Violet is in my arms.
She’s curled into me as if she belongs here. Her back is against my chest, my arm is around her middle, and the other is bent awkwardly under the pillow.
Her sex-crazed hair is everywhere, tickling my neck as she breathes. She’s still asleep. I can tell by the rise and fall of her shoulders, deep and regular with no tension at all.
And then I smell it.
Coffee.
I don’t open my eyes right away. I breathe it in, letting it mix with the faint smell of Violet’s coconut shampoo, which I’ve come to love.
The realization hits me that she set the coffee pot timer after the talk had slowed and the darkness got thicker. She must have gotten out of bed just in time to think ahead, to think about the morning, and think about what I would want.
I stare at the ceiling, my jaw clenching and unclenching. This feeling of someone else doing something with me in mind isn’t something I’m used to.
I’m not sure how I feel about it.
Last night comes back to me in pieces. The dark room mixed with her soft voice. She never pushed or judged. I told her things I’ve never told anyonebefore. Things I’ve worked so hard not to feel. It’s been packed away for years now. I learned to skate around it without looking.
I told her anyway, and she stayed.
That’s probably the worst part.
Because now I’m lying here with her wrapped in my arms, and I regret nothing. Not even the smallest part. If anything, it feels like something has clicked into place. Maybe I’ve put something down that I didn’t even know I was carrying.
I shift slightly, making sure I don’t wake her. She murmurs something that doesn’t make sense and snuggles harder into me. My grip tightens around her instinctively, protectively, before I can stop myself.
Yeah. This is a problem.
A good one. But still.
Milan was supposed to be temporary. A break. A place that existed outside of the real world. And Violet, who somehow sees more than she lets on, was supposed to be a part of this temporary bubble. A week and a half of mornings, of shared silences, and late-night confessions does not equal a future.
Soon we’ll leave. Different flights that lead to different lives.
I make a mental note to not spoil the moment by bringing it up, but also not to forget about it. We’ll need to talk about what happens after Milan. Will she keep that leather choker around her neck once they put out the Olympic torch at the closing ceremonies?
But for now, I’ll remain still.
I breathe in the coffee and the quiet. And I let myself have this morning before the world asksfor anything else.
The rink is noisy in a way that makes you shake from the inside out. Pucks are thundering, blades are cutting the ice, and someone is laughing too hard because there’s nowhere else for the tension to go.
Semifinals are tomorrow, so everyone is homed in and on edge. One bad bounce and suddenly everyone’s snapping at each other.
I line up with my stick gripped tightly in my hands. My chest feels the same way. Tight. I remind myself that it’s just practice, but I remind myself of a lot of things.
The pass is clean, and I line up my shot.
An open net.
The practice goalie is drifting along the outside of the rink, and everyone is already calling this shot a goal. I skate up, sliding side to side, and… miss.
The puck goes wide like it’s ashamed to be associated with me. Before I can even think of an appropriate curse word, there’s a flash of motion and a voice that crackles like a firework. Rissa swoops in, takes the puck with ease, and buries it in the net.
“Dang, Cappy.” Rissa flies out of the zone. “If the net were any more open, it’d be emotionally available.”
Laughter fills the rink, and I glare at the red line as if it betrayed me. It’s not that they’re disrespecting me as captain. It’s hockey. That means tough love and hard truths. If you can’t handle either of those, then you shouldn’t be on the ice.
