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“Alex.” He steps in front of the gate, blocking the way to the pool house.
“I was wondering if Violet’s home.”
“Yeah, she’s home. She’s busy packing.”
“Packing?” I scan the pool house.
“She’s moving. She wants her own place.” He says it as if it’s my fault. Maybe it is.
“Is she staying in the city?”
“If Violet wants you to know where she’s moving, I’m sure she’ll get in touch.”
He’s not going to make this easy. “Do you think I could speak with her?”
“Violet made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to see you right now. In fact, she’s said she never wants to see you again. Can’t really say as I blame her, either.” His lip twitches, his disdain for me obvious.
I have a sinking feeling once Violet makes up her mind about something, she doesn’t usually go back on it.
“I understand. Could you give these to her then?” I hold out the takeout cup and the box. “This needs to go in the freezer; it’s an ice cream cake.”
Sidney takes them from me with a frown and waits for me to get in my car. He’s still standing in the middle of the driveway as I pull away, barely avoiding running over the paps who never seem to let up. That definitely didn’t go as planned.
The next night I have a game, so there’s no time to follow up with Violet. I don’t hear anything the next day, or the one after that. I resort to emailing her. It bounces back. The message should be clear by now, but I’m not ready to give up, so I stop by her work. I make it past security only to find Violet is in a meeting.
Charlene comes down the hall, her smile far from friendly. She slips her arm through mine and walks me down the hall to the elevator.
“I want a chance to explain.”
“Explain what, exactly, Alex?” She props a fist on her hip. “That you invited her to move in with you one night and the next you’re pulling this just friends bullshit on national TV? It’s been almost a week, and now you have the audacity to show up here as if she’s going to want to talk to you? What kind of head games are you playing?”
I should have acted sooner. “My agent wanted me to keep things on the down low. There’s an endorsement campaign—”
“That’s supposed to make it better?” She punches the elevator button, eyeing me with contempt. “You need to leave Violet alone. She’s had enough of the media sniffing around without you showing up to make it worse for her. Next time I see you here, I’m going to puncture your testicles with my stilettos.”
“Charlene—”
She flips me the bird. As she clips down the hall, I check out her shoes. I don’t want them anywhere near my balls.
I go back and try to see Violet again a few days later, despite the threat. The media is up my ass, following me to the doors, hounding me with questions I refuse to answer—because I have none. Those weenie dudes who work with her are as bad as Charlene, and I can’t get within fifty feet of Violet. I even try stopping by her house again, media constantly in tow. Her SUV isn’t in the driveway, and no one answers the door.Violet isn’t with Sidney and Skye in the prime seats at the next few home playoff games, and Butterson is tight-lipped. I put my energy into practice and games because there’s no other option. We make it to the third round, and I want to share my excitement with Violet, but it’s been more than two weeks and she isn’t talking to me, so I can’t.
Tired of the media constantly dogging me, I tell my new agent, Janette, I need an image overhaul to dispel the rumors about my “heartbreaker” ways. She’s in agreement, so she sets up a TV interview with one of the big entertainment syndicates. This interview is about my personal life, not my hockey career. It won’t go live for several days, which gives me time to work on Violet, not that I’ve gotten anywhere in the weeks since my epic fuck up.
On the day of the interview, I discover Violet is moving to her new apartment on the weekend. Charlene passes the information through Darren. Media snapshots of Butterson loading a moving truck act as additional proof.
Darren has almost forgiven me, thankfully. He’s not mad about being punched; it’s the stupid endorsement he’s not quite willing to let go of yet. He does divulge the proximity of Violet’s new apartment, giving me a general location to work from.
Desperate for any kind of contact, I check her Facebook profile. She’s blocked me there, too, so I try Butterson’s page. New pics of him with Violet toasting beers and packing boxes highlight his Facebook profile. In the background, the stuffed beaver I gave her hangs from a ceiling fan with a makeshift noose tied around his neck. Angry at myself and my situation, I tear into a bag of Cheetos and inhale the entire thing while I wait for Janette to pick me up for the interview. She won’t let me go on my own, concerned I’m going to self-sabotage. By the time she arrives I’ve eaten my way through the whole bag, and I’ve used my shirt as a napkin. It’s in this state that I open the door.
