Chapter Eleven Violet
Chapter Eleven
Violet
I’m on cloud nine.
Unless cloud ten is an option, because the way I’m feeling right now is incredible. Who knew that Skye would drift into my life and make me feel… alive. I lean my back against the closed hotel room door and take a deep breath.
Cloud nine. Skye.
“Now that’s punny.” I laugh at myself as I finally push myself off the door and head into my room. With the women’s team being occupied for the rest of the night, I’ve decided it’s the perfect time to marinate in bath water and then slip into my comfy sweatpants that Cassie made sure were packed.
Swish. Swish.
My foot makes a noise with every step I take, and when I finally look down, I realize I have someone’s trash stuck to me. “How long has that been there?” I groan, hoping Skye didn’t notice. That would be so embarrassing.
When I peel it off my shoe, I see it’s a handwritten note. The paper is cheap, the kind that tears easily at the edges.
No envelope.
No signature.
Just my name. Well, one of my names.
“Solace”. Nice cover.
The handwriting is neat. To me, that’s worse than messy because it says they were careful when they wrote it.
I’m standing perfectly still in the middle of the entryway. My phone rings, but I don’t answer it. I let the sound of my ringtone fill the air around me because noise means life is still happening the way it should.
I try to swallow, but my throat has gone dry.
Being brave in this situation is not an option, and I continue to tell myself that as my fingers tighten around the paper until it’s crumpled.
I need to tell Michel, but do I really need to bother him while he’s trying to enjoy his own vacation with his husband? We aren’t even staying in the same hotel, so he’d have to go out of his way for something that could be nothing.
Cassie would know what to do, but she’s working. Although I know she’d answer the phone if I called. And Theo can burn in hell. Though I’d like to believe that he’s still human enough to understand the severity of this situation and would be here to tell me I’ll be okay.
I’ve done everything I can to keep Solace under wraps.
I wear the wig, I polish the mask, and I make sure not to gain any weight so the bodysuit fits me perfectly.
It’s not like I can’t have a new bodysuit made, but the shipping is always a sketchy thing to deal with.
Ollie had to pull a lot of strings to get me the one I have now, and she’s done so much for me already.
Ollie knows what I survived with Aethelgard.
I fear that if I become more trouble than I’m worth, she’ll drop me.
Sure, I top the charts, and I make her a fortune.
But she can’t market Solace the same way as her other clients.
There’s no personal life to flaunt, no paparazzi trail.
Thanks to Michel’s intricate escape routes, I vanish after every show.
I’m a ghost that prints money. And ghosts are notoriously hard to sell.
Fuck.
A shaky breath escapes me before I can stop it.
If it happens again, I’ll bother Michel. I just don’t need to ruffle any feathers until I’m sure it’s a problem.
And let’s hope it’s not a problem.
After dealing with the guy at the counter for the second time, two times too many, I went to the hotel gym and ran until I swore the treadmill was going to unplug itself.
Don’t show signs of weakness.
I’m convinced that if I pretend I didn’t see the note, nothing bad can happen. Solace will remain a secret. Skye will keep making my heart do butterflies. And I don’t have to tell Ollie that I’m going to retire.
Easy.
It’s ten o’clock at night by the time I get back to my room from the gym. I cautiously open the door, checking the floor for any signs of a second note.
Nothing.
“Safe,” I whisper.
I close the door, feeling relief from the sound of the lock clicking into place, and I decide that now is a good time for a bubble bath and sweatpants before I try to get some sleep.
I drift off to sleep to thoughts of my first hockey game tomorrow. Getting to watch it in person and hopefully understanding enough about the game that I don’t make a fool of myself while I cheer for Skye.
Her name is the last thing I remember before sleep takes me deep into the darkness.
The arena smells like cold air, determination, and something fried.
I’m standing in the entrance for a moment longer than necessary, clutching my paper cup of coffee as if it might anchor me. The ice is stretched out in a bright white sheet under harsh light, carved up by red and blue lines that mean absolutely nothing to me.
I’ve never been to a hockey game before, and I have no idea how long these last. All I know is that Skye wanted me to be here, and there was no way in hell I was going to say no to that.
It matters to her that I’m here.
That thought pulls my mouth into a smile that would have someone asking if I needed to be admitted into the hospital.
Crazy girl conspiring by the eastern concession stand.
Looking around, I notice there are hardly any empty seats. Fans hold flags with their faces covered in paint. I note the amount of number 13 pieces scattered throughout the crowd, and warmth pools in my chest. Rissa or Paige mentioned Skye was number 13 when we were at the arcade.
All of a sudden, that’s my favorite number.
I find my seat along the plexiglass wall, settle, and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I scan the ice.
A few minutes later, the referees, or are they called officials in hockey, skate out onto the ice. They’re doing laps and warming themselves up, which surprises me a little since they only stand there and watch the game.
Right?
“That official is so hot,” the girl beside me announces to her friend.
Official. Got it.
I analyze the girls sitting next to me. How do teens afford to attend an Olympic game? I can’t imagine the tickets here are cheap, unless their family is playing?
My phone chimes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a stern text message, even though Michel knows his tone does not affect me.
Michel: You better be staying out of trouble. What’s your location?
He and I both know that my phone is traced for him and Ollie. I’m sure he’s just testing to see if I’ll answer.
Violet: Watching the women’s hockey game.
The bubbles pop up and disappear a few times before I get the text I knew was coming.
Michel: Sally the camel has…
Rolling my eyes, I reply to our code text, letting him know I haven’t been kidnapped or taken hostage by a crazy person.
Violet: Three humps. Very funny.
Michel: So you’re actually watching sports. I’m glad you’re branching out.
My eyes dart toward the tunnels the hockey players will funnel through once they’re announced, and part of me wants to tell Michel about Skye. But I think I’ll keep that one to myself for a little while longer.
Violet: What are you and Tommy getting into today?
Michel: Tommy heard something about a tree growing out of a skyscraper.
That’s all he has to say. Michel may be strict with me, but he’s always given Tommy anything he wants. It’s actually kind of sweet.
The intercom jumps to life as the commentators yell, “Welcome to the final preliminary game in the women’s Olympic hockey event.”
I can just make out what he says over the hum of the crowd and the echo of the speakers in the arena.
I send off another quick text, telling Michel to have fun, and let myself sink into the moment with the crowd.
I don’t know what the announcer says next, but I hear him say “Canada” as a group of women skate out onto the ice. The people in the surrounding seats start cheering and screaming, and I feel out of place as I’m sandwiched among fans of the opposing team.
Hopefully, they don’t get rowdy and accidentally elbow me in the face when they find out I’m rooting against them.
The announcers call for “Team USA,” and I can’t help but get to my feet as they skate out onto the rink. I notice Skye right away. Even in all her gear, she’s unmistakable.
The way she moves is fast and sharp. She cuts across the ice with her stick in hand. She owns it.
I’ve seen Skye confident, at dinner, at the arcade, leaning over the air hockey table with that half-smirk. But this is different. It’s electric.
Canada’s team doesn’t even exist to me, as I recognize the faces that I met just last night. They’re huddled around Paige, who is squatting in front of the net in her full goalie gear. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they all seem thrilled to be here.
Who wouldn’t be?
After a few minutes, they’re lined up in the middle of the rink. It’s almost like the football game I went to in high school, but there’s an official standing beside Skye and the player from the opposite team.
The puck drops, and the noise in the room doubles. I startle as the players are slammed into the glass.
“Is that allowed?” I mutter to no one, unable to blink as Skye rights herself and takes off like a bullet toward the puck.
Apparently, it’s allowed and totally normal.
My eyes aren’t moving fast enough to keep up with the puck. It keeps vanishing into the blur of sticks and skates, and every time the crowd gasps, I gasp a half second later because I’m slightly behind.
“Oh my God,” I gasp as a shot rockets toward our goalie.
Paige.
Even under the massive pads and cage mask, I can still recognize her. She has the same easy confidence from the arcade, just sharpened. She’s crouched low in front of the net, tracking the puck with terrifying focus.
Paige drops and blocks it without hesitation. The sound of the puck against her pads echoes, and the crowd erupts.
I find myself jumping to my feet, cheering with everyone else.
“Yeah, Paige,” I yell, then blink to myself.
When I sit back down, I notice something else. Every time there is a whistle, for whatever reason, the team seems to orbit Skye. They skate toward her, leaning in close, sticks tapping the ice as they speak. Quick nods and sharp gestures.
Skye points once, then twice, drawing invisible lines in the air with her gloves.