Page 11 of The Captain's Curfew
The words hang heavy between us.
Violet blinks like I’ve slapped her.
“I didn’t post it to hurt you,” she says quietly.
I know that.
Of course I know that.
But knowing it doesn’t fix the way my chest tightens every time someone looks at me like I’m more than a player.Like I’m a person.Like they expect something from me.
Expectations are just a fancy way of setting yourself up for disappointment.
I scrub a hand over my face.“Just—please.Next time, ask.”
She nods slowly.“Okay.”
I expect her to push back more, but she doesn’t.She picks up her laptop and slips into the guest room without another word.
The space feels quieter without her in it.
Which is exactly what I said I wanted.
So why does it feel like a loss?
Practice the next morning is all business, precisely what I need.No CJ teasing, no videos, just drills and sweat and the sharp sting of the puck against my stick.I bury myself in the repetition, the discipline.
Control.That’s what I’m good at.
Until Coach pulls me aside.
“You good?”he asks.
I nod.“Fine.”
He studies me for a long second.“You’ve been more wound up than usual.”
I grunt.“Just focused.”
“Focused is good.Uptight isn’t.”
I don’t have a response to that.
He claps my shoulder.“Let the media team do their job.If Violet’s getting us positive attention, that’s a win.You don’t have to carry the whole team alone.”
I want to argue.To say that I do.That if I don’t hold the line, no one will.
But I don’t.
Because maybe he’s right.
Violet isn’t home when I get back.A note sits on the counter:
Working late.Don’t wait up.Also, I reorganized the spice rack.You’re welcome.
I stare at it longer than I should.
The old me—hell, the me from two days ago—would’ve been irritated.But now?Now I picture her standing on her tiptoes, alphabetizing the little jars, probably singing along to some cheesy playlist.
