Hilariously Ever After

by Box Set

  Violet,

  I know you’re hurt and angry,

  but please watch the interview on the USB.

  It airs tonight at eight. I miss you.

  Love, Alex

  It says “love.” In all the notes and emails Alex has sent, not once has he used the word. If he’s looking to get my attention, it’s worked. I toss the magazine in the recycle box without looking at it, but I can’t find it in me to dispose of the USB stick. After five minutes, I crack under the pressure, insert the USB stick into the port on my flat screen, and pull up the movie file. My stomach feels as though a dying fish is flopping around inside as I wait for the video to cue up.

  Alex’s face greets me as an interview with a popular entertainment news show pops onto the screen. He’s dressed in a button-down and casual pants, and he’s still sporting the beard. Alex looks uncomfortable and uncertain as he answers the invasive questions. I hang off every word and nearly fall off my couch when he says:

  “I’m in love with Violet.”

  I pause and replay it several times, processing the words. He’s talking about me. On a show watched by millions. This is one heck of a way to get my attention. I would’ve preferred to hear those words face-to-face, but then, I haven’t given him the opportunity to say them to me with all my avoidance techniques. After I get past the initial shock, I listen to the rest of the interview.

  When I’m done, I’m certain of two things. One: Alex is in love with me. Two: Nervous Alex is adorable, and his former agent is an asshole. Okay, that’s technically three things I’m certain of. Whatever. The point is there.

  I nab the magazine from the top of the recycling and flip to the earmarked page. There it is in print:

  “I’m in love with Violet.”

  My heart is all sorts of gushy over his public declaration. I almost want to forgive him. Almost. Just because he’s said he loves me doesn’t mean it’s true. While the article definitely makes a statement, it could easily be another publicity stunt meant to help redeem him in the eyes of his fans. I don’t want him to have advance warning that I’m going to be at the game. It’s only fair since I had no warning when he threw our relationship under the bus and ran it over.

  I call Charlene and freak out. She already seems to know what’s going on, so there’s no explanation necessary.

  “Should I call him before the game tomorrow? I don’t think I should call him. He doesn’t deserve a call.”

  “Do you want to call him?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “This is probably an in-person conversation,” Charlene says.

  “Right. Okay. Can you come over? I think my head’s going to explode.”

  Charlene spends the rest of the day with me. I make a list of pros and cons, which ends up being a list of all the things I miss about Alex. Surprisingly, his MC doesn’t even make the top five. Afterward, I make Charlene watch the interview with me four thousand times. I should probably do yoga, or meditate, or take art therapy, so I can stop being an idiot.

  Lying in bed later, my mind continues to spin for several hours before I finally pass out. I have the weirdest dreams ever. Alex’s monster cock is a superhero. He saves me from a giant boob ball that’s rolling through the streets and crushing people. Super Penis has googly eyes, and he talks out of the come hole. His balls are his feet, and he wears a red cape with MC emblazoned on it. Oh, and he has a little mustache and a French accent. Like I said, it’s a bizarre dream.

  The next day, I do something I usually try to avoid: I go to the spa with Charlene and my mom. We all get mani-pedis while drinking mimosas. Then we get our hair done and buy new outfits.

  My stomach is in knots when we arrive at the arena. I’m so anxious, and Charlene’s reassurance is the only thing capable of keeping me from bolting. We have the same awesome seats as we did the first time I saw Alex play. Other than looking at him through my peephole, it’s been a month since I’ve seen him in person.

  “Oh. Here.” My mom reaches into a huge bag at her feet and pulls out three black, puck-shaped pillows. She hands one to Charlene and one to me.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s called a butt puck.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” That’s way too close to other things I don’t want near my butt.

  “It’ll keep you from freezing your ass off on these chairs and”—she turns the puck over—“it’s a cheerleading pillow!”

  On the front of the pillow puck are the words “GO Butterson!” Charlene’s says “GO Westinghouse!” And mine says “GO Waters!” Upon closer inspection, I find a hand-shaped pocket on the back of the puck pillow, so I’m able to wave my butt puck in the air with little effort.

  I sit on the pillow, still snickering at the pervy name. Talk ceases as Chicago takes the ice. Charlene grips my arm, and my mother whistles with her fingers. Raging anxiety renders me silent and immobile, both of which are highly uncommon.

  When Alex skates out onto the ice, I inhale a sharp breath as my chest constricts. For a second, I think I’m having a heart attack, but I realize it’s just that I’m in love with this man. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I’m still conflicted about the article and the interview. He’s so close, the plexiglass barrier the only thing dividing us.

  Even faux-unkempt, he’s hot. His beard is neatly groomed, unlike some of the other guys who look like they crawled out of the alleyway and decided to play professional hockey.

  “Oh God. Darren is sex on skates. I can’t wait until after the game. It doesn’t even matter if they win or lose!” Charlene yells over the cheering crowd.

  “How can you say that? Of course it matters.”

  “Think about it, if they win, I have hot victory sex. If they lose I get to have sexy make-Darren-feel-better sex.”

  I nod slowly, absorbing the information. She’s totally right. It doesn’t matter if they win or lose, she wins by sex default. I’m envious of her certainty regarding either victory or solace sex. I wish I knew what tonight will bring and whether or not I’ll ever be reunited with the monster cock. My beaver doesn’t seem to realize a reunion isn’t imminent, considering the way she’s lubing up in preparation for what might never happen again. I hope I can get my shit together enough to have a real conversation with Alex. One thing at a time; the game is first.

  Alex’s brow is set in a deep furrow, and his pouty lips are mashed in a straight line. He doesn’t even look around; he simply waves at the cheering crowd as he skates to the bench. I want him to notice me sitting here, but I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. So I stare.

  As the end of the first period closes in, Chicago ties with Philly one-one. I have to pee, but I don’t want to leave my seat, worried someone will recognize me. Alex is killing it out there, but he can’t seem to get the puck past the goalie. I can practically taste his frustration. The puck is a black blur across the ice as Philly gains control. I crane my neck to see what’s happening when a body slams against the plexiglass and scares the living bejesus out of me.

  It’s déjà vu. Those pretty, pretty eyes bore into mine the way they did the first time I saw him play. They hold shock, surprise, and a whole lot of sexy as his mouth drops open. I wave shyly. He’s so close; if it weren’t for the damn plexiglass, I would be able to touch his sweaty, fuzzy face.

  Our eyes lock for the briefest moment before he pries himself off the glass and bolts down the ice after the puck. For the rest of the period, I feel Alex’s gaze on me and meet it often when he’s on the bench. He looks hopeful, worried, desperate, and determined at the same time. Interestingly enough, it’s a reflection of my own emotions. I can’t sit still, nervously wringing my hands every time we make eye contact.

  It’s an intense game with a close score. I’m already in celebration mode in the third period. That is until Philly scores a goal with two minutes left, tying the game. The crowd goes insane. Fans scream at the goalie and freak out on the defense. Unable to recover, they go into o
vertime. I’m on the edge of my seat, my butt puck no longer underneath me but pressed up against the glass as I scream Alex’s name.

  He steals the puck from the Philly center and flies down the ice. I can see ten years of figure skating come into play as he maneuvers around his opponents with incredible grace. He dances with the puck, getting in close to the net only to pass to Darren and skate around behind it.

  Philly’s goalie is focused on Darren, so he doesn’t notice Alex come around the other side. Instead of taking the shot, Darren passes back. By the time Philly realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. Alex taps the puck; it sails past the goalie’s stick and ricochets into the net.

  And just like that, Alex scores the goal to win the Cup.

  The crowd goes absolutely wild, and so do I. It’s a high like I’ve never experienced before. Chicago swarms the ice, slamming into each other in aggressive, enthusiastic hugs. Wives and kids meet their sweaty, excited husbands and fathers in the middle of the rink, where the media film the action and broadcast it on the huge screens.

  The Cup, in all its majestic glory, is passed among the team. Alex raises it above his head and skates around the center of the rink, his triumphant grin directed at me. A camera is suddenly trained on me, and my face is plastered on the huge screen for the entire arena to see. I raise the butt puck, shielding my face, and return his excited smile.

  Eventually we make our way out of the arena, and Sidney drags the three of us toward the locker room. I want to be here, but my stomach is in knots. My mom and Charlene flank me in an attempt to protect me from the media slores. They’re so busy questioning the team they don’t notice me. Not yet, anyway.

  A million microphones are pointed at the team, with Alex front and center. They’re all beaming, gripping the massive trophy. One reporter shoves the mic in Alex’s face.

  “How does it feel to score the winning goal?”

  “It feels good to be able to come through for my team on such an important night. We worked together to make it happen.” Alex throws an arm around Darren, who stands beside him. “I’m proud of my teammates for bringing the Cup home.”

  This is the version of Alex I thought I knew; the one who shares the victory. His eloquence and humility are sexy. I want this to be the real him, the man I’ve fallen for.

  He scans the crowd and when he finds me, his smile widens, those dimples deepening. He passes the trophy off to Darren and grabs the microphone from the closest sportscaster. To her credit, she tries to hold on. It’s comical the way her arm extends as Alex yanks it out of her grasp.

  “I need to say one thing.” He reassures her, then seeks me out once again. “Violet Hall. I’m an idiot for not saying this sooner. I’m in love with you.”

  A split second of silence follows his declaration. The subsequent roar of the crowd is deafening. Reporters’ questions blend together in the cheers and screams. Cameras flash incessantly, blinding me and making it impossible for me to see past the spots in my vision. Microphones are shoved in my face. I can’t hear their questions. Besides, I’m too stunned to speak.

  Alex Waters stole his own thunder in front of the entire sports-watching nation.

  Chapter 26

  PUBLIC LOVE PROFESSIONS, COMMUNICATION, AND MAKEUP SESSIONS ARE WICKED FUN

  Violet

  It’s the cheesiest declaration of love ever. It belongs in one of those romantic comedies my mom forces me to watch on girls’ night. The ones I secretly love but pretend to hate.

  I’m frozen, which is unfortunate since my mouth is hanging open in utter shock. I know I should do something, but I can’t seem to connect my brain to my body. Charlene is bouncing beside me, screaming her head off at the reporter who keeps trying to ask me questions I’m unable to answer. My mom grabs the microphone and graciously responds for me. She ignores their commentary on my relationship with Alex and tells them how excited I am that Chicago won the cup. It works for me.

  Alex passes his mic back to the wide-eyed woman and pushes his way through the crowd.

  “I love you,” Alex says. I can’t hear the words because it is too damn loud. For all I know he’s actually saying “vacuum” which looks like “I love you.”

  The romance and sweetness of the sentiment is devoured by the incessant clicking of cameras and the overwhelmingly raucous cheers of the crowd. This is definitely not the way I imagined the first real ILY going down, but I’ll take it. Somewhere down the line it’ll make a good story—if there’s a somewhere down the line for us.

  Alex takes my face between his hands and presses his lips against mine. His beard tickles my mouth and nose.

  Disregarding his smelliness and the dampness of his palms, I thread my fingers through his sweaty hair. He wraps an arm around my waist and bends me backward as he goes in for a real kiss. The mouth fucking commences. Good Lord, he’s just going for it. His lips are warm, his tongue soft as he eagerly seeks out my own. I’ve missed this. The way it feels to be touched by him, kissed. I strain to get closer, impeded by padding. As hot as this is, considering how long it’s been, I’m thinking it would be a good plan to stop while we’re ahead.

  “Um, Alex?” It’s difficult to get a word out when he goes in for yet another kiss.

  His arm tightens around me. “I missed you.”

  “Um, yeah, I get that, but do you think we could continue this somewhere more private?” I don’t want to look like a complete ho-bag if I can avoid it.

  “Huh?” Alex pops back into reality as he surveys our surroundings. Numerous phones and cameras are aimed at us right now, along with several mics. “Oh. I’m sorry. Of course.”

  There’s a ridiculous amount of excitement as he waves to the screaming crowd, and he blushes when he sees Charlene and my mom behind me, flanked by an irritated Sidney. Buck is behind the line of reporters, wearing an expression similar to Sid’s. Alex keeps a protective arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me along as he clomps his way to the locker room. Inside, a few mostly naked guys mill around. Now that I know them by name, and most of them have seen me in a similar state of undress, it doesn’t feel right for me to be in here.

  I cover my eyes with my hands. “Maybe I should meet you at the bar.”

  I motion with my elbows in what I’m sure approximates an uncoordinated version of “The Chicken Dance.” With my hands still in front of my face, I sidestep in the direction of the door only to slam into the wall.

  Alex takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. “You can open your eyes now, Violet.”

  I spread my fingers and peek through them.

  He takes my hands in his. “Promise me you’ll be at the bar?”

  He looks so worried. My silence has been as hard on him as it’s been on me, but I feel somewhat justified. He did tell the entire sports watching nation we were just friends, after all.

  I nod, excitement and anxiety duking it out in my stomach. “I promise.”

  He ducks down, his lips close to mine. “I probably should’ve asked before I kissed you the first time, eh? Can I steal one more? Please?”

  At my nod, he touches his lips to mine. He doesn’t try to slip me the tongue this time.

  My parents and Charlene are waiting outside the locker room. They surround me like security detail, shielding me from the flash of camera phones, video cameras, and outstretched mics. Alex has certainly created a buzz tonight.

  “I knew he’d finally get it right!” my mom yells.

  Charlene nods. “Here I thought Alex was pulling out the big guns with the interview! Everyone’s going to be talking about this!”

  As we make our way to the after-party event, my nerves kick into high gear. As awesome and embarrassing as it is to be on the receiving end of a public profession of love, Alex and I still need to talk.

  Tonight’s party is a private affair, but the venue is still packed. The crowd is in a celebratory mood courtesy of the win. I accept a tall glass of champagne and sugary shooters, more as a means to manage the ne
rves than anything else. By the time the team arrives, I’m tipsy.

  Alex finds me immediately. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. It makes the win so much better,” he says. His lips brush my cheek, but he doesn’t make another move to kiss me. “I have so much I want to say.”

  While a conversation is coming, it will have to wait until later, when he’s not the center of attention and in celebration mode. His teammates and his family swarm him, but he keeps a tight hold on my hand. It’s difficult because so many people want to bask in his glow tonight. I can sense how divided he is by the way he constantly reaches for me, making sure I haven’t disappeared.

  An hour into the party Alex switches to water and stops accepting drinks. I follow suit, aware we should be sober for our inevitable talk.

  We find Charlene at a table with Darren. Buck and Sunny are cozied up together as well, along with both sets of parents. I look to Alex to gauge his reaction to the way Buck’s arm is casually slung across the back of Sunny’s chair. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem worried. Although, I suppose in the past month, Buck has made it abundantly clear to the media hounds that he’s off the market.

  Robbie stands as soon as he sees me, his smile broad as he opens his arms and welcomes me with a hug. “It’s very good to see you again, Violet.”

  “You, too.”

  He smiles down at me. “I’m sorry my son was a dipshit.”

  Alex’s dad is the best. I don’t think he sugar-coats anything. “Me, too, but I think we’re going to try to work it out.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.”

  Daisy stands when Robbie releases me. She runs her hands down my arms, her smile soft. She leans in and air kisses my cheek. “He’s been miserable without you.”

  It’s Daisy’s version of an apology, and I accept it. “I’ve been miserable without him, too.”