Chapter Nine
Violet
I've never been nervous about hockey before tonight.
Standing in the equipment room at five-thirty in the morning, triple-checking Jason's gear for the fourth time, I realize my hands are actually shaking.
This is ridiculous. I've prepped equipment for dozens of games, handled everything from broken skate blades to emergency helmet repairs, and never once felt like my competence was tied to the outcome.
But this isn't just any game. This is Jason's game.
When I got the text at midnight—"Starting tonight.
Everything changes tomorrow. Thank you for believing in me"—I couldn't fall back asleep.
Instead, I spent three hours researching Oregon State's offensive patterns, their shooting tendencies, and every statistical analysis I could find about their scoring strategies.
Not because I need to know this information for my job, but because I need to understand exactly what Jason is going to face tonight.
"You're here early," Coach Higgins says, walking into the equipment room with his usual pre-game intensity. "Even for you."
"Just wanted to make sure everything's perfect," I reply, holding up Jason's freshly-sharpened skates. "Big game tonight."
"Biggest game Harrison's ever played," Coach agrees, and there's something in his voice—respect, maybe, or recognition—that makes my chest tighten with pride. "Kid's been waiting three years for this shot. Hope he's ready."
"He's ready," I say with more confidence than I feel. Because the truth is, I know Jason is talented enough, skilled enough, mentally tough enough for this opportunity. What I don't know is whether I'm ready for what happens if he succeeds.
The rest of the team starts filtering in over the next hour, and I can feel the energy building.
There's something different about today—an electricity that comes with big games, important moments, chances to prove something.
Keith gives me a knowing grin when he sees me arranging Jason's gear with unnecessary precision.
"Nervous?" he asks.
"I don't get nervous about hockey," I lie.
"Right," Keith says, clearly not buying it. "And I don't eat Lucky Charms before every game for good luck."
When Jason finally arrives, forty-five minutes before warm-ups, he looks calm in that focused, pre-game way that suggests he's been mentally preparing since dawn.
But I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes are slightly more intense than usual, the careful control he's maintaining over what must be overwhelming nerves.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, meeting him at his locker.
"Like I might throw up," he admits quietly. "But also like I've been waiting my whole life for this."
"Your gear's all set," I tell him, gesturing to his perfectly organized equipment. "Skates are sharpened to your exact specifications, pads are adjusted for optimal mobility, and I replaced the chin strap on your helmet with the newer model that has better impact absorption."
Jason looks at me for a long moment, and something in his expression makes my heart skip.
"You didn't have to do all that," he says softly.
"Yes, I did," I reply. "This is your night, Jason. Everything needs to be perfect."
"Thank you," he says, and the way he's looking at me—like I'm doing something incredible instead of just doing my job—makes my cheeks warm. "For all of it. The gear, the belief, everything."
Before I can respond, Tyler appears beside us, already half-dressed for warm-ups.
"Harrison, you ready to make Oregon State cry?" he asks with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that suggests he's more nervous about Jason's performance than Jason is.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Jason replies, but his eyes are still on me.
"Good, because the arena's already packed. Student section's going crazy, and I'm pretty sure half the campus is here tonight." Tyler grins. "No pressure or anything."
After the team heads out for warm-ups, I take my position near the tunnel where I can watch the pre-game routine and be available for any last-minute equipment issues.
The arena is indeed packed—more crowded than I've ever seen it for a regular season game and the energy is palpable even from where I'm standing.
When the teams take the ice for warm-ups, I find myself tracking Jason's every movement.
He looks good—confident, focused, moving through his routine with the kind of precision that comes from thousands of hours of practice.
But I can also see the way other people are watching him, evaluating him, wondering if the third-string goalie can handle this moment.
"He looks solid," says a voice beside me, and I turn to see one of the assistant coaches. "Positioning is good, movements are clean. Kid might actually pull this off."
Might pull this off. As if there's any question. As if Jason Harrison isn't the most technically sound goalie I've ever watched, as if he hasn't been outperforming the starters in practice for months.
The pre-game routine passes in a blur of final equipment checks and tactical discussions.
I barely register the national anthem, the starting lineups, the ceremonial puck drop.
All I can focus on is Jason, standing in his crease, looking completely at home in a position he's been waiting three years to occupy.
Then the puck drops, and everything changes.
Oregon State comes out aggressive, testing Jason early with a series of quick shots that he handles with calm efficiency. Nothing spectacular, just solid, fundamental goaltending that gives his team confidence and takes some of the crowd's nervous energy and transforms it into genuine excitement.
Midway through the first period, Oregon State's leading scorer breaks away on a partial breakaway, and my heart nearly stops. It's exactly the kind of high-pressure situation that separates good goalies from great ones, the kind of moment that can define a career.
Jason doesn't even look nervous. He holds his position, reads the shooter perfectly, and makes a glove save that brings the entire arena to its feet.
When he casually tosses the puck to the referee like stopping breakaway shots is just another Tuesday, I realize I'm grinning so widely my cheeks hurt.
"Jesus," breathes the equipment manager for Oregon State, who's standing near me. "Where did this kid come from?"
"He's been here all along," I mutter, probably too quietly for him to hear. "People just weren't paying attention."
By the end of the first period, Jason has stopped twelve shots, including three that could have easily been goals against a less prepared goalie.
UW is up 1-0, and the team's confidence is building with every save.
When they head to the locker room, Jason catches my eye and flashes a quick smile that makes my heart do ridiculous things.
The second period is more of the same. Oregon State cranks up the pressure, but Jason seems to elevate his game to match.
He makes saves look routine that have the crowd gasping, and his positioning is so perfect that some shots that look dangerous are actually relatively easy stops because he's exactly where he needs to be.
"Kid's got ice in his veins," someone behind me says, and I can't help but feel a surge of fierce pride.
With five minutes left in the third period and UW leading 3-1, Oregon State pulls their goalie for an extra attacker. Six-on-five, sustained pressure, everything on the line. This is when games are won or lost, when careers are made or broken.
Jason stops everything. Point-blank shots, deflections, a scramble in front of the net that looks like it might result in a goal—he handles it all with the kind of composed excellence that makes it clear this isn't luck or beginner's fortune. This is what he's capable of when given the chance.
When the final buzzer sounds, the arena erupts.
UW has won 3-1, Jason has made thirty-four saves in his first start, and Oregon State's high-powered offense has been completely shut down.
The celebration on the ice is immediate and chaotic, with teammates mobbing Jason in a way that suggests they're as surprised and thrilled by his performance as everyone else.
I'm standing there watching this unfold, watching Jason get lifted up by his teammates and celebrated by the crowd, when it hits me that everything really has changed.
An hour ago, Jason Harrison was the third-string goalie that most people couldn't pick out of a lineup.
Now he's the hero of the biggest win of the season, the guy who just proved he belongs in the spotlight.
And I have no idea where that leaves me.
When the initial celebration dies down and the team starts heading toward the locker room, Jason skates over to where I'm standing near the tunnel. His helmet is off, his hair is a mess, and he's grinning with the kind of pure joy that makes my chest feel tight.
"Did you see that?" he asks, slightly breathless.
"I saw all of it," I tell him. "You were incredible. Absolutely incredible."
"I couldn't have done it without you," he says, and before I can ask what he means, he explains. "The equipment was perfect, but more than that... knowing you believed in me made all the difference."
He's standing close enough that I can see the adrenaline still coursing through him, the way his eyes are bright with excitement and accomplishment. There are reporters trying to get his attention, teammates calling his name, fans cheering for him, but for this moment, he's focused entirely on me.
"Jason!" Coach Higgins’ voice cuts through the noise. "Media wants to talk to you!"
"I have to go," Jason says reluctantly. "But Violet... this is just the beginning. For all of it."
He means hockey, obviously. Tonight was his audition for the starting position, and he passed with flying colors. But the way he's looking at me, the intensity in his voice, makes me think he might mean more than just hockey.
As I watch him get surrounded by reporters and teammates and fans who suddenly want to be close to the hero of the night, I feel a mixture of pride and something that might be anxiety. Because Jason was right—this is just the beginning.
Later, after the interviews and the celebration and the chaos of post-game responsibilities, I'm alone in the equipment room organizing gear when Jason appears in the doorway. He's showered and changed, but there's still that post-game energy radiating from him.
"Hey," he says softly.
"Hey yourself, superstar," I reply, and his grin could power the entire arena.
"Feels weird, being called that," he admits, walking over to where I'm working. "Good weird, but weird."
"You'll get used to it," I tell him. "You earned it tonight."
"We should celebrate," he says suddenly. "I know it's late, but... this feels like something worth celebrating."
The thing is, I want to celebrate with him.
I want to go somewhere quiet where we can talk about what just happened, where I can tell him how proud I am, where we can figure out what this means for us.
But I can also hear voices in the hallway—teammates, fans, people who want to bask in Jason's sudden stardom.
"Jason!" Keith’s voice echoes from somewhere nearby. "Harrison! Get out here, man, everyone wants to buy you drinks!"
Jason glances toward the hallway, then back at me, and I can see the exact moment he realizes that his night isn't over. That being the hero comes with obligations, expectations, people who want pieces of his time and attention.
"Go," I tell him, even though part of me wants to ask him to stay. "Enjoy this. You deserve it."
"But I want to celebrate with you," he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my heart ache in the best way.
"We will," I promise. "Tomorrow, when things are quieter. Tonight, let your teammates celebrate the guy who just saved their season."
Jason hesitates for a moment, then leans down to kiss me softly. It's quick, gentle, but it carries the weight of everything that happened tonight and everything that's about to change.
"Tomorrow," he agrees against my lips.
"Tomorrow," I confirm.
As he leaves to join his teammates, I stay in the equipment room for a few more minutes, supposedly organizing gear but really just processing what just happened.
Tonight, Jason proved that he's everything I believed he could be.
But watching him get surrounded by people who suddenly want to be close to him, I can't shake the feeling that proving himself might be the easy part.
The hard part is going to be navigating what comes next. For both of us.