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Alex kneels beside me. “Violet, baby, what are you doing?”
I pull out his skates and a couple of the bigger items, making room to climb in. It doesn’t smell bad at all; hanging out in his hockey bag should be manageable for a few minutes.
“This is how you’re going to get me out of here.” I mean, isn’t it obvious?
“No one’s going to think you’re a prostitute.”
“Really, Alex? You’re being awfully naive if you believe people aren’t going to think I’m a super slut when I walk out of this locker room with the entire team behind me. Or in front of me. Or surrounding me.”
He flashes a dimple. “You’ll be with me.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “And that’s better how? People already believe you’re a player. How will I avoid the puck bunny label if I saunter out of here looking like an expensive prostitute hanging off your arm?” I add the expensive part to make myself feel minutely better about this whole situation.
Alex puts a hand on my arm, his hurt evident by the sudden slump of his shoulders. “You don’t need to do this.”
“This is already complicated. I don’t want to create more problems for myself.” The hockey bag will be cramped, similar to how I imagine a body bag would feel except with smelly equipment.
“There’s another exit.”
“There is?” I haven’t seen one, but then again, I’ve been pretty preoccupied up until now.
He nods slowly. “There is.”
“That’s a much better option than snuggling with your jockstrap.”
Alex tells the coach we’ll meet them at the bus. He opens the emergency door, otherwise known as the “back door.” I put my hand over my face and peek through the slits between my fingers. No one is waiting to ambush us. I take Alex’s extended hand and follow him down the deserted hall to the exit. He pushes the release bar, and we step out into the cold, Canadian winter night.
Alex wraps his arm around my waist. “See? Much better than riding around in my hockey bag.”
“Agreed.” I huddle into his chest as he guides me across the parking lot, staying in the shadows. He keeps me curled into his side as a few reporters appear out of nowhere to chase after us. The driver opens the door, saving me from potential additional embarrassment. Once we’re on the bus, I realize my parents and Charlene have no idea where I am. I pull my phone out, turn it on, and check my texts. There are twenty-seven. Alex sent fifteen between four in the afternoon and just prior to the start of the game. The rest are from my mom and Charlene.
Having checked before I left for the Great White North, I discovered roaming charges were super expensive, hence the reason I shut my phone off. I quickly shoot a text to Charlene and one to my mom to let them know I haven’t been kidnapped by a serial killer. The plan is to meet up with everyone at the bar to celebrate the win.
When I’ve finished texting, I look over at Alex. He’s staring at me.
“Why didn’t you respond to any of my messages today?” He sounds like I kicked his pet beaver.
“Do you have any idea how expensive the roaming charges are in Canada? It doesn’t even make sense. Canada’s kind of like a huge state in the north. I know it’s a commonwealth and all, but wouldn’t it be more convenient if we had the same money and government?”
Alex’s mouth hangs open. I fear I may have insulted him. “Every text I send costs seventy-five cents outside of the US, and I didn’t buy a package. I figured I’d see you soon enough, and if I sent you messages I’d tell you I was coming, and I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say any of that shit about Canada being an extension of the US, Violet. I know you don’t mean that.”
Ooooh, I definitely offended him. I’ll bring it up again later. It would be the perfect way to get him all riled up before we get naked. He might smack my ass for it. Interestingly enough, the possibility gets me a little excited.
The driver takes the bus around to pick up the rest of the team. Buck is busy answering questions from reporters. He’s concentrating hard. It makes his forehead scrunch up.
“What did the guy say to you on the ice, anyway?”
“Eh?” His expression is carefully blank. I’m sure he knows what I’m referring to.
“What did he say to provoke you?” I recall what his violent outburst looked like, and I regret to say the question comes out a little breathy.
“I don’t remember. He was being a dick.” It’s an evasive answer at best, and I don’t buy it for a second. He’s too tense. He’s lying; I just don’t know why. His phone rings, saving him from more questions. He digs it out of his pocket and checks the screen. “Shit. It’s Dick.”
