Page 82 of Chips & Checks
We run out our time on banter. Every other couple has been together for years, sometimes decades, and knows each other so much better than we do that we don’t stand a chance of winning the overall prize. I’m not worried about it. They’re deep in their relationships, but we’re right at the start of ours. Give it time. We’ll get to that level. It’s fun getting to know her better in this environment.
And I make a secret promise to myself that, if we ever get married, I will memorize every song on our playlist.
Eventually, Molly blows a little whistle and calls time. The couples scatter, some still laughing, some arguing good-naturedly over answers. Violet flops into a chair beside me, her cheeks pink from laughter, her hair wild and haloed around her face.
“I think we came in dead last,” she says, giggling.
“Hard disagree.” I lean closer and nudge her with my shoulder. “We crushed the category for most chaotic energy. That’s gotta count for something.”
Her smile softens, and for a second, she just… looks at me. Like she’s seeing something new. Something real. Then her eyes drop to my mouth, and my entire bloodstream short-circuits.
Before I can kiss her, Sofia comes over with Knight, holding what looks like a glittery gift bag. “You two win the Participation Trophy of Love,” she says with mock solemnity, handing it over.
Knight snorts. “It was either that or ‘Best Banter in a Crisis.’”
Violet laughs so hard she snorts. I tuck an arm around her waist and pull her closer. “I’ll take it. We earned this shit.”
Inside the bag is a single heart-shaped crystal and a note that readsLove finds the ones brave enough to make fools of themselves.
Violet reads it aloud, then folds the note and tucks it into her purse.
Later, when everyone is winding down and the backyard lights start to glow gold against the velvet dusk, she finds me by the pool. We don’t talk. She just walks over, slides her hand into mine, and leans her head against my shoulder.
I’ve never stayed long after parties. Never lingered, never craved the quiet after. But now I don’t want to leave.
Not her.
Not this.
Not the part of me that only comes out when she’s near.
I look down at our joined hands because it feels right. Almost too right.
This is dangerous.
Because if I’m not careful, I won’t just fall for Violet Sawyer. I’ll fall with her.
And this time, I might not be able to get back up.
Chapter Twenty-One
Violet
Hartford’s XL Center might reek of fryer grease and decades-old sweat, but the instant I step through the tunnel with my med pack slung across my shoulder, the stench morphs into ozone. Game night electricity. From behind the glass, the ice gleams like a fresh sheet of paper—perfect until someone bleeds on it, which with the Venom is usually about six minutes in.
I thread past camera cables and skate guards, snag my spot behind the bench, and pop open my tablet. Line rotations, TOI tracker, injury alerts—all glowing in neat, color-coded grids. My pulse is not neat. Every thud inside my ribs hits double-time because Bowen is already out for warm-ups, sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, dragging pucks with that coiled-spring grace that says he’s spoiling for a fight or a highlight reel. Maybe both.
The crowd’s ninety percent Huskies jerseys, but Hartford fans aren’t creative: they chant “VEN-OM SUCKS” like they’re reading it off cue cards. I slide a pack of gum across the clipboard to Cam when he skates by; he likes spearmint before the anthem. He taps the boards in thanks.
Stretch, circle, shots—warm-ups end. Players file past me, steel clacking, and I grab towels, tossing them down the row. Knight catches his, flashing dimples. Chad refuses his like he’s allergic to cotton. Whatever.
Once the anthem starts, I brace a hand on the dasher because right before the singer hits the final note, Bowen’s gaze finds mine through the forest of helmets. No smile, just a flare of flint-gray focus that centers me better than the deep-breathing app I pretend to use.
Cam’s on Bowen’s left; Lenyx anchors the blue line when the puck drops. I tap my screen. Faceoff win percentage for Bowen on road ice sits at sixty-four. “Let’s raise it,” I whisper even though he can’t hear me. He hears anyway—snaps the draw clean and we’re rolling.
From behind the players, it’s all shifting panels of shoulders and numbers, but I track the play via gaps between bodies. Cam chips it, Bowen accelerates—Jesus, he’s fast tonight—cuts inside, backhand flick. Rebound squirts to the slot. Chad swoops in, whiffs so hard he sprays snow. I clamp my jaw. He coasts back, chirping, and I log the missed assignment.
At the next shift change, Bowen vaults over the boards, nearly colliding with Chad loafing in the door. I yank Chad’s jersey sleeve and shove him forward just enough to avoid a pileup. He glowers like it’s my fault physics exists.
