Violet is curled up on her side facing me. Her smooth, bare curves are pressed against my body, and her hand is still intertwined in mine, the way she fell asleep. The hotel room is silent aside from her hushed inhales and exhales, punctuated by the odd burst of noise from out in the hall. She’s been asleep for a while, but I’ve been lying awake in the dark with my thoughts.
I should be happy right now.
I want to be happy.
But I’m not wired to be happy. And sometimes, getting what you want is the scariest thing of all—because I’m afraid I’m going to fuck this up again.
Which is one reason I haven’t let myself doze off, even for a minute. I’m trying to soak up every single second of this time with her. Still, I have a game tomorrow and much as I don’t want to drag myself out of this bed, I know I need to sleep at some point.
“Vi? I’ve gotta go.” I untangle our hands and give her a gentle shake, trying to rouse her. The last thing I want to do is leave and have her think I ghosted. But unlike me, she sleeps like the dead. One time, the fire alarm went off in my dorm and she slept right through it. I had to wake her up, which was no easy feat.
“Hmph?” Violet mumbles groggily, hand landing on mine in the dark. “No, don’t go.”
I gently rub her upper arm, wishing more than anything I didn’t have to. “Trust me, Petal. I don’t want to, but I have to get back. Coach will kill me if I get caught staying out overnight, and I don’t want you to get in trouble, either.”
She yawns. “‘Kay.”
The bed shifts beneath my weight as I slide out, pushing to stand. I want to get right back underneath the covers with her but instead, I pull up the blankets and tuck her in, planting a kiss on her forehead. Already asleep again, she doesn’t even stir.
Using only the sliver of light pouring beneath the door as a guide, I locate my board shorts and T-shirt on the floor, and tug them on. No clue where the towel is, but it belonged to the hotel anyway so it shouldn’t matter. After giving the hall a once-over, I quietly slip out, heart pummeling against my ribs.
If I get busted, I’m screwed.
Several of the longest seconds of my life later, I slip back into my room. Vaughn is out cold in the bed next to the window, oblivious to my entry. He’s nearly as heavy of a sleeper as Violet. Still surfing on adrenaline from the fear of getting caught, I climb under the covers and lie awake in the dark, worrying about all the ways this could go wrong.
***
Once I finally crash, I crash hard. Despite two alarms and Vaughn’s attempts to wake me, I sleep until the last possible minute. If we didn’t have another game scheduled, I’d skip breakfast to stay in bed longer, but there’s no way I can power through three periods on an empty stomach.
When I head down to the hotel restaurant, I’m one of the last on the team to show. Violet is in line at the buffet and unsurprisingly, Preston is standing way too close to her. Fucking guy. She and I exchange a silent glance, which is all we can do. Then I shoot daggers at Preston with my eyes while I demolish two plates of food, wishing I could stab him with my fork instead of my breakfast sausage. He, of course, remains blissfully oblivious.
On the bus home after our final game, Julianna immediately goes and sits with Christina, which leaves Violet with Preston again. Is Julianna on Team Preston or something? What the fuck? Either way, I’m sure he doesn’t exactly mind. If he were any closer to Violet, he’d be sitting in her goddamn lap.
I wish he knew she was straddling me naked less than twelve hours ago.
My mind flashes back to her lips. Her moans. Her breathy pleas. Every part of my body is screaming, mine. But I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know where we stand. In the heat of the moment, we did a little too much fucking and not enough talking. Sure, we agreed to keep things between us discreet, but we never defined anything beyond that. While I may not be able to tell the world she’s mine, I still need to know she is.
Unfortunately, Violet has a paper due at midnight. It’ll be tomorrow night before we even have the chance to talk.
Due to an accident on the main highway, our bus takes an unplanned detour, turning onto a secondary road full of curves and bends. A few minutes into the route, I steal a glance at Violet because she gets motion sickness sometimes. She’s doubled over in her seat, and her fair skin has taken on a ghastly pallor. Worry shoots through me, compounded by massive frustration with the situation. The fact that I can’t go over there and take care of her fucking blows.
Connor leans over the aisle, poking me with a pen. “Richards? Hello?”
“What?” I swivel to look at him.
“I said, thanks for playing wingman last night. You did me a solid. Brandi took me back to her room and let me nail her with her uniform on. It was fucking hot.”
“Sweet,” I mutter.
He tilts his head. “What’s your issue now?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired. That hotel mattress was trash.” Slouching in my seat, I continue to keep an eye on Violet, who looks like she might throw up any minute. Preston leans in closer, rubbing her lower back as he says something to her, and I have the urge to rip the armrest off my chair. I should be the one helping her.
“No shit, Vaughn said you were late as hell. Where did you disappear to, anyw—oh.” Connor’s eyes track over to where I’m looking, and he laughs. “You were with her, weren’t you?”
“Zip it, you dick.” I try to punch him in the ribs from across the aisle, and he dodges me.
We’re in the back row. Vaughn is napping, Drew is reading, and the row directly in front of us is filled with freshmen absorbed in Dungeons and Dragons or some similar kind of role-playing game. Even if they did overhear, they would have to be incredibly stupid to repeat anything. Still, I don’t need that risk.
The nail marks down my back attracted a side-eye or two in the showers after the game this morning, though. I’m not the only guy who got laid last night, so it’s not like that sticks out in isolation, but my previous threat to maim anyone who looks at Violet makes those dots a little too easy to connect.
Connor nods to Violet, lowering his voice. “You’re jealous over our country club friend over there. Nice to see that you have feelings like the rest of us.”
“No.”
“You tell me how it is, then.”
I draw in a slow breath and exhale, balling and unballing my fists. Not sure what it says about me, but I don’t want to tell anyone what happened with Violet, high-level version or otherwise. And I am definitely jealous of Preston.
“Why are you worried about him?” Connor asks. “You don’t actually think he’s hitting that, do you?”
At the start of the semester, I wasn’t too sure. Now? Not a chance. Preston definitely has a thing for her, but I don’t think Violet feels the same way. After last night, I’m more sure of that than ever. So why doesn’t she tell him to get lost?
“No,” I admit, craning my neck to check on her again. The bus has been on a straight stretch of road for a minute or so, and she looks slightly better. “I don’t. But I still want him to take a fucking hike.”
Connor and I are interrupted when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Apprehension washes over me. Anyone I would want to text with is sitting on this bus.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find a video from Savannah of Biscuit living his best puppy life romping in the backyard, diving into a pile of fallen leaves. And eating them because, well, that’s how he rolls. She also reports that he made a “girlfriend” at the dog park—Coach Ward’s dog, Moose, who was there with his wife. Pretty fucking random but hey, maybe our dogs being friends can score me brownie points.
Wait. Not that Biscuit is my dog. My foster dog, I mean. Because like I told Violet, it’s temporary. Though I have to say, nearly all of the potential adoption candidates have been abysmal. I wouldn’t give those people a cactus, let alone a puppy.
Another message preview pops up while Savannah and I are texting, and my pleasant surprise takes an unpleasant turn.
Doug: Remember that Russell will be attending the Ice Cup.
Me: Already made note of it.
Doug: Graham, Benson, and Smyth attending also. The more eyes on you, the better.
Graham, Benson, and Smyth are my father’s friends. Don’t ask me how he has any. Graham and Benson are pro scouts for Florida and St. Louis, respectively, and Smyth is a freelance hockey writer for all the major industry publications. He also writes independent consultancy reports on prospects for the league.
In a vacuum, my father wanting “eyes on me” could be construed as a well-intentioned parent looking out for their child to ensure they have a backup plan. In reality, it’s because he has no faith in me. He is convinced my contract with Chicago will fall through. Getting dropped is always a big worry for players who’ve been drafted and having him reinforce that fear doesn’t help.
A shadow blocks the sunlight, and Coach Ward appears in the aisle between me and Connor, catching my eye. “Richards. Let’s go have a chat.”
A chat? I rarely worry, but right now, I’m pretty fucking worried. Even Connor looks worried.
Pushing to stand, I grab my water bottle and follow him to the front of the bus, past the other athletes and athletic trainers. I try to steal a glimpse of Violet as I pass, but Preston is blocking my line of sight. There are four vacant rows in front of them, and Coach Ward leads me to the very front, gesturing for me to sit first. I take the window seat and brace myself for the worst possible scenario.
He eases down next to me, keeping his voice low. “So, Violet.”
And we have hit the worst possible scenario squarely on the head.
“What about her?” I give him a blank look.
The only silver lining to this exchange is Coach has a whole lot more discretion than Connor, and between that and the noise of the engine up front, no one else can overhear. Still, that won’t be of much comfort if I’ve ruined Violet’s entire academic career. Maybe there’s some way to throw myself under the bus while saving her.
“You dated before, didn’t you?” Coach Ward asks.
I get the sense he’s giving me just enough rope to hang myself with, so I opt to be truthful rather than tighten the noose with a lie. “Yes.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I thought she looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first. You two were inseparable freshman year.”
This reminder hurts in a way I’m not expecting. In light of what happened last night, I’m not sure why I still have so much regret over the past. Maybe because I’m not sure I can forgive myself until Violet forgives me first.
I take a sip of my water to buy myself some time. “I didn’t think—we didn’t think it was going to be an issue.”
“Is it an issue?” His dark brows lift.
“No,” I say. “It’s totally fine.”
As if calling me out on my lie, the bus hits a bump in the road, violently jostling us both. My water bottle falls out of my hand, rolling under the seat.
“But you’re involved again,” he observes. “You followed her out of the pool last night.”
Fuck me.
My blood pressure must set a new world record while I sit there, looking at him like a dumbass, completely lost for words.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” I admit, reaching down and fumbling for my water bottle, my fingers finally landing on it.
“Look, Richards.” Coach Ward scans our surroundings, his voice stern but not severe. “I like Violet, and I’m not here to ruin anyone’s internship or chances at graduation, nor am I going to tell you what to do on your own time. But make sure you keep it professional on the clock going forward, okay? My discretion ends if it becomes a problem.”
A slight sense of relief sinks in. Ultimately, Coach Ward is a stand-up guy. I do believe that he won’t say anything as long as I don’t fuck up. And with the stakes this high, I won’t.
“Thank you, Coach. I will. You have my word.”
He dismisses me, sending me back to my seat. Violet, who looks much healthier than before, throws me a questioning look on my way by. I try to nonverbally reassure her. In truth, I’m not sure I should even tell her Coach knows. Christina doesn’t seem to, and if he’s not going to tell her, then it will only stress out Violet for nothing.
Guess I’d better keep my hands to myself in the training room, though. And on the road, if they travel with us again.
When I ease back into my seat, Vaughn turns to me. “What the hell was that?”
He’s the only person I trust with the truth on this one. Fortunately, Connor is arguing with Drew over whether Vegas or Seattle is a better expansion team. This one is a no-brainer, but trust Connor to pick a losing argument. Sometimes I think he enjoys playing Devil’s advocate just for kicks.
“Coach knows,” I say tersely.
He ducks closer, his worry shifting to alarm. “Seriously? Are you fucked?”
“No, not as long as we keep it professional on school time.”
“Phew.” His shoulders sag. “Close call, though.”
“Tell me about it.”
Because I can’t catch a goddamn break, Doug texts me again.
Doug: Speaking of the Ice Cup, make sure you show up in top form.
Me: Don’t worry, I will.
I grip my phone harder, wishing I could toss it out the window. Better yet, at his head. Telling me to show up in top form? What the hell is that about? With Russell—the guy who could single-handedly make or break my career—in attendance, does he think I’d decide to fucking phone it in? Thanks, Doug, I was planning to be a total pylon, but now I’ll make sure I try.
Hands down, I would take an utter absence of interest in me over his constant lack of faith.
