Chapter Six
Jason
I'm standing outside Morrison Hall checking my reflection in my car window for the third time when I realize I'm being ridiculous.
It's not like Violet hasn't seen me before—we've talked plenty of times, spent two hours discussing mechanical engineering over coffee, and somehow managed to have actual conversations without me looking like a complete idiot.
So why do I feel like I'm about to pick up the most intimidating woman on campus?
Maybe because she is the most intimidating woman on campus, in the best possible way.
Smart enough to redesign our entire equipment system, funny enough to make puck-collecting sound like stand-up comedy, and attractive enough that I've started timing my workouts to avoid running into her when I'm a sweaty mess.
Not that it's worked particularly well, considering she's seen me at my sweatiest during practice, but a guy can try.
I check my phone: 6:58 PM. Perfect timing—early enough to seem eager, not so early that I look like I've been sitting in my car for twenty minutes.
Which I definitely haven't been doing. That would be pathetic.
The fact that I've been here for exactly twenty-three minutes is completely coincidental.
I text her that I'm downstairs and immediately start second-guessing my restaurant choice.
When I picked Mama Rosa's, it seemed perfect—good food, casual atmosphere, the kind of place where you can actually have a conversation without shouting over pretentious background music.
But now I'm wondering if I should have chosen somewhere more impressive, more date-worthy.
What if she was expecting somewhere fancy? What if she thinks I'm cheap? What if she's dressed up and I'm taking her to a place that serves breadsticks in baskets?
I meet her at the entrance to her dormitory building. Before I can spiral too far into restaurant anxiety, Violet emerges, and every coherent thought in my head immediately evaporates.
She looks incredible. Not in a trying-too-hard way, just effortlessly beautiful in jeans and a soft gray sweater that somehow makes her eyes look even more violet than usual. Her hair is down and wavy, and when she spots me and smiles, I forget how to breathe for a second.
"Hi," she says, and even that simple greeting makes my heart do something that probably isn't medically advisable.
"Hi yourself," I manage. "You look amazing."
She blushes slightly, which is adorable and makes me want to find more ways to make her blush throughout the evening.
When I open the car door, I get a whiff of her amazing smelling perfume—a mix of garden flowers.
"Thanks," she says, sliding into the passenger seat. "You clean up pretty well yourself."
I'm wearing khakis and a button-down shirt—nothing fancy, but definitely a step up from my usual uniform of practice gear and sweatshirts. The fact that she noticed makes something warm settle in my chest.
"So," Violet says as I get into the driver's seat, "are you going to tell me where we're going, or is this one of those mysterious surprise situations?"
"Mysterious surprise," I say, starting the car. "Though I should probably warn you, it's not anywhere fancy. I hope that's okay."
"Fancy is overrated," she replies, and she sounds like she actually means it. "Some of the best experiences happen in completely ordinary places."
This is exactly why I like her. No pretense, no expectation that I need to impress her with expensive restaurants or elaborate gestures. Just genuine interest in spending time together, regardless of the setting.
"Good," I say, pulling away from the curb, "because Mama Rosa's definitely qualifies as ordinary."
"Mama Rosa's," Violet repeats thoughtfully. "That's the Italian place on Pine Street, right? With the checkered tablecloths and the owner who think she’s everyone’s long lost grandmother?"
I glance over at her, surprised. "You know it?"
"I may have done some... research," she admits, and there's something in her tone that suggests this research was more extensive than casual Google searching.
"Research," I repeat, grinning. "Should I be flattered or concerned that you've been investigating me?"
"Definitely flattered," she says quickly. "And maybe slightly concerned, depending on how you feel about thoroughness."
"I'm a goalie," I point out. "Thoroughness is basically my job description. I have to analyze every possible angle, anticipate every potential shot, prepare for scenarios that might never happen."
"That's actually a really good point," Violet says, sounding genuinely thoughtful. "Goalies and engineers probably have more in common than most people realize."
I laugh, because she's absolutely right. "You've obviously never watched a hockey game where the defense leaves the goalie hung out to dry and then everyone acts like it's his fault when the other team scores."
"I've actually watched quite a few hockey games," Violet says, and there's something almost shy in her voice. "More than I probably should admit."
"Yeah? What got you interested in hockey?"
There's a pause, and when I glance over at her, she's looking out the window with a slight smile.
"Honestly?" she says. "You did."
My heart does that thing again where it forgets how to beat normally. "Me?"
"I started paying attention during practice because I wanted to understand what you were doing back there. All the positioning and anticipation and split-second decision-making. It's actually fascinating."
She started watching hockey because of me. Because she wanted to understand what I do. The thought that Violet has been paying enough attention to analyze my playing style makes me feel like I could probably stop every shot in the universe right now.
"That's..." I start, then realize I have no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding like a complete sap.
"Nerdy?" she suggests. "Weird? Mildly stalkerish?"
"Perfect," I say honestly. "That's perfect."
When we get to Mama Rosa's, I'm relieved to see that it's busy but not too loud. The hostess seats us at a corner table with, as promised, checkered tablecloths and wine bottles with candles stuck in them.
"This is great," Violet says, looking around with genuine appreciation. "It feels homey."
"That's exactly why I picked it," I admit. "I wanted somewhere we could actually talk."
"Plus, the breadsticks are legendary," Violet adds, and I'm once again struck by how much I like that she's done her homework.
"You really did research this place, didn't you?"
"I may have read every review on three different websites," she confesses. "And possibly memorized the menu."
"Should I be impressed or worried about your information-gathering capabilities?"
"Impressed," she says firmly. "Definitely impressed. I'm very thorough when something matters to me."
The way she says "when something matters to me" while looking directly at me makes my stomach flip in the best possible way.
Our server appears—a college-aged guy who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else—and takes our drink orders.
I get a beer, Violet orders a glass of wine, and then we're left alone with the menu and the increasingly obvious fact that this is actually happening.
I'm on a real date with Violet, and she's sitting across from me looking beautiful and interested and like she actually wants to be here.
"So," I say, trying to play it cool, "tell me something I don't know about you."
"Something you don't know," she repeats, considering. "Hmm. I'm actually terrible at cooking."
"Define terrible."
"I once tried to make pasta and somehow managed to burn water."
I stare at her. "How do you burn water?"
"I forgot I was boiling it, and it all evaporated, and then the pot got so hot it started smoking," she explains, grinning at my expression. "The smoke alarm went off, my roommate thought there was a fire, and I had to explain that I'd committed a crime against basic chemistry."
"That's actually impressive," I say. "In a deeply concerning way."
"Right? Sage says I'm proof that intelligence doesn't transfer between domains. I can design mechanical systems, but apparently I can't operate a stove without adult supervision."
The server brings our drinks, and I notice the way Violet wraps her fingers around her wine glass, the way her thumb traces the stem while she talks. It's a small gesture, probably unconscious, but something about it makes me hyperaware of her hands, of the graceful way she moves.
"What about you?" she asks. "Secret hidden talents or embarrassing failures?"
"I'm actually a pretty good cook," I admit. "My mom insisted all her kids learn basic life skills before leaving for college."
"That's not embarrassing, that's impressive. What's your specialty?"
"I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich," I say seriously.
Violet laughs, and the sound makes me want to spend the rest of the evening finding new ways to make her laugh.
"Grilled cheese," she repeats. "That's your culinary claim to fame?"
"Don't knock it until you've tried it. There's an art to achieving the perfect bread-to-cheese ratio, optimal heat distribution, proper timing. It's basically engineering, but delicious."
"Now you're speaking my language," she says, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me about your methodology."
And somehow we spend the next twenty minutes discussing the physics of grilled cheese preparation with the kind of intensity most people reserve for life-changing decisions.
"This is why I like you," I say, cutting into my chicken parmesan.
"Because I take grilled cheese seriously?"
"Because you take everything seriously, but in this curious, enthusiastic way that makes ordinary things seem interesting."
She pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, and there's something in her expression that makes the air between us feel charged.
"I like that you notice that about me," she says quietly.
"I notice a lot of things about you."
"Like what?"
The question hangs between us, and I realize this is one of those moments where I can either play it safe or be honest about what I've been thinking every time I see her.
"Like how you crinkle your nose when you smile," I say, watching her reaction. "And how you tilt your head to the right when you're listening to something interesting."
Her cheeks turn pink, and she touches her nose self-consciously. "You really notice all that?"
"I notice when you show up early to practice and find reasons to stick around during my extra drills and when you smile at me like you're genuinely happy to see me, not just being polite to the guy who helped you collect pucks."
The pink in her cheeks deepens, and she looks down at her plate for a moment before meeting my eyes again.
"I do that because I like watching you play," she admits. "You're... different in goal. More confident. Like you know exactly who you are and what you're capable of."
"That's how you make me feel," I say before I can stop myself.
"What do you mean?"
"When you look at me, I feel like the guy who deserves to be starting instead of riding the bench. When you tell me I'm good at something, I actually believe it."
There's a moment of silence, but it's not awkward. It's charged, electric, like we've both just admitted something important and are trying to figure out what comes next.
"Jason," Violet says softly, and there's something in the way she says my name that makes me lean forward.
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad you asked me out."
"Even though I took you to a place with checkered tablecloths and wine bottles with candles?"
"Especially because you took me to a place with checkered tablecloths and wine bottles with candles," she says, smiling. "It's perfect."
As we continue eating and talking, I find myself watching the way she gestures when she explains something, the way she laughs at my jokes, the way she looks at me like I'm saying something worth hearing. Every small interaction feels significant, charged with possibility.
When she reaches across the table for the parmesan cheese and her fingers brush mine, the contact sends electricity up my arm. When she leans forward to hear me better over the restaurant noise, I catch a hint of her perfume and have to resist the urge to lean closer.
By the time we're sharing a cannoli—because she insisted we couldn't leave without trying it—I'm completely gone.
Not just interested, not just attracted, but falling for this brilliant, funny, beautiful woman who watches my practice sessions and somehow makes me feel like the best version of myself.
"This was perfect," Violet says as we wait for the check, and she looks relaxed and happy in a way that makes me want to keep this evening going as long as possible.
"Good," I say. "Because I'd really like to do it again."
"I'd like that too," she replies, and when she smiles at me across the table, I'm pretty sure I'm the luckiest guy on campus. Even if I am still technically the third-string goalie. For tonight, at least, I feel like a starter.