She was nervous from the beginning—and hilarious. While I didn’t force her to come to my room or have sex—twice—if she hadn’t gotten locked out of hers, I might not have convinced her to come to mine. Regardless, I’d do it again if given the chance. It’s hard not to be into a girl who tells you she loves your cock repeatedly as she comes. This situation makes me the kind of jerk I never want to be.
By the time we get to Tampa, everyone is bagged, so the first order of business is checking into the hotel, getting settled, and resting up for tomorrow’s practice.
Darren and I share a room. Our accommodations are standard: two double beds, a couch, flat screen, and a minibar stocked with water and energy drinks. Darren tosses his bag on the closest bed and gives me a look. I’m waiting for the questions. He’s never been part of the puck bunny scene. I envy his ability to say fuck it and fuck the guys. I wish I’d had a similar mindset at the beginning of my NHL career.
Darren grabs two bottles of water from the minibar and tosses me one. “So what happened?”
I crack the lid and drain half of it in two gulps. I’m dehydrated from last night’s activities. “Nothing.”
“Right. A giant hickey magically appeared on your neck.”
“Like I said, I met a girl in the elevator.” Normally, I’d be upfront with Darren, but the situation is complicated.
Darren shakes his head. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
He disappears into the bathroom. I’m not sure if he actually knows what I did or if he’s playing mind games. The shower turns on. His questions will wait; Darren takes long ass showers.
I check my phone for the tenth time today. I have twelve emails from my agent, Dick. He lives up to his name, but he gets the job done. I’m inclined to ignore his emails until I see one titled: ENDORSEMENT OFFER MUTHAFCUKA! I open it and scan the email. It’s not an actual offer, but it’s close. I’m a top contender for the Sports Pro Elite campaign. This is huge. It’s what I’ve been waiting my entire goddamned career for. This kind of endorsement could set me up for years, and it could bring more endorsements with it.
In my rookie days, I was passed over by another significant endorser. Ever since then, I’ve been aiming for the top as a big FU to the ones who didn’t believe I’d be more than a bench warmer. Dick rambles on about some Bachelor of the Year bullshit I don’t care about, until he mentions that it could affect the SPE campaign. I’ll do whatever it takes to win it. I’ll even pose in my damn jockstrap.
I send Dick a quick message in response, and we set up a phone call for the following day to hammer out the details. I’m riding the high as I check my missed calls.
I haven’t heard from Violet, so I decide to shoot her a text.
I instantly want to unsend it. I meant for it to be funny, not offensive. After a few minutes of staring at the screen, waiting for her reply, I dig out my iPad and tap into the hotel Wi-Fi. A search for Violet Butterson comes up with nothing. She told me what she does for a living but not where she works, so that’s a dead end.
Momentarily stumped, I consider my next plan of action. Facebook is a safe bet. Even my eighty-seven-year-old great-granny has an account. I locate Butterson in my friend list, and search his for Violet. Her last name is Hall. A friend request is out of the question; first I need to establish contact and maybe see her again. Also, pissing Butterson off more isn’t in my teams best interests. I can creep her instead. Unfortunately, her privacy settings are high.
Butterson’s feed and his photo albums are accessible. I find a few pictures of her with Sidney at what appears to be her work. I screenshot the image so I can look it up later. She’s bound to have an email address in their directory.
Next I search the album labeled Summer Vacation with the Halls; it looks promising. I’m right. It contains loads of pictures of Violet. They’re a few years old. Her face is softer, rounder, and her hair is different. She wears a variety of bikinis in most of them: pink and lime green striped, pale blue with ruffle-things on her chest, and a white lacy halter set.
Shouty caps in the comments draw my attention to another picture. A message from Violet to Buck reads: GET READY TO HAVE YOUR ASS KICKED, YETI!
I click on the image. It’s one of Violet from behind. The right side of her bikini bottom has ridden up, so half her ass cheek is hanging out. Butterson’s caption reads: Hungry? I can see why Violet might not appreciate the humor, considering it’s her bum eating her bikini.
Some back and forth ensues, all in shouty caps. Violet slings creative insults. I return to the album and continue to scroll. Whoever took these pictures spent a lot of time focused on Violet. She’s highly photogenic. There are a few of her with Butterson. I find one disturbing; he has her slung over his shoulder, and her ass is in the air with his huge paw of a hand wrapped around the back of her leg. What’s most concerning is how high his hand is on her thigh. Maybe he used to have a thing for her. It would explain their conversation at the bar.
The next image is an action shot of Violet flailing followed by her landing in the water. Arranged in a slideshow, the progression of events appears like a flip book. The final shot is the best. Violet pulls herself up on the side of the dock, one knee on the edge, hair fanned out in a dark wave. Her cleavage is outstanding. I can imagine how hot the position would be if I was, say, doing her from behind against my kitchen island.
For someone so protective of his stepsister, Butterson doesn’t have any qualms sharing revealing photos on a highly public profile. I can’t mention it to him, or he’ll know I’ve been creeping Violet.