response, but I’ve reached the limit of what I can tolerate tonight. I switch off the television and consider the texts my dad sent.
Dad
The media is going to talk about you, kid. As much as I want to hope it won’t, the sex part of this story is going to sell. There will be a lot of theorizing you helped get these guys where they are. They’re going to imply you make sure they are treated favorably, given opportunities they wouldn’t have otherwise. It won’t take long before people start poking holes in that logic, but it won’t mean the damage isn’t done. I want you to keep your head down, focus on your job. We’re going to do all we can to get this to blow over fast.
Me
Okay. I’m so sorry, Dad.
Dad
This isn’t your fault. I don’t want you to think any of this is because of you. We’ll get through this. I love you.
My cubicle feels small today. Even as I face the glass wall to look out over the empty ice, a vast, expansive space, I feel like the walls are closing in on me, and I can’t escape them.
I barely slept last night, only managing to drift off in the early morning hours when Crosby’s arms finally wrapped around me after he quietly arrived home. Truthfully, I’ve only had a handful of good nights’ sleep in the last month. They’ve always been on nights I can’t hide my exhaustion anymore. Every day has been a trial of worry and relief, no matter how irrational it is. Worry the unreleased audio will leak. Worry I will be fired from my position if it does. Having my workload reduced hasn’t been a good indication of the “what-ifs” outcome.
Relief only comes when I make it to the next morning without a seismic shift to my entire world. But it’s fleeting because the cycle starts all over again.
Crosby has been a huge support, but I see the strain on him as well. He’s become quieter, more withdrawn. Instead of stopping to talk with every employee he sees, he politely says hello and sets about his tasks in the building. When we spend nights together, we split time between our houses, making dinner and watching sports documentaries in bed.
We avoid talking about the worst-case scenario, but now, as I sit here, I wish we had. I wish I had been better prepared, even if I didn’t know what I was preparing for.
I’ve spent the morning trying to work, follow my dad’s advice, and trust he and Crosby are making headway in their meeting in the conference room with the NHLPA representative. But it’s been difficult to manage with the looks my coworkers have sent my way in the halls or their attempts at a casual drop-in, asking if I want to take a coffee break.
I don’t.
I don’t want to awkwardly stand around with a terrible cup of coffee, pretending they’re not mentally asking a million questions. Or that by standing with me in the break room they’re not pitying me. My phone buzzes against the surface of my desk. I scoop it up, hoping it’s a good notification instead of one I’ve been dodging since last night. Even with precautions in place, people on social media are persistent.
Bea
Catching up on all of your messages. Do I need to get on a plane? I can be there in 10 hours.
Me
Is it really needy of me if I say yes?
Bea
Not at all. In fact, I’m already on one.
Me
Are you serious? Bea, you have a job—a life—you do not actually need to come here!
Bea
Too bad. Can’t change it now. When I get there, I’ll do whatever I can to help you get this sorted.
Me
I don’t deserve you.
Bea
No one really does. kissy emoji
Buoyed by the support, I send the information of Bea’s impending arrival to Crosby. Taking a deep breath, I refocus on my computer and the latest report on metrics from Instagram. No surprise the account has seen an uptick in traffic over the last twenty-four hours, but I’m working on the monthly numbers. There has been a steady downturn of interaction since All-Star Weekend, with comments skewing negative. I’ve just started examining the common threads when a sharp knock on the top of my partition has me jumping.
“Violet, I need to see you in my office. Now.” It’s Ethan, delivering a brusque summons before continuing down the hall to where his office door stands ajar. I grip the edge of my desk, unease slithering up and down my spine.
It’s taken a lot of professional creativity, but I’ve managed to avoid being alone with Ethan since that morning in the elevator. I’ve sent emails or texts to avoid in person conversations, and I’ve only had to face him when we have our weekly department meetings. This has seemed to be acceptable to him, as well, because, until right now, he has not sought me out. It’s an unwelcome development on an already difficult day. I hesitate for a breath before I square my shoulders as I walk toward the open office.
“Have a seat,” Ethan says the moment my toes cross the threshold from behind his desk.
“I’d rather not.” I’m proud my voice doesn’t waver. I stay just inside the door, across the office from him. I meet Ethan’s gaze, watching as a flicker of annoyance passes in the next breath. “What did you need to see me for?”
Ethan pushes up from his chair, rounding the desk with his hands in his pockets, an apologetic look on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Behind his glasses, they are practically alight. He doesn’t walk toward me; just leans back against the surface of his desk before letting out a long sigh.
“After reviewing your recent performance, and with careful consideration to what is best for the team, it’s been determined that your skills are no longer needed. The Midnight organization thanks you for the work you’ve done, but your termination will be in effect at the conclusion of business today. Make sure to send all of your current projects to me. Human Resources will be expecting you this afternoon to sign your offboarding and review anything else necessary. Security will collect your credentials in the lobby.” Then, as if he hasn’t just gutted me, Ethan nods once, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and returns to his chair. “Close the door on the way out. I expect those projects within the hour.”
I walk back to my desk, numbness making the motion automatic. Sinking into my chair, I let Ethan’s words sink in. The Midnight organization thanks you for the work you’ve done, but your termination will be in effect at the conclusion of business today.
He fired me.