complete clusterfuck.
After getting felt up by my ex-girlfriend in the most awkward manner possible and forcing myself to eat a lunch I don’t even want, I attend three lectures in a row—because my Thursday class schedule is a nightmare—and absorb precisely zero information from any of them.
When I hit the library to study for an hour before my late afternoon practice, I open my laptop to discover that the scarce notes I managed to take earlier this afternoon don’t make any sense; they might as well be written in Latin. I’m going to have to hit up my classmate, Ben, to ask if I can borrow his. He’ll probably find it more than a little bit odd since he was sitting next to me in class the entire time.
Since my engineering homework is a bust, I try to focus on my general elective instead: the Psychology of Human Sexuality. While it sounded like a good idea when I registered last spring, it’s a decidedly different story now. Our first unit is on attraction, love, and communication, and for some reason, the subject matter keeps sending my mind right back to Violet. Maybe it isn’t too late to switch to a different option, like Abnormal Psychology. It would be far more fitting for my current state of mind.
Things continue to go downhill when my phone buzzes in my coat pocket and I slide it out to find a message from the last person I want to speak to. Fucking hell.
Doug: Saw your last game. Call me. We need to discuss.
Me: Okay, I’ll give you a shout tonight.
Doug: Now, Nash. I know you aren’t in class.
Me: I’m studying in the library before I head to practice. I’ll call you on my way home.
Doug: See that you do, or you may find that your phone is unexpectedly disconnected.
I read and re-read his last message, jaw clenched tight enough to grind my molars into dust. Thanks to his six-figure income, I didn’t qualify for student aid or government loans. I was denied private loans because I have insufficient personal credit history and lack a cosigner. And as a Division I athlete with a demanding STEM major, holding down a part-time job is literally impossible. Otherwise, I would tell him to shove his phone plan up his ass.
Tamping down on the urge to release a tirade of curse words in the library stacks, I begin to pack up my stuff before I lose my temper, shoving my textbooks into my bag and yanking the zipper shut so violently that the people at the neighboring table turn and stare. Maybe a decent meal at home after practice will help get my head straight. Fuck. Practice. I’m not in the mood to see the guys, and I’m especially not in the mood for the inevitable locker room talk about the “hot new trainers.”
Crisp autumn fall air hits my face as I burst out of the library, cutting across the quad dotted with lounging students and towering trees bedecked in shades of orange and gold. I breathe in deeply, focusing on the scent of earth and fallen leaves, and try to calm my mind. It’s impossible. I’m more keyed up than I am before a game.
Halfway to the parking lot, I round a corner and spot Violet coming out of the Arts building with the male trainer who’s also interning with our team. I think his name is Preston, or maybe Parker. Something preppy like that anyway, which suits him to a T. He looks like the type who goes to brunch at some country club every weekend and whose parents may or may not have purchased his way into college. His full name is probably Preston Vanderbilt the Third or some shit.
They’re deeply immersed in conversation, smiling and clutching identical cups from The Beanery. It’s downright nauseating. Turning away before she sees me, I make a slight detour to avoid them, my mind reeling. Then a disturbing realization plows me over like a Zamboni traveling at full speed. Holy shit. Are they dating? Am I going to have to watch that loser simp over her all semester?
Yup. The universe is definitely fucking with me.
Once I get to the locker room, I try to get my head back in the game and off Violet, with limited success. Lost in my own thoughts, I ignore the rest of the guys and skip the usual small talk, changing in record time so I can be one of the first out on the ice. We have a new drill to master this evening, and it’s more complex than the other ones we’ve been working on so far this season. With everything else going on, I need to stay off Coach Ward’s shit list.
I grab my freshly sharpened Bauer 2X Pros and shove them on, kicking my heel against the floor to get my foot all the way to the back. Grabbing hold of my laces at the third eyelet, I tighten them, continuing upward until I’m finished, and then I repeat the same process with my other skate. As I work, my brain churns on spin cycle, everything swirling faster and faster until I’m nearly dizzy. Violet, hockey practice, Doug, my contract with Chicago, my shoulder, classes, our upcoming games, my knee, Violet again.
“That Violet chick is hot, huh?” our team captain, Marcus, pipes up, bringing me back to Earth. My laces slip through my fingers as I’m tying them, ruining the bow. Tugging the ends free, I start over, wishing I could make a noose around his neck instead.
“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter, leveling him with a menacing glare.
Marcus is your stereotypical fuckboy, probably one of the worst on the team, and the idea of him so much as looking in Violet’s direction makes my skin crawl. I don’t care if he’s our captain, it isn’t happening.
“What? Why not?” Marcus gives me an easy smile, clearly under the impression that I’m joking.
I look down, re-tying my bow. “This information doesn’t leave this locker room, but Violet is my ex.”
“You hit that? Nice, Richards.” Marcus holds up a fist to fist bump me, which I pointedly ignore, double knotting my laces. If my fist makes contact with any part of his body right now, it’s sure as hell not going to be his hand.
“I did not ‘hit that.’ We dated for a long time. Which means Violet is off-fucking-limits.” I finish tucking my laces into my black-and-white socks and glance up to confirm that he’s getting the message. When he sees the expression on my face, his lighthearted expression morphs into that of mild terror. Marcus is a decent center, but unlike me, he isn’t a fighter.
Pulling my stick off the rack, I add, “And if that little tidbit about our history gets back to Coach or Christina, you’ll be shitting out your teeth for a week.”
The last thing I need is Coach Ward watching my every move during training for signs of “inappropriate behavior.”
“What’s this about Violet?” Ryder, a second-year defenseman on the bench across from us, cranes his neck. He ducks closer, giving us a conspiratorial look. “She’s a dime, huh?”
The din in the dressing room gradually dies down as the other guys stop talking, trying to listen in on the conversation without being obvious. Ryder has no volume control, so he makes it really easy for everyone.
From down on the other end of the bench, Connor slams down his protective gear. “Right? She can rehab me any day.”
My grip on the Bauer Nexus Geo in my hands tightens until I think it might snap in two. Thing is, I know Connor is kidding, but it feels like a skate blade to the brain even as a joke.
“Yeah, I think I pulled my groin,” Ryder adds. “Might need her to check it out.”
Several of the guys laugh, while a few others murmur or nod in agreement.
I shoot them a warning look. “Shut the fuck up.” Ryder is in Violet’s training group, so I especially don’t appreciate his comment.
He recoils, but Connor merely smirks because he doesn’t think I would beat his ass. Usually, he’d be right but in this case, I absolutely would. It’s going to be hard enough seeing Violet every day, and I don’t need one of my teammates banging her on top of that. Or worse yet, one of my roommates.
Not to mention, none of these tools could handle Violet in the bedroom to begin with. They would have no idea what to do with someone like her. Beneath that deceptively innocent exterior, those big doe eyes and tight little body, Violet is a dirty-talking goddess. She’s also kinky. I’m talking, we-had-a-safe word, kind of kinky.
A sudden flashback assaults me out of nowhere, a memory of her nails digging into my back. Her voice in my ear, begging me not to stop. Begging for me to give it to her harder. Begging for permission to come.
The most ironic part is, Violet was a virgin when I met her. It’s not lost on me that I corrupted her and sent her out into the world after we broke up. I can’t think about the implications of that too closely, or I want to punch things. Starting with myself.
Goddammit.
“Listen, fuckers.” All eyes in the room fall to me. “All any of you need to know is that Violet is one hundred percent out-of-bounds. If any of you even think about touching her, it’ll be a career-ending move. Because I will end you. Immediately.”
A good portion of the guys, especially the first- and second-year players, exchange alarmed looks. One eyes the exit like he’s considering making a run for it. And a few others glance away, like if they don’t look directly at me, maybe the threat will vanish.
Ryder lets out a low whistle, holding up his black CCM-gloved hands. “Chill, Richards. I’m kidding.”
“I’m not.” Another wave of rage grips me, along with the desperate need to escape. I storm across the room and yank open the door, heading out onto the ice. Someone lets out another low whistle as the door slams shut, followed by muffled voices asking what the hell is wrong with me.
I don’t know the answer to that, either.
