superstitious person. Unlike most other athletes, I don’t carry around good luck charms or adhere to specific pregame rituals under some misguided belief that it will influence the final score when the buzzer sounds. I don’t believe in signs, the supernatural, or serendipity.
But the fact that Violet’s car accident happened a mere day after I got sidelined last January is fucking with my head.
Vaughn pokes my shin with the toe of his stick. “You okay?”
Other than the two of us out on the ice, the arena is empty. I agreed to stay behind after practice to help Vaughn work on his puck battles, but I’m not sure what good it’s done when my mind has been elsewhere the entire time. He’s beat me every single round, and I don’t think he’s had to work very hard to do it.
“I don’t know,” I admit, idly stickhandling the loose puck. “Do you ever feel like there’s a significance to the timing of certain things?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
His answer doesn’t come as a huge surprise. Vaughn is a lot more spiritually-minded than I am. While he isn’t religious, he believes in a higher power, a greater good, and that there’s more to life than what we experience on the physical level.
As far as I’m concerned, life is random. An accidental byproduct of circumstance. No purpose, no plan, no meaning. A little nihilistic, maybe, but it’s the only way I’ve been able to reconcile the world and my experiences within it thus far.
“Is this about Violet getting assigned to the team?” Vaughn skates backward a few strides, motioning for me to pass.
“Yes and no.” Winding up, I level a shot in his direction, and the smack of the stick connecting with the puck echoes through the air. “Remember that big pileup on the freeway last winter? She was involved in that the day after I blew my AC.”
He catches my pass, looking up at me with concern across his face. “That’s awful. Was she okay?”
Even though I’d trust Vaughn with my life, I can’t break Violet’s trust and share the details.
“Mostly. Physically, anyway. Seems like weird timing, doesn’t it?”
Unfortunately, I remember that day all too well. I was icing my shoulder on the couch, fuming over landing on the injured list in the midst of a hot streak when a breaking news report interrupted the football game I’d been watching. Once a serious car accident with multiple injuries came on screen, I watched with mild interest for half a minute and went to go take a shower. The cable programming had switched back to the third quarter by the time I got out, and I promptly forgot about the entire thing.
Until now.
Little did I know, when the news helicopter’s video panned across the scene of the accident, Violet was in one of those cars. What if she’d been hurt? Would I have even known?
“Hmm.” Vaughn looks down, leisurely dragging the puck back and forth.
“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”
He cocks a dark brow beneath his cage, a ghost of a smirk on his face. “Unless you’re ready to own up to your feelings for her, you probably don’t want to hear it.”
“For fuck’s sake, Banks. Are you going to make me say it?”
“Oh, I’ve known for a while. It’s obvious from the way you look at her. But I wasn’t sure if you were still in denial.” Vaughn flips up the puck with the blade of his stick, catching it in his black glove. Inclining his head to the bench, he skates over to the side, motioning for me to follow. In other words, I’ve wasted enough of his time zoning out on the ice tonight. Fair enough.
“I’m well past the denial stage,” I mutter, catching up with him in a few strides, stepping off the ice behind him. “Now tell me what ‘hmm’ means.”
“I don’t know if the close timing of the two events necessarily means anything other than shitty luck, but your reaction to this says it all. It bothers you because you wish you could’ve been there for her, and you wish she could have been there for you.” He leans a padded shoulder against the dressing room door, shoving it open. The motion-activated lights flicker on, illuminating the changing area as I follow him inside. “Though if you ask me, I think you’re more bothered about not being there for her than the other way around.”
Bothered? I’m fucking broken up about it. True, I couldn’t have prevented the car accident, or necessarily even mitigated how traumatizing the event was for her. Still, I like to think I could have done something—anything—to make it a little better after it happened.
Vaughn yanks off his white practice helmet, running a hand through his damp hair. “For what it’s worth, Violet looks at you the same way.”
Does she?
I untie my skates, letting his words sink in. On some level, I know Violet cares about me. But what I don’t know is whether we’re on the same wavelength or if I’ve been permanently relegated to the friendzone after fucking up my first chance. I’ll always want more than that with her.
After we shed our sweaty gear, we hang it in our stalls to air it out and hit the showers in silence. Now, more than ever, I’m thankful for Vaughn’s intuitive ability to sense—and respect—when someone doesn’t want to make conversation.
Walking under the spray, I turn the temperature dial higher until it’s nearly scalding, closing my eyes as the stream of hot water pours down on my bare skin. No matter what I do, my mind keeps going back to the accident. To the stomach-turning knowledge that Violet was trapped alone, frightened out of her mind when I didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. More than anything, I don’t want that to happen again. Vaughn is right. I want to be able to be there for her.
This revelation leaves me more confused than ever. The absolute last thing I should be doing is complicating my senior year with a serious relationship. And there is no casual when it comes to me and Violet.
If she’s even willing to forgive me in the first place.
***
Other than a very excited dog, the house is empty when I get back from practice. Drew came home to feed and let Biscuit out earlier before going over to Savannah’s place, Vaughn had to babysit his little sister, and Connor is out doing . . . whatever it is that he does.
Halfway through the New York vs. Boston game, Connor comes inside through the garage and proceeds to storm around like an elephant, making a racket as he tends to. A few minutes later, he appears in a head-to-toe black Grizzlies sweatsuit with the hood up, looking like he’s about to go rob a bank or something. I don’t even bother asking, because with him, I generally don’t want to know.
Connor flops onto the couch next to me, untwisting the cap on a bottle of blue Gatorade. “How’s the puppy home search?”
“Not good. Violet’s standards are sky high.”
The good news is the response to my ad has been surprisingly enthusiastic. In the past couple of days, I’ve been inundated with multiple would-be adoptive homes for Biscuit. I’ve forwarded Violet every single message of interest I’ve received so far, and she’s promptly shut them all down. In her defense, some of her objections have been legitimate, like the couple who had five children and said they wanted a “low maintenance pet.” Biscuit is many things; low maintenance is not one of them.
But some of the other potential owners seemed perfectly suitable, and Violet still immediately vetoed them. I’m not sure anyone is going to be good enough to adopt him, in her eyes. Even worse, I sort of empathize with her point of view. While initially I was eager to pawn him off on the first willing owner, the thought of handing off Biscuit to just anybody doesn’t sit right with me. I can’t believe I’m even saying that—he’s a dog, for crying out loud. Yet somehow, I feel oddly protective of him, even if he is a total pain in the ass.
“Keep searching, fucker, because Biscuit chewed up my new shoes this morning.” Connor reaches over and grabs something from behind the couch, holding up the remains to illustrate. The white leather uppers are in tatters, matching rubber soles mangled beyond recognition. They look like they’ve been put through a paper shredder. “These are Golden Goose. Or they were.”
I snort. “Good. They were ugly.”
He sets the mangled corpse of his sneakers on the coffee table across from the couch. “First of all, you don’t know shit about fashion. Second, you’re going to pay to replace them.”
Pay for his overpriced footwear? Not gonna happen. Plus, there is some degree of irony in Connor—who doesn’t give a shit about picking up after himself or helping out around the house—having something he values ruined.
“Consider us even for the time you got drunk and crashed in my bed with that chick from Alpha Phi.” I wasn’t pleased to come home after a late-night hookup a few months ago to find that the guys had thrown an impromptu party—and Connor was sprawled across my bed ass-up, buck naked. The only thing worse would have been finding him face up.
He barely even stirred when I tried to wake him. I was about to drag him out by his ankles until I realized there was a chick asleep underneath the covers beside him. I might be an asshole, but even I’m not that much of an asshole.
In the end, I crashed on the couch and had a knot in my neck for a week to show for it.
“Someone else was in my room. What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, go bang Rosalie in your car? Rent a hotel room by the hour? Not contaminate my bed, that’s for sure.”
Connor tips his head back and laughs, propping his sneaker-clad feet on the ottoman. “Ah, that was quite the evening. Worth it.”
“I had to get new sheets, you dick.”
“You know you could have washed them, right?”
“Yeah, maybe with kerosene.”
“You’re so dramatic.” He rolls his eyes, tipping back his blue Gatorade. “Speaking of hookups, what’s going on with you and Violet, anyway?”
Good fucking question. I’m still processing my talk with Vaughn. And Violet caught a ride home with her roommate earlier, so I didn’t have the chance to see her after training this morning.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” His brows lift. “You’re going to pretend like you’re not trying to get back together with her? Why else would you let her talk you into saving some mutt?”
“He’s a mixed breed,” I mutter.
As if on cue, Biscuit trots up to the couch and leaps into my lap, nearly crushing my balls. He places his front paws on my chest, leaning forward. Big black eyes peer into mine, cold, wet snout pressing against my nose. Holy hell, his puppy breath is atrocious. I need to start brushing his teeth like the vet said.
Dodging his licks, I move him down onto my lap, scratching his ear to distract him from trying to kiss me. Because breath aside, he was licking his crotch less than a minute ago.
Connor watches the production like I’m some alien life form. Maybe I am. How did I end up with a puppy? Oh, that’s right, I’m whipped over Violet.
He blinks, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Stop changing the subject.”
“I don’t know, okay?” I snap. Biscuit whines, his ears drooping in response to the edge in my voice, and I absently pat the top of his head to comfort him. “It’s complicated.”
“What’s the deal with her and Preston?”
A deluge of irritation courses through me. Potentially unjustified since I don’t know what—if anything—is happening between them. It may or may not even be a thing. However, what I do know is that Preston absolutely wants it to be a thing, and that’s bad enough.
“I’m not sure.” Glancing down to avoid Connor’s prying gaze, I resume scratching Biscuit behind the ears, and his left leg starts thumping in appreciation.
“He’s into her.”
Thanks, tips. Anyone with a set of eyes could see that.
My jaw sets on edge. “I know.”
