a blur of hockey and booze.
I rarely drink to excess anymore, but I made an exception after I saw Violet leave Overtime with that douche, Preston. Once my judgment was sufficiently impaired, I let Connor drag me to a massive house party that was packed with puck bunnies, none of whom even remotely held my interest because all I could think of was a tiny blonde athletic trainer who hates my guts.
As is to be expected when you’re out partying with Haas, I didn’t get home until sometime after four a.m. Friday night. Or Saturday morning, technically. By the time we rolled out of bed around noon, we both wanted to die, which we cured using the oldest remedy there is: drinking and doing it all over again.
Needless to say, now that it’s Monday, I still feel like shit, and I remember why I stopped doing that.
But seriously, is Violet dating him? What the fuck?
Shaking off the thought, I cut across campus beneath the cloak of morning twilight, draining the last of my coffee while I try to figure out how to navigate things with Violet. Not only was I an asshole to her last time we spoke, but my shoulder has also been giving me more trouble than usual. While I’ve known my AC joint was fucked up again for a while—or maybe it never fully healed after last season—it’s gotten significantly worse over the last few practices. I can’t afford to miss any games, which means I need Violet’s help. Thing is, I know I don’t deserve it, and I’m not sure she’s going to give it to me.
When I arrive at the hockey training facility, Violet is the only other person present, as I’d expected because she’s always been obsessively early like me. It’s a good opportunity to catch her alone and potentially smooth things over. Or for me to make them even worse, which is also a strong possibility.
Lingering in the doorway, I watch her for a moment while she kneels, pulling out various training accessories from the wooden cabinets lining the wall. Pylons, multicolored exercise bands, and medicine balls in an assortment of weights. Her pink hooded LSU sweatshirt rides up slightly, revealing black athletic pants that showcase her perfect, perky ass. It’s impossible not to stare. I can’t believe I fucked things up with her. I am such an idiot.
I’m also being a creep.
Get it together, Richards.
I rap on the doorframe before entering so I don’t startle her. “Hey.”
Violet’s pale blonde ponytail jerks as her head snaps up. Her blue eyes narrow at the sight of me, leveling a blistering scowl in my direction. “What do you want?”
Okay, I guess I deserve that.
Glancing around, I confirm that no one else is in the training area before I cross the room to join her. The apprehension on her face grows with every stride I take. I guess I deserve that, too, though somehow it hurts more than anything she could ever say.
If only I could have kept my fucking mouth shut instead of throwing the past in her face. But broken people break things, and I leave behind a path of destruction in my wake.
“I need a favor,” I tell her. “A small one.”
Her light eyebrows jump. “A favor? Ha. No.”
Undeterred, I take a step closer, ducking to catch her eye. “I need you to tape my shoulder before practice. Quickly, before anyone else gets here.”
Violet meets this request with a blank stare before turning away, saying nothing. She resumes preparing for dryland, yanking open a nearby drawer with a surprising amount of violence and sending the contents rattling noisily. Pretending I’m not here, she sifts through the items, setting aside another handful of colorful exercise bands.
I clear my throat. “Could you?”
She stiffens and slams the wooden drawer shut, dusting off her hands. Straightening to full height, she squares her shoulders, her delicate nostrils flaring. She’s still comically tiny next to me, and despite the broader situation at hand, I fight a smile at the sight of someone so small trying so hard to seem intimidating.
“Could I?” she echoes. “Yup. Am I going to? Nope.”
I can’t decide whether she’s frustrating or cute. It’s kind of both.
It’s also troubling, because my defenses are already disintegrating around her.
“Come on, Vi.” I lower my voice, giving her an imploring look that used to work well in a variety of scenarios. Still might work if she has any soft spot left for me. I suspect she does, even if it’s well hidden. “My shoulder was killing me all weekend, and I can’t afford a repeat of what happened last year. I need all the ice time I can get. Chicago’s assistant general manager has me under a fucking microscope.”
Her demeanor relaxes a fraction before she flinches like she caught herself. She grabs a blue balance disk off the nearby shelf, clutching it to her chest like a shield. “Why the hell should I help you? We’re not friends. Remember?”
I suppress a grimace at my words being thrown back in my face. It’s fully deserved, even though the reason I said them is the opposite of what she seems to think.
“Because I need you, and you know it.”
Violet presses her lips together, glaring at me for a beat. I study her more closely, and my chest tightens. Because beneath the hostile front she’s working so hard to put up, there’s a barely concealed sadness in her eyes.
I feel like I should apologize for the other day, but the words get caught in my throat, so instead, I add, “Please?”
A few more seconds tick by. Her gaze darts from me to the rest of the room a few times, her expression flickering between irritation and something I want to call pity. Not normally an emotion I shoot for with women, but in this case, I’ll take it.
Voices echo in the hallway but pass by without entering, a reminder that the other players are going to start arriving soon. Selfishly, I wish she’d move things along; the longer this goes on, the more likely it is that someone else will walk in. But her waffling is better than her saying no, so I opt to say nothing and wait her out instead.
“Why would I do anything for you when you clearly can’t be bothered to put in the work behind the scenes at home?” Violet asks, still hugging the balance disk to her body.
“I’ve been icing my shoulder.”
“Which is only one of several things you should be doing.” She draws her lush bottom lip into her mouth, and then releases it. “If you want my help, you’re going to have to commit to sticking to your rehab exercises for the next month. All of them.”
“Tried,” I tell her honestly. “Didn’t notice any difference. They’re a waste of time.”
“I’ll change up your rehab protocol, then. You agree to stick to it for one month or no deal.”
Christ. I’m not going to win this one, am I? I’d forgotten she can be almost as stubborn as I am.
“And I’ll know if you’re lying to me,” Violet adds, throwing the balance disc down onto the ground with an ear-splitting smack. “I’ll be able to tell if you’re slacking off.”
“If it means you’ll help me, it’s a deal.”
Beneath the pink fabric of her hoodie, her narrow shoulders heave in a resigned sigh. “Fine. But for the record, I’m only doing this because I know you’ll play without the tape if I don’t help you, and that will make life more difficult for both of us in the long run.”
Wordlessly, she strides past me to the supply closet, pointing me in the direction of a therapy table in the corner on her way by. I trail behind her, waiting in the partially curtained-off assessment area she indicated. A split second later, she turns back to face me, holding a brand-new roll of neon pink kinesiology tape and a pair of fabric scissors that I’m borderline worried she might stab me with.
Wait. Pink tape? No. Hell no.
“I’m gonna need black,” I call over. “Or blue. Red. Green. Maybe purple in a pinch. Anything but that.” While beggars can’t be choosers, I do have some degree of pride, and Barbie pink isn’t going to fly.
“Seriously?” Violet gestures with the KT roll in exasperation. “It’s tape, you overgrown man-child.”
“Do you know how much shit I’ll get if I show up in the dressing room with pink tape all over my shoulder?”
For a moment, it looks like she might lob the tape at my head, and I don’t fully blame her. Then determination stretches across her face, and I know I’ve lost the battle. In fact, I’m pretty sure I handed her the winning ammunition.
“Guess that’s a price you’re going to have to pay.” She slams the closet door shut and marches over to me, ripping open the clear plastic packaging with a worrisome ferocity. “Sit.”
Given her reluctance to help me and the time crunch I’m facing, I know better than to argue any further. I obey her orders, sinking down and slipping my arm out of my white T-shirt to offer her my bare shoulder. When her gaze lands on my skin, a bubble of laughter escapes from her bare lips. It’s melodic, a sound I missed more than I even realized.
She inclines her head, blue eyes twinkling with amusement as she studies my pitiful handiwork. “You tried to tape your shoulder yourself?”
“Tried,” I admit, reaching over and yanking off my pathetic attempt, tossing the balled-up KT tape into the nearby wastebasket. “And failed.”
Violet’s cool fingertips land on my skin, prodding and assessing as she steadies my arm with her other hand, taking the joint through its range of motion. Our bodily contact stirs up all kinds of conflicting emotions within me and I close my eyes, trying to ignore the fact that she’s the one touching me, but it doesn’t work—my body still knows.
When I reopen my eyes, her full mouth is pulled into a frown. Her frown deepens as she continues her assessment, confirming my worst fears. It’s more fucked up than I thought.
“Taping this is like putting a bandage on a bullet hole,” she murmurs.
“Better than no bandage.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, brimming with concern. “Barely.”
Brow furrowed in concentration, Violet stretches the tape across my skin until it’s perfectly taut, snipping off the section at the end. She works methodically, forming a crisscross of lines to support and stabilize the joint, explaining what she’s doing and the rationale behind why she’s doing it. It’s not clear to me whether she does this for all her athletes or whether she’s trying to help me in case I find myself in another solo-tape emergency situation down the road.
She’s so close that I can smell her perfume, and my body instinctively starts to respond. It takes every shred of willpower I possess to resist the urge to lean in closer, pressing my nose to the crook of her neck like I want to. But I know I wouldn’t be able to stop myself there, and it would quickly escalate into me doing something more, like biting that fleshy spot above her shoulder. You know, the one that always pushed her over the edge when she was close.
Though, I wonder how she’d react if I did.
To stop myself from doing something stupid, I clutch my phone in my free hand, keeping my gaze fixed on the blank wall ahead. A barrage of memories begins to play through my mind like a highlight reel of regrets.
Violet watching from the stands at every single home game, sitting with the other team girlfriends. Coming out after to find her wearing my jersey, looking fucking adorable. The way she knew not to push me when I was grouchy after a loss. The time I was so sick with the flu I missed three practices in a row. My roommate peaced out like I had the plague, but Violet wasn’t afraid of catching it. She took care of me without a single complaint, staying with me for two days in my cramped dorm room while forcing me to drink liquids and take Advil at regular intervals. Then she got sick right after me, and I did the same thing for her.
Violet leans closer, reaching across my body to secure another piece of tape, and her breasts brush against my bare bicep. She lets out a tiny gasp, pulling away like she’s been burnt. Averting her eyes, she stretches another line of tape across my skin. I opt to ignore the incidental contact for both of our sakes.
Being with her was great . . . and it was terrifying. The more Violet and I bonded, the more I freaked out inside. The closer we got, the more I started to pull back. Prioritizing her less and putting my friends first. Going out with them instead of staying in with her. Getting way too drunk, way too often. I never cheated, never crossed a line with anyone else or even wanted to, but toward the end, I was a shitty boyfriend.
It’s my fault she rebounded right into the arms of another guy. Deep down, I know that.
“There. All done.” Violet’s voice is clipped, yanking me back to reality where she’s regarding me with clinical detachment. It’s the polar opposite of the way I see her—which on some level, is like she’s still mine, as irrational as that may be.
I glance down. Her work is precise and tidy, a far cry from my crooked and wrinkled tape job, and the joint feels more stable already. As she mentioned, it’s not a fix, but it’ll help.
“Thanks,” I tell her, hopping off the table. “I owe you.”
She turns away, refusing to look at me. “That you do.”
