Page 139 of Sweet Venom
“It’s God’s gift to women,” I say.
“I meant peasants. Fuck off. Anyway, I bet money Vee will come along.”
“Her name is Violet.” I elbow him, and he grunts, releasing us.
“Veewill come.” He makes a face at me, then tilts his head in Kane’s direction. “Right?”
“Not sure, and I would rather you stay away from her, Jude. Dahlia doesn’t like it, and I’m also not a fan.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your and Dahlia’s likes and dislikes.”
In fact, I still want to punch the motherfucker because Violet used to praise his style of playing. Pacifist, boring, technical powerhouse captain.
I’m the one who dragged him into hockey, so I should get the credit for any of the praise he gets.
“Callahan.” The coach’s voice cuts into the locker room like an arrow as he tilts his head to the side. “My office.”
The guys hoot and give me shit as I trail behind him. “I thought I played well?”
“For once,” he grumbles, and I shake my head.
Not sure why he’s even singling me out instead of Kane, but I ignore that as I check my phone in case Violet texted me.
Over the past week, I’ve been the one who mostly texts, and she barely replies. And if she texts first, it’s about food.
Do you have any allergies? Is there any type of food you don’t like?
Negative on all accounts.
I told her not to cook and that I could get the best meals from my chef, but she always has something ready. I stopped asking her not to after I realized that she looks truly happy when she’s cooking. She’ll have a smile on her face and sway to songs on the radio.
And, really, knowing Violet only ever cooked for Dahlia makes me feel special. Not to mention that her cooking is better than five-star meals.
“There we are.” Coach stops at the entrance to his office.
I lift my head, and my jaw locks when I see my father standing in the middle of the office, scrolling through Coach’s notes.
He always has things to say to the coaches about my stats, my performance, and my ability to improve more.
I’ve only ever been a machine to this man.
Coach Slater can’t even lift his head in front of Regis Callahan or argue, not when my father could have him blacklisted not only from town, but also from hockey.
He slowly retreats and closes the door, leaving me alone with the one person I hate more than anything, despite his blood that flows through my veins.
My father lifts his head. “Almost perfect stats tonight.”
Regis Callahan is a man carved out of marble and ice, untouched by time or weakness.
His posture is rigid, as if every movement is measured for maximum control. Silver streaks through his dark-brown hair, perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, a contrast to the harsh lines of his face.
Julian and I inherited some of his features. Sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes as dark brown as mine, but his gaze holds cold precision.
He’s always in tailored suits, crisp and immaculate, not a wrinkle to be found, because disorder has no place in his world.
Which is why Mom’s fits grated on his nerves. He was absent, uncaring, or downright ruthless with his doctors and institutes that he forced my mother into.
“If that’s all…” I turn toward the door.
