Page 17 of Neo (Valencia Ice Mafia #1)

violet

I’m really trying to act like Christmas is just another day of the year, but the reality is that it isn’t and probably never will be, at least for me. Between the relentless push of Christmas music, television programming and VCU’s obvious commitment to an obscene amount of holiday lights, it’s pretty hard to escape.

My father called me last night to double check if I wanted to come to his house for Christmas dinner with him and his new “friend” Charlotte. I’d already said no two other times, but lately he’s been persistent about building a relationship with me, as if he could ever make up for the twenty years of my life that he’s missed. Needless to say, I politely passed on the invitation and gave him an excuse about coming down with a cold.

“I don’t really do a huge turkey thing on Christmas, but I make a mean Cornish hen,” he said. “I’d love for you to come home and have a quiet Christmas dinner with me and Charlotte. I think you’ll like her.”

My first inclination is to remind my father that my actual home had always been back on the east coast in a warm tiny townhouse with my mom. Not with him. Never with him. But it’s not really my personality to disrespect my elders, even knowing that this elder is only in my life because he has to be and not because he chose to be. But of course, I don’t say any of that.

“I’m not really feeling too good,” I said, selling my story with a few fake coughs.

“Do you have a temperature? Have you taken a covid test?” He started battering off a million questions and I rolled my eyes to myself. Really? He chose now to be concerned about my health? Where was he when I had the chicken pox in the fourth grade and my mom had to take off three days of work that she couldn’t afford to take care of me?

“I think it’s just a cold. I’m pretty sure I just need some rest.”

“Have you been prepping a little too hard for the upcoming semester?”

“Maybe, but I just want to make sure I don’t blow the full ride you managed to get for me.”

The one I don’t actually deserve.

The poor girl pity scholarship.

“You won’t blow it. I’ve seen your high school transcripts. You’re an excellent student, Violet, and you work hard. Don’t stress yourself so much.”

I became stuck on his second comment, not really hearing anything after that.

“I’m sorry, but how have you seen my transcripts? Don’t you need my permission? I’m over the age of eighteen.”

“It never dawned on me that I’d need permission. I’m your father, so I just asked, and the school gave me online access.”

“Why?” I blurt out, offended that he’s taking liberties that he hasn’t earned. How dare he interject himself in my life like this at the eleventh hour? “Why would you do that?”

“Because I care, Violet.” His response is said softly, as if my question hurt his feelings.

Imagine that.

* * *

Today I’ve been in my pajamas for hours, played with some new skin care in the bathroom mirror, cracked open a brand new wolf shifter romance (which I love) and have read eleven chapters already. Elijah also finally called again, and we had the lamest conversation, practically confirming my decision to end whatever this is we’re doing before the new year begins.

“Hey, Vi.”

“Hi, Elijah. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

*silence*

“Are you getting ready to go to your grandma’s house?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

*more silence*

“You good?” he asked.

“Uh, huh.”

*torturous silence*

“You want to call me tomorrow when you have more time to talk?” I asked, not really knowing what else to say.

“Yeah, that would be good. My mom is waiting for me and my sister.”

“Right, okay. Tell everyone I said hello.”

“Will do. Holla at you later.”

“K.”

When we hung up, I felt disappointed in the quality of our non-conversation, but I also felt relieved when it was over. The only thing left for me to do now is fix myself dinner and watch a very corny Christmas movie, the kind that my mom would have had playing in the background all day while she prepared Christmas dinner.

So, Merry Christmas to me.

But maybe Kennedy was right. I’m not sure this was the healthiest way for me to spend the holiday. Being by myself, and losing myself in werewolves, hasn’t stopped me from thinking about the last time I saw my mother.

Last year.

Christmas Eve.

I can visualize her so clearly, sprawled out on the floor next to her bed. Her head next to a pair of black slippers with smiley faces on them. She was wearing an oversized throwback t-shirt with the MTV logo on it and a pair of pajama bottoms with snowflakes on them. Her eyes were slightly open, but her eyeballs were rolled back. It’s a haunting image. One that I will probably carry for the rest of my life like a scar in the center of my chest.

I’m sniffling with sadness as I open the refrigerator to search for whatever ingredients I can find to make myself a makeshift Christmas dinner. I consider boiling bowtie pasta but there’s no sauce. We used the last of that two weeks ago and I hate just eating butter and noodles. I contemplate making mashed potatoes. Those would be delicious, but we’re out of milk. It’s so like my unorganized ass to not have thought this whole thing through. I should have stocked the fridge yesterday.

I sit on the living room couch in a defeated posture when a knock on the door startles me.

“Who is it?” I ask, looking through the peephole of the front door which seems to be obscured by the back of someone’s head. Someone’s blonde head. My chest tightens from the mere possibility that it’s him.

“Who is it?” I repeat.

“It’s me,” he replies and then turns his head so that I have a clear view of his face.

His unforgettable face.

I hesitantly open the door, unclear as to why he’s at my front door on Christmas Day.

“You didn’t call to say you were coming,” I say, unable to stop myself from smiling. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere…else?”

“And a merry Christmas to you too, Grinch.”

He makes himself comfortable, walking right in and straight to the kitchen with two full reusable grocery bags and starts unloading them.

“What is all of that?” I ask.

“Dinner.”

“You want to have dinner here?”

He stops what he’s doing and looks at me with compassion.

“I realize this is probably a very shitty day for you and I have off of practice for obvious reasons, so I thought since I was making dinner anyway, why not make dinner for two?”

My eyes immediately water.

“Don’t you dare cry, Violet,” he warns. “This is what friends do for each other.”

“Thank you.”

“Now go wash your hands so you can help me.”

Wash my hands?

It just dawns on me, I probably look a complete mess.

I do a fast walk to my bedroom and take a look at myself in the mirror that hangs above my dresser. Sleep bonnet on my head. Eyes puffy. Disheveled pajamas. The only thing going for me is that I don’t stink having taken a long shower late last night to help me calm down after the call with my father.

I change quickly into the only actual matching leisure sweats I own, a fluffy cream-colored sweat top with matching sleep shorts. Then I take my hair down, shake out the curls, then swoop all my dense strands up in a messy ponytail that sits on top of my head. Finally, I check my breath by blowing against my hand, decide that I’m good and finish up by spreading a bit of the strawberry scented lip mask Kennedy gifted me on my lips.

“Violet!” He calls impatiently for me.

“Coming.”

I return to the kitchen feeling much better than I did when I left.

“What can I do?”

He studies me briefly and I notice he clenches then releases his left hand. I wonder if he hurt it during hockey practice. It seems to bother him a lot.

“You’re going to cook in all white?” he asks me.

“It’s the only thing I had clean,” I fib.

“What was wrong with the pajamas you had on?”

“I had them on all day,” I say, trying to blow the question off. “Give me my assignment, please.”

“You can start chopping the onions and celery.”

“What are we making?”

“Roasted chicken, stuffing, spinach salad, and macaroni and cheese.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” I say excitedly.

“Are you impressed?”

“Kind of.”

“Don’t be. Most athletes know how to cook because we eat a lot and don’t live at home with our momma’s anymore.”

“Will your mom miss you today?”

“Of course, but she’s in Puerto Rico visiting family. She has a touch of the Christmas Grinch-itis , too.”

“Oh, because of your brother.”

“Yep.”

“And what about your dad?”

“He’s probably in front of the TV watching football with a drink and a bowl of beer nuts.”

“He didn’t want to go to Puerto Rico with your mom?”

I try chopping the celery as finely as humanly possible with the only dull knife we own.

“My parents aren’t together. They fell apart after Jake’s death. I guess my parents’ marriage couldn’t survive it.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Honestly, it’s amazing to me that your parents were married as long as they were. I wouldn’t even know anything about that. Raised by a single mom over here.”

“Um, have you ever cut celery before?” He asks curiously.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“It’s just that it’s turning into mush,” he chuckles. “Let me show you.”

The kitchen is small and not really meant for two people, or at least a person of his size, and someone else to cook at the same time, which is why I guess he turns and stands behind me. I take a quick inhalation as he grabs my hands with his and shows me how to “correctly” chop the celery.

“The knife is definitely dull, but you can still get it done. Just hold it at an angle like this.”

“Okay,” is all I manage to utter, his body dangerously close to mine.

“You got it now?”

“Yep.”

He releases my hands and goes back to prepping the chicken. Carefully seasoning it with what looks like spices he brought from home.

Once we’ve finished stuffing the chicken and placing it in the oven, he orders me to take a seat and play some music while he preps the macaroni and cheese.

“Why can’t I help with that?”

“You can’t have too many cooks in the macaroni and cheese. It won’t come out right.”

“Uh, I grew up on it. I think I know my way around a pan of macaroni.”

“Do you make a cheese sauce or cut up the cheese in chunks?”

“Sauce.”

“Bonk!” He makes the sound of an annoying game show buzzer. “You cut up the cheese.”

“Whatever,” I smile.

“And how many cheeses do you use?”

I remember how my mom and my grandmother used to make it. Simple and southern style.

“Three cheeses!”

“Bonk!” He makes the sound again. “You’re not doing it right if you don’t have five.”

“Five? Ew, that’s overkill.”

“Just wait until you eat it.”

My body is humming with excitement and I’m too restless to sit, so I put on an old curated playlist of dance hits and tidy up the living room while Neo continues to cut his various cheeses.

I nervously fold up Kennedy’s favorite mud cloth throw blanket about four different times as I watch Neo from across the room. He’s so different when it’s just the two of us. He’s not the person people see on the Suns’ posters, standing in the forefront with a mean screw face, head of the notorious Ice Mafia.

In our shared solitude, his usual icy demeanor melts away, revealing a warmth that is as inviting as the enveloping aroma of our Christmas dinner. He moves about the kitchen with a grace that contradicts the strength you’d associate with his role on the ice; his bulky form maneuvering with a dexterity that I find oddly enthralling.

I go back to focusing on the blanket.

“Dancing alone?” His deep voice startles me. I hadn’t realized he was watching. He looks at me with a teasing eyebrow raised and a gleam in his eyes.

“No,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm up as I realize he’s caught me unguarded. “Just...” I trail off, laughing at myself.

“I’ll dance with you.” He wipes his hands on a dishtowel and steps towards me, extending a hand. I look at him in surprise, then laugh again, shaking my head as I take his hand.

“You dance?”

“To this song I do.”

I gently place the neatly folded blanket on the sofa, my gaze still locked on him. He wraps his arms around my waist, towering over my frame, and moves his hips in a delicious rhythm, syncing with the beat of Despacito playing in the background. He sings along under his breath, horribly out of tune, but it only makes me smile wider. Our laughter fills the house now, echoing against the walls and resonating within me.

Our eyes lock as the song ends and when he leans in for a kiss, I’m anxiously expecting it. I want it. As soon as he feels my response to his advance, the kiss grows stronger.

His hand lifts from my waist to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through a few loose strands that have fallen from my bun. The world seems to blur around us. The only thing in focus is the feel of his lips moving passionately against mine.

His kiss is an intoxicating mixture of passion and gentleness that leaves me momentarily breathless. His hold on me tightens, pulling me against the hard planes of his body as his other hand moves up to cup my cheek. Our shared warmth ignites something within me, a longing that’s been dormant for far too long.

Hesitantly, I break the kiss to draw a much-needed breath, but Neo takes it as an invitation to trail kisses down my neck. My hands instinctively move up his chest, tangling in the fabric of his shirt, as I tilt my head back to give him more access. He responds with a low growl that reverberates through his chest and shoots a thrill straight down my spine.

“Neo...” His name escapes my lips as a breathy whisper, making him pause momentarily before resuming his exploration with renewed fervor. His teeth graze my skin lightly before he soothes over the slight sting with another fervent kiss.

A delicious shiver runs down my spine as his expert hands trail lower, skirting around my waist and slipping beneath the edge of my sweatshirt. His touch is electrifying; hot, yet gentle, it raises goosebumps over every inch of skin it grazes.

I gasp when he pulls away rather abruptly, leaving me disoriented and breathless. He looks at me with smoldering eyes filled with desire, making things really wet and wild down below.

“Fingers or tongue?” he asks in a bass-heavy voice, reminding me of the erotic offer he made the last time he was over here.

“Well, since you’re making our Christmas dinner with those fingers–” I grin.

“Then tongue it is.”