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“Tried,” I tell her honestly. “Didn’t notice any difference. They...
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“I’ll change up your rehab protocol, then. You agree to stick to it for ...
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“And I’ll know if you’re lying to
“I’ll be able to tell if you’re slacking off.” “If it means you’ll help me, it’s a deal.”
“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.”
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.”
“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?”
“Guess that’s a price you’re going to have to
“You tried to tape your shoulder yourself?” “Tried,”
“And failed.”
“Taping this is like putting a band-aid on a bullet hole,” she murmurs. “Better than no band-aid.” Her gaze lifts to mine, brimming with concern. “Barely.”
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.
“There. All done.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, hopping off the table. “I owe you.” She turns away, refusing to look at me. “That you do.”
“Hi, Dad.” Doug Richards. Nationally renowned minor hockey coach, head of the prestigious minor hockey program at Copperhill Sports Academy, and world-class asshole. AKA, my father. “How’s your preseason going?”
“Good so far.”
“Highly disappointing performance against the Wildcats,” he cuts in. Searing frustration surges through me, and I smack the steering wheel with the heel of my palm, praying he doesn’t hear the impact over the other end of the line. Of course, he would single out the only loss we’ve had so far this year. “Yeah, I guess it wasn’t our best.”
Despite the contract awaiting me after graduation, Doug doesn’t think I’ll make it, and he makes that abundantly clear on a regular basis. He’s been especially skeptical ever since I had the audacity to injure my AC joint last year. He enjoys nothing more than comparing me to the big names he’s worked with, including one first-round draft pick who went pro at eighteen years old a few years back.
up. “I’m only hard on you because you have so much potential. It’s time you started living up to it.” The line goes dead before I can respond.
“You scared me,” I tell Nash, trying to ignore my galloping heart. “Maybe because you’re working alone in the middle of the night.”
Hating Nash would be so much easier if I didn’t have the underlying urge to tear off his clothes all the time.
“Tell me about it. I can already tell I’m going to be the one rewriting this piece of shit paper before we turn it in.” Nash smirks. “I guess that makes me the Violet of the group.”
“In my defense, I only did that a couple of times.” His mouth quirks. “You mean, every single time.”
“The train?” A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Why?” “My car’s in the shop.” It’s easier to tell people this than to explain the truth, especially to him.
“Do you mean the same transit station where three people got mugged last week?”
“I guess so?” I squeak. Hadn’t heard about that, but it sounds pretty on-brand for West Campus transit station.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”
“It’s late, it’s pitch-black outside, and you’re pocket-sized. The campus Safewalk program exists for a reason. That’s not even factoring your CSI transit situation.”
Wait, he left you to take the train home alone?” “I’m not helpless.” “I knew I didn’t like that guy,”
“Three options, Vi. Either I drive you home”—
you get campus Safewalk to come escort you, or I walk you to the train and wait with you. Take your pick.”
“Why do you think you can order me around?” “If you don’t choose, I will.”
“Fine. Fourth option: I can follow you if you’re going to be stubborn about it.” “Wouldn’t that make you one of the creeps you’re warning me about?” “I’m a lot less scary than the ones running loose out there.” He jerks his thumb behind him.
“Less scary when it comes to you, anyway.” Another pause follows. He cocks a brow, voice dropping until it’s nearly a growl. “Don’t make me carry your ass to my car.”
“Fine. Let’s go to the train station.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t be friends,” I blurt, stepping off the curb to cross a utility road. His gaze slides over to me. “We can’t.” “Then why do you care what happens to me?” We slow to a stop under a yellow-tinted streetlamp. It casts half of his face in shadows, making him even more difficult to read than usual. “Same reason I can’t be your friend.”
“I didn’t maim you,” I tell Nash. “It’s not my fault you’re battered and bruised. You should book a sports massage. It’ll help with some of the tension you’re holding in your neck and shoulders.” “Not a big fan. I’d rather have you rub me down.”
“Are you like this with all your trainers?”
“You’re one of the top students in your program?” Despite his neutral tone, I bristle at the question. “Is that hard to believe?” “Of course not, Vi. You’ve always been crazy smart.”
“Nope,” he says. “Let’s go.” He begins walking, taking my backpack with him.
“What?” I hustle to catch up with him, which is no easy feat given that my legs are half the length of his. “Go where?” “To my car, obviously.”
“You know what they say, the things that hurt are the ones you need most.” “You’re a sadist,” I tell him.
“Last time we spoke, you said your mother’s birthday was near the end of August, correct?” “August twenty-third.” I swallow, trying to squash the sour feeling brewing in my gut. “Did you do anything to commemorate it?”
“No.”
“Have you been to see her lately?” “You mean, to her grave?”
“It’s a little easier if I have some more background first.” Marie’s pushback is firm, but gentle. “How are things with your father? Is he a part of this stress?”
“He’s always a part of the stress.”
“It’s awkward. And he’s gotten better looking. How is that even fair?” “You’re not telling me you’re still attracted to him, are you? After everything he did?” Her understanding gives way to open dismay. “I mean…” Has she seen the guy?
“Violet.” “I’m not going to act on it,” I tell her. I don’t think.
