Chapter Sixteen
Violet
Standing in the equipment room three days after the worst conversation of my life, methodically checking helmet chin straps and pretending my heart isn't broken, I'm discovering exactly what that pain feels like.
Every piece of gear I handle reminds me of Jason—the way he trusted me to keep his equipment perfect and the careful attention I paid to every detail because I cared about his success.
Now I'm preparing equipment for someone who chose hockey over me, and I have to act like it's just another game.
"You don't have to do this," Sage said this morning when I was getting ready for the pre-game prep. "You could ask for the night off. Let someone else handle the equipment for Jason's big game."
But that's exactly why I have to be here.
Because despite everything that happened between us, Jason deserves to have his gear in perfect condition.
My personal feelings don't get to interfere with my professional responsibilities, even when maintaining those responsibilities feels like psychological torture.
The team starts filtering in for their pre-game routine, and I focus on arranging backup equipment with unnecessary precision. Anything to avoid thinking about the fact that this might be the last time I see Jason play, depending on what he decided about the AHL opportunity.
He probably took it. It's what I told him to do, after all. Choose hockey, pursue his dreams, stop pretending our relationship was a priority when clearly it wasn't. I just didn't expect it to hurt this much to be right.
"Violet?" Keith’s voice interrupts my spiral into self-pity. "You okay?"
I look up to find him watching me with obvious concern, still only half-dressed in his gear.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just making sure everything's ready for the game."
"Right," Keith says, clearly not buying it. "And how are you doing with... everything else?"
Everything else. He means Jason, the breakup, the fact that I'm probably watching the man I love play his last college game before leaving for professional hockey.
"I'm handling it," I say, which is technically true. I am handling it, just not well.
"For what it's worth," Keith says quietly, "I think he's an idiot."
I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn't change anything. Jason made his choice, and I made mine. We want different things, have different priorities, and no amount of wishful thinking is going to fix that fundamental incompatibility.
"He's not an idiot," I say, surprising myself by defending him. "He's just... focused on hockey. Which is what he should be."
Keith gives me a look I can't quite interpret. "Is it?"
Before I can ask what he means, Tyler appears beside him, also giving me that same strange expression.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Tyler says quickly. "Just... you should probably watch the game tonight. From the stands instead of down here."
"I need to be available for equipment issues—"
"Trust me," Keith interrupts. "Tonight, you want to be in the stands."
They exchange another one of those looks, and I get the feeling they know something I don't. But before I can press them for details, the rest of the team arrives, including Jason.
I see him before he sees me, and the sight of him hits me like a physical blow.
He looks tired, stressed, like he hasn't been sleeping well.
There are dark circles under his eyes, and his usual pre-game energy seems muted.
Good, I think spitefully. At least I'm not the only one suffering from this disaster.
But then I feel guilty for thinking that, because despite everything, I don't actually want Jason to be miserable. I want him to be happy, successful, living his dreams. I just wish those dreams could have included me.
When Jason finally spots me across the room, our eyes meet for a brief moment. There's something in his expression—determination mixed with nervousness—that I don't understand. He starts to move in my direction, but I quickly turn away and busy myself with organizing stick tape.
I can't have that conversation again. I can't listen to him try to explain or apologize or justify his choices. It's done, we're done, and rehashing it will only make everything hurt worse.
"Equipment's all set," I announce to the room in general, avoiding eye contact with Jason. "Good luck tonight, everyone."
I start to head for the exit, planning to watch the game from the equipment room where I can monitor for any issues while maintaining professional distance. But Tyler intercepts me near the door.
"Seriously, Violet," he says quietly. "You need to be in the stands tonight. Section 114, about halfway up. Trust me on this."
"Tyler, I don't—"
"Please," he says, and there's something urgent in his voice. "Just... be there. Okay?"
Before I can argue further, Coach Higgins calls for the team's attention, and Tyler hurries away to join the huddle.
I'm left standing by the door, confused and increasingly convinced that something significant is happening that I don't understand.
Against my better judgment, I find myself heading toward Section 114.
The arena is packed—more crowded than I've seen it all season. Washington State is ranked second in our conference, and this game will likely determine playoff positioning. The energy is electric, and despite my personal misery, I can't help but feel a familiar surge of excitement.
I find a seat about halfway up Section 114, just as Tyler suggested, and try to focus on the game rather than scanning the ice for Jason.
But it's impossible not to watch him during warm-ups, and I have to admit he looks good.
Focused, confident, moving through his routine with the kind of precision that suggests he's ready for whatever Washington State throws at him.
The game starts fast and physical, with both teams clearly understanding the stakes.
Jason's tested early with a series of quick shots, and he handles them with the calm efficiency I've learned to associate with his best performances.
By the end of the first period, UW is up 1-0, and Jason has stopped twelve shots.
During the intermission, I check my phone and find a text from Sage: How are you holding up? Want me to bring emergency chocolate to the game?
I'm fine, I text back. Just watching Jason play one last time before he leaves for Charlotte.
He's leaving? Sage responds immediately. Are you sure about that?
Before I can ask what she means, the teams are returning for the second period. I put my phone away and try to focus on the game, though my heart isn't really in it anymore.
The second period passes in a blur of saves and scoring chances.
Jason continues to play brilliantly, but I find myself thinking about what comes next.
Will he leave immediately after the game?
Will I even get a chance to say goodbye properly, or will our devastating conversation at the library be the last real interaction we ever have?
Midway through the third period, with UW leading 3-1 and Jason well on his way to another stellar performance, something strange happens.
Jason skates to the bench during a timeout and starts talking intensely to Coach Higgins.
Even from my seat in the stands, I can see that whatever he's saying is causing confusion and concern.
Coach Higgins looks shocked, then angry, then like he's trying to talk Jason out of something.
The timeout ends, but instead of returning to his net, Jason skates to center ice. He takes off his helmet.
The crowd noise starts to die down as people realize something unusual is happening. This isn't normal hockey behavior. Players don't stop mid-game to address the crowd. Jason raises his hand, asking for attention, and the arena falls into confused silence.
"Can I have everyone's attention for a minute?" Jason's voice echoes through the PA system, and my heart starts beating faster because I have no idea what's happening but I'm suddenly terrified.
"I know this is unusual," Jason continues, "but I need to say something important, and I need to say it publicly."
Coach Higgins is gesturing frantically from the bench, clearly trying to get Jason to return to the game, but Jason ignores him.
"Four days ago, I got offered an opportunity to leave school and play professional hockey," Jason says, and the crowd murmurs with interest. "It was everything I thought I wanted—my dream job, my chance to make it to the NHL."
My stomach drops. He's announcing his departure. He's telling the entire arena that he's leaving, and for some reason, he's doing it in the middle of a game.
"But I realized something," Jason continues, his voice carrying clearly through the arena. "I realized that dreams change. Priorities change. And sometimes what you thought you wanted your whole life turns out to be less important than what you never saw coming."
He pauses, and I swear he's looking directly at me, even though there's no way he can pick me out of thousands of people.
"I turned down the professional hockey opportunity," Jason says, and the crowd erupts in surprised cheers. "Because there's something more important to me than hockey."
My heart stops beating entirely.
"There's someone in this arena tonight who I hurt badly through my own stupidity and selfishness," Jason continues when the crowd quiets down. "Someone who believed in me before anyone else did, who supported me through everything, who made me want to be better at hockey and at life."
Oh my God. He's talking about me. In front of eight thousand people, he's talking about me.
"Someone I lied to about the most important decision of my life because I was scared and confused and too selfish to realize that the decision should have been easy."
I can feel people around me starting to figure out what's happening, can see phones coming out to record this moment, but all I can focus on is Jason's voice.