by Penny Reid
Butterson’s shoulders slump, and he looks at the floor.
“So, Waters, what did you do to piss Butterson off?” Coach looks at me expectantly.
I feel like absolute shit for a multitude of reasons. Not only have I let my team down and potentially screwed us during this series, I’ve demo’d my relationship with Violet. Instead of celebrating with her, I’m sitting in a locker room with a broken nose, a decimated ego, and my whole team pissed at me.
“I followed Dick’s advice.” I look down at my lap and shake my head. I need to fire his ass.
“Do you think you could elaborate, Waters? So help me God, if you’re taking advice from your penis, I’m going to clock you myself.”
“Dick, my agent. I’m supposed to appear available until the Bachelor of the Year crap is done with.” Spoken aloud, it sounds absolutely insane.
“You’ve got to be shitting me!” Butterson forces his way through the guys holding him back. “You humiliated my sister and broke her heart in front of millions of people for publicity? So you could what? Make some fucking list and score a new bunny? Pocket some cash?”
“It’s not like that.” It hits me, what he’s said. I’ve broken Violet’s heart. I’m overwhelmed and on the defensive, so I do the one thing I can—I hit below the belt. “Who are you to talk, anyway? I know you’re banging my sister, you cocksucker.”
“I haven’t had sex with Sunny.” Those are the last words I ever expected to hear out of Butterson’s mouth.
I stare at him and say nothing. He’s not lying; I can tell. He’s just as bad at lying as Violet is. If they were truly related, I’d think it’s a genetic trait.
“Wait a goddamned minute.” Coach breaks the uncomfortable eye contact between Butterson and me. “Is this about a broad?”
“Violet isn’t a broad,” We say in unison.
Coach shakes his head and turns to me. “I want to see both of you tomorrow. You’ll be doing interviews to straighten this garbage out, so kiss and make up, and come up with a story that doesn’t sound like complete bullshit.”
With that, Coach storms out. No one talks to me as they strip out of their uniforms and hit the showers. Usually the guys will get over things quickly. Not tonight. Darren won’t even acknowledge me.
Once the entire team is gone, I shower. I don’t bother with my suit, since I’m not going out to celebrate. Instead, I change back into my street clothes, get a cab to my place, and get in my car. I need to get my nose checked, but that’ll have to wait until later. I drive to Violet’s and park in front of her house. Her SUV isn’t there, so I call her. Unsurprisingly, I get her voice mail. I let my head drop back as I listen to her new message.
“Hi, you’ve reached Violet, the dumbass hockey hooker. I’m too pissed off and humiliated to answer my phone, but you can leave a message. Unless you’re Alex “Asshole” Waters. In that case, you can fuck the hell off. Have a nice day.”
I sit there for a few long seconds after the phone beeps, just breathing, until I realize I should either speak or hang up. I choose the second option because it’s clear Violet doesn’t want to hear from me. I follow up with a call to Dick and fire him. He tells me I’ll regret the decision. I tell him to fuck himself in the ass with a hockey puck and hang up.
I try Violet’s number again. It goes straight to voice mail. I’ve ruined everything.
The meeting the following morning with Coach and Butterson is brutal. We manage to work out a feasible story which makes me look like a complete asshole. Like the broken nose, I deserve it.
The next few days are plain old shitty. X-rays prove my nose is definitely broken. Again. It’s swollen and it hurts like a bitch. The black eyes are a sucky reminder of how badly I messed up.
Beyond that, I receive endless calls from TV journalists wanting interviews. It’s a pain in the ass. I’m not used to dealing with this stuff on my own. I make a bunch of phone calls and find a new agent who’s willing to take me on despite the shitstorm I’ve created recently.
If that isn’t bad enough, Violet’s phone has been disconnected, which tells me she changed her number. I have no way to contact her aside from email, which isn’t the way I want to go about explaining what happened.
Beyond that, practices are rough. Coach is right; if Butterson and I can’t deal with our shit, we’re going to destroy our chances of making it to the finals. I don’t want to be the reason for that. He pulls Butterson and me aside and tells us we’re to keep our personal issues off the ice or he’ll encourage the general manager to trade both of us. I think he means it.
Butterson watches Coach walk away. “For the sake of our team, I’m going to let this go on the ice, but don’t think for a second I’ve forgiven you for what you’ve done to Violet.”
“I get that. I’d really like to apologize to her—”
He points a finger at me. “Stay the fuck away from her. Violet’s broken up enough as it is. She doesn’t need you making this worse by throwing out some bullshit apology.”
I push his hand away. “It’s not bullshit. I care about her.”
“Yeah? Well if that’s the way you treat people you care about, I’d hate to see how you are with the ones you don’t even like. How you got to be captain of this team is beyond me. You’re a selfish fucking bastard.” He turns away and skates back onto the ice. He’s not wrong, which makes me feel a million times worse.
Despite Butterson’s violent warning, I try to contact Violet. I call her parents, hoping if I get to Skye, I can persuade her to put Violet on the phone.
“Hall-Butterson residence.”
“Hi, Skye.”
“Alex.” Based on her icy tone, she’s not happy with me. “You screwed up big time.”
I heave a sigh. “I really did.”
“Violet doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“I know. Buck’s made it pretty clear and so has Violet.” I kick at the leg of my bed, noticing something red peeking out from the bottom. Picking it up, I find a pair of Violet’s panties. The red ones with my name on the ass. I sit down on the edge of the mattress and resist the urge to sniff them.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you out of this one,” she says after a long pause.
I heave a despondent sigh. I expected this. She’s Violet’s mother, after all. It’s her duty to protect her daughter. I’m lucky she isn’t ripping me a new asshole. “I figured as much.”
“Honestly, Alex. You’re such a fighter on the ice. Why can’t you be the same way off it? Stop being an idiot and make a move. You haven’t even sent her flowers, and you always send her flowers, whether you’ve messed up or not. How do you think that looks?”
This is what I need; more people to tell me how badly I’ve screwed this up and what to do to fix it. “You think I should send her flowers?”
“No, Alex. I don’t think you should send her flowers.” She uses the tone reserved for mothers who want to make you feel like a complete dumbass.
“But then what—”
“You’re a smart boy—” She stops herself. “Some of the time. I’m sure you’ll figure it out—otherwise you don’t deserve to be with my daughter.” A dial tone follows. Violet’s mom has hung up on me.
I call Darren. He’s the only other person I can think of who might be willing to help. Unfortunately, he doesn’t pick up, and it’s clear he’s still not talking to me off the ice.
I try one last person: my father. His ability to help is questionable.
“Hey, Alex.”
I make small talk for a minute or two until I can’t stand the awkward chit-chat. “I screwed up with Violet.”
“I know. So does most of North America as well as other hockey-watching countries.”
“You’ve messed up with mom, right?” She can be a bit of a Fruit Loop. I’m positive my father’s been in the dog house plenty of times.
“Of course.” My father sighs. “I have the benefit of keeping my private life private. That isn’t the case with you and V
iolet, is it?”
“No. It’s not. I shouldn’t have followed Dick’s advice.”
“No, Alex, you shouldn’t have.”
“I fired him.”
“It’s about fucking time.” My dad exhales into the receiver with a whoosh. There’s a good chance he’s doing research. “I know it was hard when you started playing professional hockey. I understand you want to be the best, and you want to prove you are. You don’t need the endorsements to do that.”
“I just wanted this, you know?”
“But at what cost, Alex? You don’t need validation. You’re team captain. You make more money a year than I will in a lifetime. What you need to do is be an older brother your sister can look up to, not one she has to defend because you’ve earned a shitty reputation over old rumors. And you need someone like Violet to keep your head on straight. Stop worrying about what other people think and do what’s best for you.”
“Violet is what’s best for me.”
“Then fight for her.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“And you’re going to let that stop you? Since when do you give up that easily?”
He has a point. “I don’t.” I can find a way to get Violet’s attention. I shouldn’t let anything stand in my way. Especially not an endorsement. No matter how much I want it, it’s not worth losing Violet.
“Good. I hope you figure this out, son. I really like Violet. She’s good for you.”
“Let’s hope I can convince her I’m good for her, too.”
“You’ve got the art of persuasion on your side.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’m going to need it.”
I have to come up with something better than flowers or candy to fix this. I have to show her unequivocally that I need her far more than any endorsement.
I stew for several hours, trying to come up with a creative way to get Violet to hear me out. If she won’t answer my phone calls, there’s one option that worked in the past. Hunting her down is the best chance I have.
I change out of my sweats into dress pants and a button-down shirt. I should look presentable. I can’t do anything about my nose. The white bandage and splint cover the worst of the swelling and bruising.
The playoff beard has to stay, even if it makes me look less presentable. It’s a tradition I won’t mess with. The only way I’ll get back on the team’s good side is by playing well. Game four of the series is tomorrow night, and we’re up two-one. Shaving my beard could jinx the game. I concede by cleaning it up around the edges so I only look partly shitty.
I figure stopping at her house is my best first shot. Flowers aren’t going to be enough this time. I need something better. I stop by the coffee shop we went to on our first date. They have one of those caramel crunch cakes, but slices are missing. A piece isn’t enough; it has to be the whole thing. I still get her one of those green seaweed-looking drinks she likes, though.
An ice cream store down the street is still open. Girls like ice cream when boyfriends mess up, based on my experience with Sunny, and Violet likes cake, so it seems like a logical choice.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants after I park in Violet’s driveway behind her beat up SUV. A few media assholes tag along behind me, as seems to be the way of things these days. They stay on the sidewalk, keeping a respectable distance while they shout questions.
Sidney intercepts me before I get more than five feet from my car. We’re the same height, but right now, I feel small.
“Hello, Mr. Butterson. How are you this evening?” I check to make sure he doesn’t have a baseball bat hidden behind his back.
I’ve hurt Violet, which means he’s suffering in some way because of what I’ve done. It makes sense he’d be protective of Violet under these circumstances. I know what it’s like living with a scorned woman. If Sunny or my mother was miserable, everyone else in the house had to be, too.
“Alex.” He steps in front of the gate, blocking the way to the pool house.
“I was wondering if Violet’s home.”
“Yeah, she’s home. She’s busy packing.”
“Packing?” I scan the pool house.
“She’s moving. She wants her own place.” He says it as if it’s my fault. Maybe it is.
“Is she staying in the city?”
“If Violet wants you to know where she’s moving, I’m sure she’ll get in touch.”
He’s not going to make this easy. “Do you think I could speak with her?”
“Violet made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to see you right now. In fact, she’s said she never wants to see you again. Can’t really say as I blame her, either.” His lip twitches, his disdain for me obvious.
I have a sinking feeling once Violet makes up her mind about something, she doesn’t usually go back on it.
“I understand. Could you give these to her then?” I hold out the takeout cup and the box. “This needs to go in the freezer; it’s an ice cream cake.”
Sidney takes them from me with a frown and waits for me to get in my car. He’s still standing in the middle of the driveway as I pull away, barely avoiding running over the paps who never seem to let up. That definitely didn’t go as planned.
The next night I have a game, so there’s no time to follow up with Violet. I don’t hear anything the next day, or the one after that. I resort to emailing her. It bounces back. The message should be clear by now, but I’m not ready to give up, so I stop by her work. I make it past security only to find Violet is in a meeting.
Charlene comes down the hall, her smile far from friendly. She slips her arm through mine and walks me down the hall to the elevator.
“I want a chance to explain.”
“Explain what, exactly, Alex?” She props a fist on her hip. “That you invited her to move in with you one night and the next you’re pulling this just friends bullshit on national TV? It’s been almost a week, and now you have the audacity to show up here as if she’s going to want to talk to you? What kind of head games are you playing?”
I should have acted sooner. “My agent wanted me to keep things on the down low. There’s an endorsement campaign—”
“That’s supposed to make it better?” She punches the elevator button, eyeing me with contempt. “You need to leave Violet alone. She’s had enough of the media sniffing around without you showing up to make it worse for her. Next time I see you here, I’m going to puncture your testicles with my stilettos.”
“Charlene—”
She flips me the bird. As she clips down the hall, I check out her shoes. I don’t want them anywhere near my balls.
I go back and try to see Violet again a few days later, despite the threat. The media is up my ass, following me to the doors, hounding me with questions I refuse to answer—because I have none. Those weenie dudes who work with her are as bad as Charlene, and I can’t get within fifty feet of Violet. I even try stopping by her house again, media constantly in tow. Her SUV isn’t in the driveway, and no one answers the door.
Violet isn’t with Sidney and Skye in the prime seats at the next few home playoff games, and Butterson is tight-lipped. I put my energy into practice and games because there’s no other option. We make it to the third round, and I want to share my excitement with Violet, but it’s been more than two weeks and she isn’t talking to me, so I can’t.
Tired of the media constantly dogging me, I tell my new agent, Janette, I need an image overhaul to dispel the rumors about my “heartbreaker” ways. She’s in agreement, so she sets up a TV interview with one of the big entertainment syndicates. This interview is about my personal life, not my hockey career. It won’t go live for several days, which gives me time to work on Violet, not that I’ve gotten anywhere in the weeks since my epic fuck up.
On the day of the interview, I discover Violet is moving to her new apartment on the weekend. Charlene passes the information through Darren. Media snapshots of Butterson loading a moving truck act as additional proof.
Darren
has almost forgiven me, thankfully. He’s not mad about being punched; it’s the stupid endorsement he’s not quite willing to let go of yet. He does divulge the proximity of Violet’s new apartment, giving me a general location to work from.
Desperate for any kind of contact, I check her Facebook profile. She’s blocked me there, too, so I try Butterson’s page. New pics of him with Violet toasting beers and packing boxes highlight his Facebook profile. In the background, the stuffed beaver I gave her hangs from a ceiling fan with a makeshift noose tied around his neck. Angry at myself and my situation, I tear into a bag of Cheetos and inhale the entire thing while I wait for Janette to pick me up for the interview. She won’t let me go on my own, concerned I’m going to self-sabotage. By the time she arrives I’ve eaten my way through the whole bag, and I’ve used my shirt as a napkin. It’s in this state that I open the door.
Janette’s smile slides off her face. “You’re supposed to be ready to leave.”
“I should fix my hair?” I run a hand through it. If feels greasy.
She pushes past me, her heels clicking on the tile floor, and heads for the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
She stops halfway up and motions to the ceiling. “I assume your bedroom is this way.”
“Uhhh . . . yeah?”
She rolls her eyes. “You can’t go to an interview like this.”
I glance at my stained shirt. She has a point. My bedroom’s a mess. I haven’t let my housekeeper in to clean since the last time Violet stayed over.
Janette makes a face at the sight, or possibly the smell. It’s ripe in here. “Why are boys so disgusting? Get in the shower.” When I don’t move right away, she prods me toward the bathroom. “I’m interested in getting you your girl back so you don’t screw up the playoffs and ruin all your endorsement opportunities. You need to look and smell less pathetic.”
