Chapter Three
Violet
"You're acting weird," my roommate Sage announces the moment I walk into our dorm room.
She's sprawled across her bed with her psychology textbook, highlighting what appears to be every single word on the page, which probably defeats the purpose of highlighting but I've given up trying to explain effective study techniques to her.
"I'm not acting weird," I protest, dropping my backpack and trying to look casual instead of like someone who's spent the last two hours mentally replaying a conversation about pucks and flower comparisons.
"You're glowing," she continues, squinting at me over her textbook. "Like, literally glowing. Did you discover some kind of new skincare routine, or did something happen with Hockey Boy?"
I should never have mentioned Jason to Sage. It was a moment of weakness three days ago when she caught me staring dreamily at nothing while eating cereal, and now she refers to him exclusively as "Hockey Boy" like he's some kind of superhero whose power is making me lose basic motor functions.
"His name is Jason," I say for the hundredth time. "And nothing happened. We just... talked."
"Talked," Sage repeats, setting down her highlighter with the kind of dramatic flourish that probably comes from taking too many theater electives. "About what, exactly?"
"Pucks," I admit reluctantly.
"Pucks."
"And flowers. Sort of."
Sage sits up straighter, sensing gossip the way sharks sense blood in the water. "Flowers? Violet, what exactly happened at practice today?"
So I tell her. About the Great Puck Disaster of Tuesday afternoon, about Jason helping me collect scattered equipment, about the way he looked at me when he said my eyes were the same color as his mother's violets. By the time I finish, Sage is grinning like she's just solved world hunger.
"Oh my God," she squeals, "he totally likes you!"
"You don't know that," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know I'm fighting a losing battle. "He was just being nice. Hockey players are probably required to help when equipment explodes."
"Hockey players are required to help with pucks," Sage says patiently, "but they're definitely not required to make sweet comments about your eyes. That's advanced-level flirting, Vi."
The thing about Sage is that she's a psychology major with a minor in what she calls "reading people like open books." She's been analyzing human behavior since we were paired as roommates freshman year, and her track record for identifying romantic interest is annoyingly accurate.
"Even if he does like me," I say, flopping down at my desk, "what am I supposed to do about it? I'm the equipment manager. There are probably rules about fraternizing with players."
"Are there actually rules," Sage asks, "or are you just making excuses because you're scared?"
I consider this question seriously. "Both?"
"Violet," Sage says, her voice getting that gentle but firm tone she uses when she's about to dispense unsolicited wisdom, "you've had exactly three crushes in the two and a half years I've known you.
The computer science major who turned out to be dating someone in his advanced algorithms class, the barista at the engineering building café who was definitely gay, and now Jason.
This is the first time one of them has actually shown interest back. "
She's not wrong. My dating history could generously be described as "limited" and more accurately described as "nonexistent.
" It's not that I'm not interested in dating—it's just that most guys seem to fall into one of two categories: intimidated by the fact that I can explain thermodynamics, or weirdly fetishistic about dating an "engineer girl" like I'm some kind of exotic specimen.
Jason, somehow, seems to fall into neither category. He wasn't intimidated when I started rambling about word etymology, and he definitely wasn't treating me like a novelty item. He was just normal. Sweet. Funny.
"What if he doesn’t really like me?" I ask, voicing the fear that's been nagging at me since I walked out of the rink. "What if I read the whole situation wrong and make things awkward?"
"What if you don't mess it up?" Sage counters. "What if this turns into something amazing and you spend the rest of your life grateful that you were brave enough to try?"
Before I can respond to that terrifying possibility, my phone buzzes with a text message. I glance at the screen and nearly drop the phone entirely.
It's from Jason.
"Oh my God, he texted me," I whisper, staring at the message like it might disappear if I blink. I wonder how he got my number? Then I remember it’s on the team contact list.
"What does it say?" Sage demands, practically launching herself off her bed to peer over my shoulder.
I read the message out loud: "Hey, this might be weird, but I realized I don't actually know anything about mechanical engineering. Want to grab coffee sometime and educate me? I promise not to ask you to explain how ice machines work."
"That," Sage announces triumphantly, "is officially the cutest text message in the history of text messages."
I read it again, then a third time, trying to process the fact that Jason Harrison just asked me out. Sort of. Maybe? Is asking someone to educate you about their major the same as asking them out?
"It's not technically a date," I say, because apparently my brain's default setting is "find reasons why good things aren't actually happening."
"Violet Rose Thompson," Sage says, using my full name which she only does when she's about to say something important, "that man just asked you to spend one-on-one time with him so you can talk about something you're passionate about. If that's not a date, it's at least date-adjacent."
She has a point. And the fact that he remembered I'm a mechanical engineering major, plus his promise not to ask about ice machines (which suggests he actually listened when I was complaining about people's weird assumptions about engineering), indicates a level of thoughtfulness that makes my heart do those annoying fluttery things again.
"So what do I say?" I ask, staring at my phone like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"You say yes, obviously," Sage replies. "But play it cool. Don't respond immediately—you don't want to seem desperate."
"How long should I wait?"
"Like, ten minutes. Long enough to seem like you have a life, short enough to show you're interested."
I set my phone down and try to focus on literally anything else for the next ten minutes. This proves impossible, because every time I glance at the clock, only thirty seconds have passed, and time appears to have slowed down to the pace of continental drift.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, picking up my thermodynamics textbook and attempting to review heat transfer principles. "I'm a rational, logical person. I should be able to handle a simple text message response."
"You're a rational, logical person who's never been asked out by someone she actually likes," Sage points out helpfully. "This is uncharted territory."
She's right, which is annoying. I can design mechanical systems, solve complex mathematical equations, and troubleshoot equipment problems that would stump most people, but apparently I cannot compose a casual text message without having a minor existential crisis.
After what feels like three hours but is probably closer to eight minutes, I finally type back: "I'd love to. Fair warning though—mechanical engineering is way more interesting than most people expect. You might end up learning about stress analysis and material properties."
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then immediately panic about whether mentioning stress analysis was too nerdy, even for someone who specifically asked to learn about engineering.
Jason's response comes back almost immediately: "Perfect. I could use some stress analysis in my life. How about tomorrow after practice? There's a coffee shop in the engineering building, right?"
"Yes," I type back, "and their coffee is surprisingly good for a place that's basically a cafeteria."
"Great. It's a date. Well, an educational consultation. With coffee."
I stare at that message for a full thirty seconds, focusing particularly on the phrase "it's a date." Even with his immediate correction to "educational consultation," the word "date" is right there in black and white, making my heart rate spike like I've just run a marathon.
"He said it's a date!" I announce to Sage, who's been watching this entire exchange with the fascination of someone observing a particularly interesting psychological experiment.
"Of course he did," she says smugly. "I told you he likes you."
The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of anticipation, anxiety, and outfit changes.
I probably try on six different combinations before settling on black jeans and a pink pull-over that Sage assures me is "cute but not trying too hard," which seems like exactly the right vibe for an educational consultation that may or may not be a date.
I arrive at the engineering building coffee shop fifteen minutes early, because apparently when I'm nervous, I lose all sense of appropriate timing.
The café is mostly empty except for a few graduate students who look like they've been living on caffeine and desperation for the past week, which is pretty standard for this place.
I order a latte and find a table by the window, trying to look casual while internally rehearsing conversation topics that are interesting but not overwhelming. I've just opened my mechanical engineering textbook (as a prop, mostly) when I see Jason walking across the courtyard toward the building.
He's not in hockey gear for once, just jeans and a UW sweatshirt, and somehow he looks even better in regular clothes. There's something about seeing him in normal-person attire that makes him seem more real, more accessible, less like the impossibly attractive athlete I've been admiring from afar.