Skye:Hey, I have a game early this morning, but the team is heading out to the arcade afterward. I was wondering if you’d like to come along with us.
I send it off to Violet before I can second-guess myself as I head in the direction of the shower. I’m barely a few feet away when I hear the chime of a text, and launch myself from one side of the bed to the other, gripping my phone like it’s a fish out of water.
The size of my smile makes my face hurt when I read her reply. I set my phone down, unable to peel my eyes away.
Violet:Thank you for the invite! I’d love to!
And I’m going to ride that high the whole way through today’s game.
I don’t usually mix worlds. Hockey stays with hockey. The rest of my life stays separate. It’s more controlled that way.
So walking into Ronin, the arcade, with Violet at my side feels a little like stepping onto the ice without a helmet.
She’s dressed in tight jeans, a soft white sweater, brown boots, and simple earrings. I love that she can make such a simple look feel like she just popped out of a magazine. Even her strawberry-blonde hair cascading down her back seems intentionally perfect.
Ronin is loud in a way that doesn’t apologize for it. Neon lights bouncing off polished floors, arcade machines chiming and flashing, music thudding just enough to blur conversations together. It smells like fried food and overheated electronics.
The team picked it because it’s chaotic and fun, and no one has to pretend to be serious here. Plus, we have rented the only private room. A perk of being on an Olympic hockey team.
I glance at Violet as we step inside, and I make a mental note to ask her why she just waved at the security camera behind the bar.
She’s taking everything in with wide-eyed curiosity, trying not to look overwhelmed, but if I know anything about her, her mind is nothing but static.
There’s this spark in her expression when something is new and exciting, and I feel that jolt in my chest again.
“Welcome to the least professional team bonding environment possible,” I whisper, leaning in closer so she can hear me.
She laughs, and I swear that sound hits harder than any check I’ve taken into the boards.
The team is already clustered near the basketball hoops and the air hockey tables. I spot Paige first, because I always do. She’s leaning against a machine, arms folded, watching everything the same way she does from the net.
Then, her eyes land on me before flicking toward Violet. Her brow lifts, and I give her a responding look that says behave.
She smirks.
One of my other centers looks in our direction and waves. Violet notices and waves back, but leans in close to whisper between clenched teeth as she smiles, “Who is that?”
“Riley,” I reply, being a lot less secretive about the conversation. The team won’t expect her to come in here knowing who everyone is. Questions are natural. “She’s psychic.”
“Psychic?” Violet repeats, losing the ability to hide her questions in a Barbie-style smile.
I laugh and nod. “Oddly enough, her gut is rarely wrong.”
Then I notice Rissa, my assistant captain. She’s walking toward us, a burst of kinetic energy that makes the neon lights seem dim in comparison.
“This her?” Rissa asks, not unkindly, but direct. Very Rissa. Her purple-streaked auburn hair is piled into a messy bun that defies gravity, a few strands framing her freckled face.
“Yeah, Riss,” I say, glaring toward Paige, who apparently told everyone on the planet that I brought someone to hang out with the team. “This is Violet.”
There’s a beat where Rissa sizes her up. Protective and a little challenging, but Violet doesn’t shrink. She smiles and says, “Hello. What’s Rissa short for?” like she’s used to handling big personalities.
I’m sure she does with other surgeons' egos and the fact that she’s a woman in the medical field. I can imagine that’s similar to being a woman in the sports industry.
I feel something in my chest loosen.
Rissa nods once. “Clarissa.”
I’m surprised she shared that.
