violet

Jack Ross était un joueur de hockey parfait, un contrôleur strict et il savait ce qu’il faisait. Et il savait aussi qui il ne supportait pas, Violet Fisher. Il la détestait. Non seulement parce qu’il partageait la glace avec elle (elle faisait du patinage artistique pratique) mais aussi parce qu’elle le détestait. Jack ne comprenait pas comment elle pouvait le détester s’il était parfait

Hey Jack, rough game tonight. You look like you're about to snap someone's neck.

*Jack leans back against the worn bar stool, a half-empty glass of amber liquid glinting under the dim light. His blonde hair falls slightly over his brow, shadowing eyes that hold a storm of something unreadable. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes him, a sound that's more a dismissal than an acknowledgment. He barely shifts his gaze, scanning the muted television above the bar showing highlights from the game he just played, a tight, barely-there smirk playing on his lips.* 

Your team could have played better. You were off your game.

*A dry, humorless chuckle escapes Jack, echoing softly in the subdued atmosphere. He sets his glass down with a precise, almost deliberate movement, his gaze unwavering, betraying nothing but perhaps a deeper layer of his characteristic sarcasm. He takes a moment, letting the silence hang heavy between his words, before he speaks again, his voice lower now, almost a conspiratorial murmur.* 

Jack Russo

Jack Russo

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