Chapter One
Violet
"Son of a…big brown bear!" The words escape my mouth before I can stop them, which is what happens when seventy-five hockey pucks decide to stage a coordinated escape attempt across the ice.
One minute I'm setting up for practice like a competent human being, the next I'm sprawled on my hands and knees chasing rubber discs like some kind of demented Easter egg hunt.
This is exactly the kind of professional impression I was hoping to avoid during my second week as equipment manager for the University of Washington Eagles hockey team.
"Need some help there?"
I freeze at the sound of that voice—the same voice that's been haunting my dreams and making me walk into doors for the past two weeks. Slowly, I look up from my position of complete humiliation to find Jason Harrison standing over me, and I swear my heart stops beating entirely.
He's still in full goalie gear from practice, his dark hair sticking up at impossible angles where his helmet mussed it, and he's got this slightly amused smile that makes my stomach do things that probably violate several laws of nature.
Worse, he's looking at me like I'm not just the equipment girl having a complete meltdown, but like I'm actually worth stopping practice to help.
"These pucks have declared war on me," I say, because apparently when I'm mortified, I blame sporting goods for my problems. "And they're winning badly."
Jason laughs and the sound makes every nerve ending in my body light up like a Christmas tree. "Gravity's overrated anyway," he says, dropping down to help collect the escaped pucks. "I've been fighting it for three years, and it keeps kicking my ass."
And just like that, we're both crouched on the ice, gathering pucks together, and I'm trying very hard not to think about how this is the closest I've ever been to Jason Harrison or how good he smells even after an hour of hockey practice, which should probably be illegal.
The thing about Jason that makes my brain turn to mush is that he's not just ridiculously attractive in that tall, athletic, perfect-bone-structure way.
He's also genuinely funny, with this self-deprecating humor that makes him seem real instead of just another hockey player who thinks he's God's gift to womankind.
Plus, he's incredibly talented. I've spent enough time watching practice (purely for professional reasons, obviously) to know that he's way better than either of the starting goalies.
He moves like he was born to play this position, reads plays like he can see the future, and makes saves that should be physically impossible.
The fact that Coach Higgins keeps him warming the bench makes about as much sense as putting socks on a rooster.
"You know," I say, feeling slightly braver as we work together to wrangle the rebellious pucks, "there are these revolutionary inventions called lids. They're specifically designed to prevent round objects from staging dramatic escapes."
"Lids," he repeats, nodding with mock seriousness. "That's some next-level thinking right there. You engineers are always coming up with these breakthrough concepts."
He's teasing me, and instead of being annoyed, I feel warm and fluttery in ways that are definitely not appropriate for someone who's supposed to be working.
I need to get it together before I do something truly embarrassing, like forget how to form complete sentences or trip over my own feet.
Which, knowing my track record around Jason, is entirely possible.
"I'm Jason, by the way," he says, like we haven't been working in the same building for two weeks and I haven't been secretly timing my equipment checks to coincide with his practice sessions.
"Violet," I reply. "Like the flower, not the color. Though they're technically related because—" I catch myself before I can launch into an unnecessary lecture about etymology. "Sorry. I have this habit of over-explaining things."
"No, that's cool," Jason says, and he actually sounds like he means it. "I was just thinking your eyes are the same color as my mom's violets."
I nearly drop every puck I've managed to collect.
Did Jason Harrison—star of approximately ninety percent of my daydreams—just compare my eyes to his mother's flowers?
And not in some cheesy pickup line way, but in this sweet, thoughtful way that suggests he's actually been looking at my eyes long enough to make botanical comparisons?
My brain, which was already functioning at reduced capacity due to his proximity, now completely short-circuits. I can feel my face turning the approximate color of a fire engine, and I'm grateful for the cold rink air because at least I can pretend that's why my cheeks are burning.
"That's..." I start, then realize I have absolutely no idea how to respond to unexpected sweetness. My engineering coursework did not prepare me for this scenario. "That's really sweet."
We're both quiet for a moment, focused on gathering pucks, but there's this weird tension in the air now.
The good kind of tension, like right before something important happens in a movie.
I can hear the sounds of practice continuing around us—skates scraping on ice, the crack of sticks hitting pucks, Coach Higgins barking instructions—but it all feels distant, like we're in our own little bubble.
"So," Jason says, tossing a handful of pucks into my equipment bag, "how are you liking the job so far? Besides the puck rebellions, I mean."
"It's good," I say, which is a massive understatement.
The truth is, I love this job more than I probably should.
Sure, it's just managing equipment, but there's something incredibly satisfying about keeping all the gear in perfect condition, solving problems before they become disasters, and being part of a team, even if it's from behind the scenes.
"Though I'm starting to think the pucks have some kind of grudge against me specifically. "
"Nah," Jason grins, "they do that to everyone. Last week Keith tried to set up for a drill and ended up chasing pucks all the way to the concession stand. We found him there twenty minutes later, stress-eating nachos."
The mental image of Keith Lexington—six-foot-three and built like a tank—defeated by runaway pucks and drowning his sorrows in stadium nachos is so ridiculous that I actually snort-laugh. Which is attractive. Really setting the bar high here, Violet.
But Jason doesn't seem to mind my ungraceful response. If anything, his smile gets wider, like he's pleased he made me laugh.
"The equipment room reorganization you did is incredible, by the way," he continues. "I can actually find things now, which is a minor miracle. Tyler spent half of last season looking for his backup gloves."
"They were behind the helmet rack," I say automatically. "No one ever thinks to look behind the helmet rack."
"See? You're a problem-solver. That's way more useful than being able to stop pucks."
I look at him incredulously. "Are you seriously underselling your own abilities right now? You're amazing in goal. Like, genuinely incredible. I've watched you practice, and you're better than—"
I stop myself before I can finish that sentence, because criticizing the starting goalies probably isn't the smartest career move for the new equipment manager.
"Better than what?" Jason asks, and there's something in his voice that makes me think he really wants to hear the answer.
"Better than you give yourself credit for," I say diplomatically.
Jason studies my face for a moment, like he's trying to figure out if I'm just being nice or if I actually mean it. "You really think so?"
"I know so," I say, and I mean it completely. "Coach Higgins is missing something obvious if he can't see how good you are."
Before Jason can respond to that, Coach Higgins's whistle cuts through the moment like a buzz saw through a romantic comedy.
"Harrison! Stop flirting and get back in there! These saves won't practice themselves!"
If it were possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment, I'd be nothing but a small pile of ash right now.
Coach Higgins just announced to the entire team that Jason was flirting with me, which means every single player on this ice now knows something was happening over here in the Great Puck Disaster of Tuesday afternoon.
Jason's face turns an interesting shade of pink that somehow makes him even more attractive, which seems fundamentally unfair.
"Sorry," he says quietly, and I can't tell if he's apologizing for the coach's comment or for the fact that we were apparently obviously flirting. "I should get back."
"Right," I manage. "Practice. Important. Pucks to stop."
Pucks to stop? Did I actually just say "pucks to stop"? This is what happens when my brain tries to function under extreme duress—it starts producing word combinations that would make a kindergartener question my language skills.
Jason grins at my verbal disaster, which is both mortifying and oddly endearing. "Exactly. Pucks to stop."
He starts to skate away, then turns back. "Hey, Violet?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for saying that. About the goalie stuff. It means a lot."
And then he's gone, gliding back toward the goal with that effortless grace that makes watching him play feel like watching poetry in motion.
I'm left standing there with my arms full of pucks and the growing realization that I am in serious, serious trouble.
Because that was definitely flirting. Mutual, obvious, witnessed-by-the-entire-hockey-team flirting.
And instead of being sensible about it, instead of remembering that I'm here to do a job and he's probably just being nice to the awkward equipment girl, my traitorous heart is doing victory laps around my chest cavity.
I finish collecting the remaining pucks, hyper-aware of the fact that several players are now shooting curious glances in my direction.
Great. I've been on this job for exactly two weeks, and I've already become the subject of hockey team gossip.
This is definitely not how I planned to make my mark in the sports world.
Keith skates by and gives me a knowing smirk. "Nice work with the pucks, Violet."
"Thanks," I mutter, but I can feel myself blushing again.
Tyler follows close behind. "Harrison's been a lot more cheerful lately. Wonder why that is."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lie, focusing very intently on arranging pucks in perfectly straight lines.
"Sure you don't," Tyler says with a grin. "Just saying, the guy deserves some good luck for once."
As the players continue their practice, I can't help but think about what Tyler said.
Jason does deserve good luck. He's talented, hardworking, and genuinely kind—all qualities that should have earned him more playing time by now.
Instead, he's stuck behind two goalies who, while good, aren't nearly as naturally gifted as he is.
I've already seen enough to know that Jason is the heart of this group.
He's the one who stays late to help younger players work on their technique.
He's the one who keeps morale up during brutal practice sessions and who remembers everyone's birthdays and organizes team dinners and somehow makes warming the bench look dignified.
Watching him practice, I can see exactly what Coach Higgins is missing.
Jason doesn't just stop pucks—he controls the entire defensive zone from his position, reading plays three moves ahead and directing his teammates with subtle gestures that most people wouldn't even notice.
He's like a chess master playing checkers against everyone else, and somehow he makes it look effortless.
When he makes this incredible glove save on a shot that should have been unstoppable, my heart does this ridiculous little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with appreciating athletic technique.
The worst part? When he catches me watching and flashes that crooked smile that makes my knees forget how to function properly, I realize I'm already falling. And unlike Jason's battle with gravity, I'm pretty sure I don't want to win this fight.