Page 17

Chapter 17

Crosby

I t’s eight minutes into the final period. I’m sitting on the bench for a line change, sweat rolling into my eyes, but I’m focused on Portland’s right winger. Ahlman is fucking fast, I’ll give him that, but he lacks a certain discipline. There’s a selfishness to how he handles the puck, keeping it to take a bad shot instead of passing to someone who might sneak one past Nicky. It wouldn’t be likely, our goalie is a damn wall, but it would still be the smarter play.

With a satisfying thump, Obie sends number seven into the boards when he tries to charge the crease. Down the bench, Coach is screaming at our defenseman, warning him off the uncharacteristically rough way he’s playing tonight. It’s the fourth or fifth time Obie’s bodied Ahlman when play didn’t strictly call for it, and I’ve been jealous of his opportunities all night long. The most I’ve been able to do is chirp from the bench or intentionally bump into the asshole when we’ve been near the line changes together. I received some confused looks, and after the last intentional nudge, Ahlman asked what the fuck was up before I just smirked in response.

“Attaboy!” I encourage Obie, ignoring how I know Coach prefers we handle things.

Ahlman looks thunderous, chirping back at Obie, who ignores him to settle back in the zone. It won’t be the last time the two of them get into it tonight. I know why Obie’s taking the risk, but it looks like Ahlman might just like the contact. Another hallmark of a shitty teammate: fighting everyone else instead of fighting for your team.

If I’ve felt nothing short of violent since seeing Violet the other night, and with the way my teammates have played since the puck dropped, I don’t think I’m the only one. I slug a shot of Gatorade from the bottle, looking at Coach for the signal to shift onto the ice again. I haven’t had my chance to go against the asshole who tore my girl’s heart up.

My girl.

That seed of possessiveness took root after Columbus. It twisted and wrapped around me, tight as a vine, when I held Violet in my arms on my couch, brushing away her tears and kissing her sadness away. I’ve never felt like this before, but it settles into a space in my chest that feels right.

Violet Cameron is mine.

A whistle blows, and we get the signal to change. I throw my legs over the ledge and skate out to give our third line a rest. Portland can’t change, so Ahlman remains on the ice. I head into position, squaring up with another Portland player as Ahlman sets up with Bones in the blue circle. I know how this series of play is supposed to go, but when the sticks clash and the puck is on the ice, I don’t care. I push off my blade and head across the rink.

I let physics do their thing as I collide with Ahlman, sending us against the glass hard enough to knock his helmet loose. It skips across the ice as I back up, Ahlman’s gloves dropping beside his helmet and stick. I know what’s coming next because I clocked this guy as a hothead the second I saw him. He fists the front of my jersey as I drop my gloves. He draws his fist, swinging poorly for me when I lean back. I jab my own fist in an uppercut, gripping the front of his jersey in return to keep him where I want him.

I fucking hate fighting. I’m shit at it most of the time, which is why I try to avoid unnecessary scraps with other players, but tonight I’m fired up enough that I plan on making every strike count. Ahlman lands a blow against my jaw, the visor of my helmet doing a decent job of protecting my cheeks and eyes from his hits. The punch rattles my teeth, but I cock my arm back for one more hit.

He’s without his helmet, giving me more targets, and I aim for his nose. I feel it crunch under my fist, satisfied when red explodes from the site.

“What the fuck, man?” Ahlman yells at me as the refs pull us apart. He’s bleeding, but not nearly as badly as I hoped. “You don’t even fucking know me!”

“Welcome to the NHL, you lousy piece of shit!” I call back, not caring that the official is pushing me toward the penalty box.

I trudge into the little glass box, watching the fans sitting behind it. Some are banging on the glass in near-feral levels of support, while others stare wide-eyed. Just as I turn to sit to serve my time, I catch sight of a brunette with startling blue eyes and a bright red pout.

Violet .

She’s still in the crowd of chaos, now more enthusiastically cheering because I haven’t taken my seat. The referee is calling a five-minute major over the PA system for fighting, and I should be hanging my head like a properly punished little boy. But I can’t pull my eyes away from the woman I went to battle for. That I’ll fight for again and again. She hasn’t moved, and the longer we stare at each other, the more her cheeks heat.

I point at the bench before pointing directly at her. This is for you, I mouth.

Her lips part just before I turn my back.

Across the ice, Coach glares daggers at me, and play resumes.

Coach’s office has always been a little on the impersonal side. The walls feature photos of The Midnight team and staff throughout the years. There’s a particularly nice shot of the arena at night, the fluorescent purple lights splashed against the side of the building and people filing in. But there’s nothing here to give away what kind of man runs the team. No framed photographs of friends or family. No mementos from his years as a player. Just a desk and his computer. A bookshelf along the back wall full of binders.

I used to think it was odd, but assumed it was because Coach was that dedicated to the game. So dedicated to the team he refused to have any possible distractions in his space. Now, I know a little better. Coach doesn’t have anything personal because he doesn’t want people to know about his personal life. He never wanted people asking about Violet. He’s always protected her, and right now, he’s pacing behind his desk, ready to yell at me for doing the same thing.

Ironic.

I’m still standing in my gear, having been called in as we marched down the tunnel from our 2-1 win. I was expecting it. After getting out of the box, Coach kept me benched for the rest of the game. Obadiah is waiting outside the door, undoubtedly next to catch shit about our gameplay tonight.

Coach paces behind his desk—his energy is all over the place. I’m used to seeing him worked up, passionate. The more intensely he feels, the more he cusses and yells. It’s just his way. But a quiet Coach is usually a scary Coach, and right now, he’s not saying a word.

Another few minutes pass before he stops behind the chair, gripping it with two hands. His face is a mixture of anger and disappointment. It’s almost enough to get me to feel bad for failing to be the player he expects, but I don’t. I won’t apologize for going after Violet’s ex, and when I meet his stare, I swear I see a hint of pride flash across it.

“Sit down.”

Coach swings his chair back and folds into it heavily, motioning to the large chairs in front of his desk. I look at them and back to him for confirmation.

“Sit the fuck down, Wells.” His tone offers no room for argument, so I do. Being called in here immediately off the ice means I haven’t even had a chance to take my skates off. It feels a little awkward to stay in them now, but I don’t think Coach will appreciate it if I take them off. Instead, I stretch my legs out and hook them at the ankles, the blades making a little clink that echoes in the silence.

Coach leans forward on his elbows, clasping his hands under his chin for a moment.

“Did you know who Olivier Ahlman was before the game tonight?” It’s not what I expect him to say to me. I take a deep breath, knowing there isn’t any way to play this, but truthfully.

“Yes. Violet explained she had history with him. She said things didn’t end well.” I’m watching Coach carefully, but he gives nothing away. “He used her.”

I may have only recently learned of their connection, but as I watch Coach’s eyes flash with anger the same way Violet’s do, it’s so easy to see how they are related. He drops his hands, leaning back while he looks at me. I don’t know what else to say, how much more I should offer, so I wait. This isn’t just about my relationship to him as a player; it’s about my relationship to him as a man who wants to be with his daughter.

“You and Violet?” It’s a small question. I try to hide the smile I feel thinking about her, thinking about what that statement means—what it could mean—and I don’t bite it back. I let it spread across my face.

“Yes.”

Coach listens along to the news. He loosens the tie at his neck, unbuttoning the top collar button of his shirt underneath.

“You ever bring how you feel about her on the ice again—ever let it dictate how you play your game—I’ll suspend you, understand?” I nod immediately. “This is the year you get to prove to everyone what a damn good hockey player you are. Hell, you might even finally start to believe it yourself if you’re lucky. Don’t fuck it up. Even for my daughter. Because she’d never forgive you.”

I blink in shock. It doubles when a wicked smirk spreads across Coach’s face.

“Not exactly how you were expecting this whole thing to go, huh?” He waves a lazy hand between the two of us. I huff out an uneasy laugh of agreement, my body relaxing. Coach shrugs. “What do you want me to say? ‘You hurt her, I’ll hurt you?’ Violet’s a grown woman, fully capable of making her own decisions and doing what’s right for herself, whether I agree with it or not.”

“She’s amazing, sir.” I can’t help but let the truth slip.

“Don’t I fucking know it.” Coach agrees. His eyes turn a little soft in the corners. He stands, and I rise, too. I can tell I’m about to be dismissed. “Ice that jaw, it’s already looking bad.”

“Not as bad as Ahlman’s face,” I venture to reply. I like the darkness in Coach’s face at my statement, it matches how I feel on the inside.

“Too fucking right,” he answers. “But no one around here heard me say that. Especially you. Can’t let there be any rumors of favoritism floating about. Get out of here. No press for you tonight, I don’t need the headache.”

I rush from the office, giving a chin raise to Obie as I fly to get out of my gear and clean up. I pick up my phone when I reach my locker, sending a quick message to Violet asking if she’s still here. I get a cheeky smirking emoji back and confirmation she’s in the hallway, so I hurry to the showers, intent on seeing her as quickly as possible.

After my conversation with Coach, the post-game adrenaline reignites in my veins. It gives a remarkable high I only want to see topped by holding Violet in my arms. No, not a want. It’s a need . I need to have Violet in my arms.

Entering the players' tunnels at the back of the arena, I look for her. About halfway down, near a small bend, I spy Violet leaning against the wall, chatting with another brunette woman. Violet looks around briefly before whispering in the other woman’s ear. There’s a fair amount of people in here, like there always is post-game, but most are team staff or a wayward member of the visiting team’s support crew. Everyone usually is coming or going to a very specific task, and there is rarely any loitering. I’m immensely grateful our arena security is tight, and they are vigilant at keeping fans and press alike from having access.

I greet a few equipment crew members as I walk quickly along the corridor. Violet has her back to me at the moment, but her companion’s eyes widen at my approach before she grabs Violet by the shoulders and turns her to face me.

“Think I’ll make it to the gaffer’s office before I get kicked out?” The woman’s accent is decidedly English, and I definitely don’t know what a ‘gaffer’ is. She gives me a nudge on the arm as she passes, calling back over her shoulder, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, you sexy little minx. Talking to you, Big Shoots!”

“Keep following the tunnel. Wait outside the last door on the right. Use the badge if anyone gives you trouble,” Violet yells, the woman already striding along looking like she belongs, but she throws a hand up in recognition, a visitor’s badge clutched in her grasp. A pretty little giggle tumbles out of Violet. I look down at her, it’s something I haven’t heard from her before, and I wonder if I can make it happen again.

“Let me guess: that’s Bea?” I ask instead, carefully stepping closer. The crowd is thinning out, and people are used to us together when we work on social media content, but I’m still playing by Violet’s rules about proximity. Even if it’s killing me not to scoop her up and see if her lips taste any sweeter with that crimson color painted on them.

“The one and only,” Violet replies, shuffling forward a half-step. “I would excuse her behavior on the blood thirst she acquired during the game, but it would be a lie. That’s just Bea. She’s off to find my dad, say hello. She’s staying with Obie and Gus. Obie arranged for her to be here.”

I hum a sound of acknowledgment. She’s close enough now that I can lace my fingers with hers on the hand closest to the wall. It’s barely any contact, but the adrenaline doubles in my blood.

“She going to be okay if we get out of here?” Propriety is telling me I shouldn’t intrude on Violet’s time with her best friend. I only have a vague idea of their connection, but I know it’s a big deal she’s here. I don’t want to be proper tonight. I don’t want to be patient. I don’t want to be good.

The possessiveness inside me rears its head, expecting me to pay attention. It insists on being selfish and greedy, demanding I haul Violet away to keep her for myself, especially knowing Ahlman may still be in this very building. That’s too close to her.

“What do you have in mind?” Violet says it quietly, and I see the sparks in her eyes. “Are the guys going to Lowry’s? We could go there, get a celebratory drink to mark the occasion.”

I take a risk as the tunnel quiets, shooting a quick look around, hoping we’re alone in this makeshift corner. With barely a conscious conclusion that we are, I twist Violet’s and my joined hands around her back, using the motion to pull her flush against me.

“I want to celebrate. But not at Lowry’s, and certainly not with any of the other guys.” I boldly cradle her cheek with my other hand, securing her in my hold as I run my nose along the curve of her jaw to where I whisper in her ear, “I want my ‘mark’ tonight to be on your skin. Here.” I suck a kiss onto the tender flesh below her earlobe. “And here,” I continue, letting my lips work along the column of her throat, where her pulse is picking up speed the longer I let my lips linger. “And a few more places I can’t reach standing in this hallway where anyone can see us. How does that sound?”

“Yes.”