Page 16

Chapter 16

Violet

Bea

Ready for the game tonight?

Me

I feel like I’m going to throw up, so, yes?

Bea

It won’t be that bad. You won’t even have to see the waste of space unless he’s in the game!

Me

I told Crosby everything. It’s been two days, and he still seems growly. I don’t think he can keep a clear head.

Bea

He’s a big boy. Let him handle himself. Now open your door, it’s bloody cold out here.

I drop my phone and race to my front door, throwing it open to reveal the smiling face of my best friend.

“Surprise, bitch!” she yells before launching into a cackle that reverberates off the neighboring buildings. I missed that sound. Then I’m engulfed in her arms, the smell of Earl Grey and roses filling my nostrils as Bea squeezes me half to death.

“What are you doing here?” I cry as I pull away, patting up and down her arms like I expect her to disappear. Her curls have been straightened, sending her brunette hair down in shiny sheets along her back, and her brown eyes have slightly purple shadows under them. “Did you take the red eye?”

“Obadiah woke me up yesterday telling me a ticket was waiting for me, and under no circumstances was I allowed to miss the flight. He called my work and told them I had a family emergency and I would be gone for the next three days.” She’s laughing as we shuffle inside. I didn’t know how much I needed Bea until I opened the door. “I forgot how pushy he can be. But he took care of the Uber to get me to his place and to bring me here.”

“You’re staying with Obie and Gus?” I ask. “You okay with that? Gus is harmless, just a little intense. Don’t let him talk you out of your panties.”

My brain catches up to the information. Obie called her and arranged for her to be here. It’s so like my other best friend to pull something like this. From the conversation we had yesterday morning at the arena, he was just as worked up at seeing Olivier as Crosby was. Maybe even more so since he witnessed my heartbreak in real time. As kids, Obie was always my first defender in school. I guess that hasn’t changed just because we grew up.

“That man is not my type. He’s like a puppy, and I’m not looking to train anyone up right now,” Bea assures me, sassy but teasing. She’s already wandering around the ground floor, poking her head into the living room and kitchen before looping back around to me. “I’m in good hands with those boys.”

I put my arms around her, hugging her close again.

“I can’t believe you’re here, but I’m so happy. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, Petal.” She pushes my hair behind my ear lovingly before clapping her hands together. “Right. Let’s get to it!”

Her excited tone and the fire flaring in her eyes have me feeling decidedly better.

The arena is loud and cold. Exactly as it should be for a Saturday night home game. The crowd is full of black jerseys and sweatshirts, only dappled in places by the sky blue of some Portland supporters. Their team is dressed in white away game jerseys, blending in with the ice except for the sky-blue accents of their logo, numbers, and names. I don’t look for number seven during warm-ups, choosing to focus on the team at the other end of the ice.

The Midnight are in their signature black home jerseys; logo, numbers, and names popping out in the vibrant purple accent color. Adding a dangerous glint to their look is the silver piping that makes the stitching stand out. I scan the group to point out players for Bea.

“That’s Nicky, number twenty-eight,” I tell her. We watch as he goes through his rituals at his net. He stretches in ways that make me hurt just watching before sitting on the ice between the pipes and lifting his mask. I watch his lips move as he turns to each of his goalposts, kissing his glove and pressing his hand to each of the metal pipes. Goalies.

Off to the side, I point out a pair of players. “You might not recognize Gus in his gear; he’s number eighty-seven, and Obie wears number eighty-nine.” I giggle with Bea because we know Obie might not like admitting his love for Taylor Swift, but his jersey says everything. They have their helmets loose, chin straps dangling as they toy with a puck back and forth. Obie raises his head to look across the ice and then whispers in Gus’ ear. I don’t want to know what that means.

Closer to center ice, the trio of the starting line are running drills up their lanes, getting ready to take some practice shots on goal now that Nicky is upright again. I point out Henri in number sixty-four, the silver “C” emblazoned on his chest, Charlie wearing his number four, trying to sink a slapshot past Nicky, and finally, number ten, Crosby.

It’s right then that he takes his helmet off as he skates toward the bench. His brown curls are already damp with sweat, and they flop clumsily on his forehead before he shakes them back.

“Bloody hell, Vi!” Bea whistles appreciatively. We decided to forgo the family suite for seats closer to the ice, and this is her first glance of Crosby in person. We’re just above the penalty boxes, looking across at where he’s leaning in close to talk with my dad. “That man looks like he’d throw you over his shoulder, fuck you twice, and thank you for the opportunity.”

“Christ, Bea! I work here,” I hiss. There’s a man two rows down who has turned to glare over his shoulder. It’s the typical reaction from a guy who thinks women only show up to the games to stare at the players without a clue as to what is going on. In his defense, my friend isn’t exactly trying to deter his assumption with her commentary.

“Don’t care, babe.” Bea is laughing as she tosses a two-finger salute at the grumpy man; a foul gesture he certainly won’t understand, so she gets away with it. “Crosby Wells is hot as hell. Is he that big everywhere?”

I slouch in my seat, the plastic giving me no assistance as I try to melt away from my best friend with the bawdy mouth. My skin feels hot all over as I think back to the other night at his house. It was a little presumptuous to show up at his place, but after being at Dad’s, and one angry voicemail to Obie, all I wanted to do was see Crosby.

He was attentive, patient, and the best listener. He didn’t rush me or interrupt. I can still feel the way he held me, running his hands up and down my body in comfort, never trying to push it to the next level. But when I kissed him, his immediate reciprocation sent heat flooding through my veins. I wasn’t surprised our impromptu make-out session riled him up, but I was shocked at the sheer size of him underneath me. If the circumstances had been any different, I would have done some deeper investigating.

“Oh, you naughty girl,” Bea’s voice breaks my train of thought. She’s scooted down to lean over in my ear. I cover my face with my hands, as if it will protect me from her curiosity. “C’mon then, let’s have it. Don’t leave out any of the dirty details.”

“We haven’t had sex,” I say, keeping my voice pitched low and serious. I’m scanning the area around us, ever mindful of my coworkers working in the arena tonight and the clientele of the crowd starting to take their seats. Bea is giving me an indignant look, trying to figure out if she believes me. “We haven’t,” I insist.

A single eyebrow arch. She stares me down. One second, then two. The brow drops, but her gaze narrows.

I huff out a sigh and roll my eyes.

“But from what I can tell, the answer to your question is ‘yes.’”

Bea’s cackle draws the ire of the man two rows down again. I give him an apologetic smile. Bea continues to laugh, reaching for the beer we picked up before claiming our seats. She downs a healthy swallow, smacking her lips a little.

“That tastes like warm piss,” she comments, grimacing and drinking again. I laugh at her. Even shitty beer makes Bea happy when she wants one.

I look back down, watching the teams skate off the ice, preparing for the lineups and anthem. Dad is the last one off the ice for our team, looking back and forth to make sure his team is where they’re supposed to be. He gives a wave to a kid banging on the glass, a move that is entirely perfect for the man he is.

In the other corner, the Portland Searchers are making their way to their tunnel. Against my will, the bright blue seven catches my eye, and I see Olivier pull his helmet off. His golden hair is longer than the last time I saw him, and beyond where he exits, some fans in sky blue wave at him. My stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Thanks for coming with me.” I lean my head on Bea’s shoulder. “I probably should have skipped this.”

“Oh, Petal, you wouldn’t have wanted to miss this for the world.”

As the Zamboni finishes resurfacing the ice, and the lights dim, I know she’s right. But when the opening riff of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” blasts, my heart lodges in my throat.