Chapter Ten Skye
Chapter Ten
Skye
I wake up the next morning before my alarm.
Of course I do.
The massive room is dim and quiet, that in-between hour where Milan isn’t quite sure what kind of day it’s going to be yet.
My body feels fine, no soreness, no adrenaline hangover, but my brain is already running drills.
And only half of them have anything to do with hockey.
I stare at the ceiling and immediately regret it because that’s where the memories are stacking. Dinner. Violet sitting across the table. The way our conversation never stalled. The way she smiled when she got nervous. The way I noticed.
That dress.
Me almost knocking out the server.
Fuck.
I exhale.
Was it a date?
It sure felt like one. No teammates, no pretense, no “this is just two people with nothing better to do.”
There was an intention. Or at least something close to that.
I rub my face with both hands and sit up, elbows on my knees, as I stare at the minimally decorated hotel room.
Get a grip.
I don’t do expressions or emotions well. On the ice, things are clear. You make a decision and you commit, then you live with the outcome. Off the ice… I think I’d rather run systems than ask Violet a simple question.
Did I have an amazing time?
Yes. Annoyingly so. I thought maybe I’d get it out of my system if I went to dinner with her. Maybe that wasn’t my intention when I first made the plans to go with her, but looking back, that’s the only explanation why I put myself out there.
Though that’s not what happened.
Violet made me laugh without trying. She didn’t fill the silence just to fill it. She was asking questions with the purpose of listening, not simply replying. A few times, I caught myself actually talking about myself and my past.
Like, actually putting myself out there. And not once did I try to pull it all back.
My phone is sitting on my nightstand, and I’m too afraid to check it for fear she hasn’t texted. The disappointment scares me more than it should.
Holding my breath like I’m about to step off a cliff, I tap the screen to wake up the phone.
Texts are littering my background photo of a hockey rink, but none of my notifications are from her. They’re from the nurse at the care facility, my coach, and my teammates.
I guess I could text her.
Last night was great. I’d like to see you again. Was that a date, by the way?
Not a chance in hell I’m saying any of those things. And I shouldn’t even be thinking about this stuff until after the game. I need my focus, to be locked in, so it’s best to just be a waffle and put those thoughts in one of the little compartments made for butter.
Why do I get the feeling that’s something Violet would say?
Is she rubbing off on me already?
I see a text from Paige asking if I want to hit the arcade after the game today. My knee-jerk reaction is to say no, but I’m here with my team, and we need to be bonding.
A small flame ignites in my chest; the thought is almost a bit much for me. So before I can back out, I start typing.
Skye: Sure. Mind if I bring a friend?
Fuck. That was stupid.
I don’t even know if Violet would want to go.
Or if she can. She seems to be enjoying her time out exploring Milan, based on how she described her adventures to me.
And when she told me about her attempt at ordering a coffee in Italian, I actually cackled.
I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.
Since before Keisha was diagnosed.
Paige: Oooooo! Care to share a few details?
I stay silent. Paige knows I won't give up any information. Talking about Violet would feel like peeling my skin off, and it would sting twice as bad if I did, only for Violet not to show.
Paige: Yeah, I didn’t figure. I’ll ask again after the game.
I can’t help but smirk at Paige’s text. She sure is relentless when it comes to getting into my brain. I give her credit for trying.
Skye: Hey, I have a game early this morning, but the team is heading out to the arcade afterward. I was wondering if you’d like to come along with us.
I send it off to Violet before I can second-guess myself as I head in the direction of the shower. I’m barely a few feet away when I hear the chime of a text, and launch myself from one side of the bed to the other, gripping my phone like it’s a fish out of water.
The size of my smile makes my face hurt when I read her reply. I set my phone down, unable to peel my eyes away.
Violet: Thank you for the invite! I’d love to!
And I’m going to ride that high the whole way through today’s game.
I don’t usually mix worlds. Hockey stays with hockey. The rest of my life stays separate. It’s more controlled that way.
So walking into Ronin, the arcade, with Violet at my side feels a little like stepping onto the ice without a helmet.
She’s dressed in tight jeans, a soft white sweater, brown boots, and simple earrings. I love that she can make such a simple look feel like she just popped out of a magazine. Even her strawberry-blonde hair cascading down her back seems intentionally perfect.
Ronin is loud in a way that doesn’t apologize for it. Neon lights bouncing off polished floors, arcade machines chiming and flashing, music thudding just enough to blur conversations together. It smells like fried food and overheated electronics.
The team picked it because it’s chaotic and fun, and no one has to pretend to be serious here. Plus, we have rented the only private room. A perk of being on an Olympic hockey team.
I glance at Violet as we step inside, and I make a mental note to ask her why she just waved at the security camera behind the bar.
She’s taking everything in with wide-eyed curiosity, trying not to look overwhelmed, but if I know anything about her, her mind is nothing but static.
There’s this spark in her expression when something is new and exciting, and I feel that jolt in my chest again.
“Welcome to the least professional team bonding environment possible,” I whisper, leaning in closer so she can hear me.
She laughs, and I swear that sound hits harder than any check I’ve taken into the boards.
The team is already clustered near the basketball hoops and the air hockey tables. I spot Paige first, because I always do. She’s leaning against a machine, arms folded, watching everything the same way she does from the net.
Then, her eyes land on me before flicking toward Violet. Her brow lifts, and I give her a responding look that says behave.
She smirks.
One of my other centers looks in our direction and waves. Violet notices and waves back, but leans in close to whisper between clenched teeth as she smiles, “Who is that?”
“Riley,” I reply, being a lot less secretive about the conversation. The team won’t expect her to come in here knowing who everyone is. Questions are natural. “She’s psychic.”
“Psychic?” Violet repeats, losing the ability to hide her questions in a Barbie-style smile.
I laugh and nod. “Oddly enough, her gut is rarely wrong.”
Then I notice Rissa, my assistant captain. She’s walking toward us, a burst of kinetic energy that makes the neon lights seem dim in comparison.
“This her?” Rissa asks, not unkindly, but direct. Very Rissa. Her purple-streaked auburn hair is piled into a messy bun that defies gravity, a few strands framing her freckled face.
“Yeah, Riss,” I say, glaring toward Paige, who apparently told everyone on the planet that I brought someone to hang out with the team. “This is Violet.”
There’s a beat where Rissa sizes her up. Protective and a little challenging, but Violet doesn’t shrink. She smiles and says, “Hello. What’s Rissa short for?” like she’s used to handling big personalities.
I’m sure she does with other surgeons' egos and the fact that she’s a woman in the medical field. I can imagine that’s similar to being a woman in the sports industry.
I feel something in my chest loosen.
Rissa nods once. “Clarissa.”
I’m surprised she shared that.
“But if you like your face intact, I’d stick to Rissa.”
I want to reach forward and grab her by the neck, but that won’t do me any good. Rissa is very blunt and says things in a way that won’t have you questioning what she wants. “You any good at air hockey?” Rissa’s version of a peace offering.
Violet doesn’t even look to me for permission. She strolls off with Rissa, and I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but they’re colorful with their movements as they head toward the table.
Paige finally approaches me, tucking a brown lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re bringing civilians around now, Cappy?”
I bump her shoulder lightly, and she stares at the contact between us. That’s when I realize I never touch anyone. “Shut up,” I finally say.
Her expression softens, but her hazel eyes remain on Violet. “She seems good.”
“She’s better than good,” I counter before I can stop myself.
Paige notices. Of course she does, she always fucking does. I appreciate that about her, and hate it all at once.
Thankfully, she lets it go.
The night unfolds more easily than I expected.
Violet’s hair is now up in a messy bun, mirroring half of my team, as she laughs when Rissa trash-talks her over air hockey.
She nearly beats Liv, one of our defensemen, over at the basketball hoops.
She listens when Paige explains some obscure goalie superstition, like it’s fascinating instead of ridiculous.
And I find myself watching her. Not in a distant way. Just… watching.
There’s a moment when Violet wins a round of air hockey and turns toward me, triumphant, eyes bright, searching for my reaction first, not the team’s.
Mine.
That jolt hits again, stronger this time.
I’m not good at this part. The part where I let someone see the edges of my world. The part where my team watches me watch someone. But they’re not tense or closed off. If anything, they’re approving.
Rissa claps Violet on the back after a game. “She’s alright, Skye.” Like she’s granting me official clearance to move forward with whatever my plan is. “I’ll bet she’s in a number thirteen jersey before the end of the week.”