Chapter 2
Ryan
Joan Jett's voice pounds through my earbuds as I turn the corner toward Coach Harper’s apartment. I completed seven miles this morning instead of five. Sweat's cooling on my skin, my legs burn with that good ache, while “I Love Rock 'N Roll” drowns out everything else.
Mom used to blast this while driving to games. Windows down, both of us yelling the words. Now it's just me and the pavement.
My chest tightens, different than before, though. It’s not the can't-breathe kind.
I should be in Erie right now helping Larry fix the fence that's been falling apart since spring. But Coach Nieminen wanted me to be in Rosewood Bay early for extra training. Can't say no to that, not when half the team thinks I don't belong, including Zach Knight.
This year's gotta be better.
I pull out my earbuds at the entrance of the three-story building. The quiet hits hard, and my shoulders tense up.
Every sound is too loud, too close. Cars. Footsteps. My own breathing.
My hands shake as I dig for the key in my pocket. Get it together. I push through the heavy glass door, then take the stairs two at a time because the elevator's a box with no exits.
I'm kinda glad Coach Harper asked me to watch his cat while he and Novotny are in Austria. Never been anywhere like that. Never been anywhere, really.
Just Erie and New York.
Unlocking the apartment door, I step inside, then lock it behind me. Always lock it. I check the corners and rooms to make sure no one else is here. Been here a week and I still do it every time.
Safe. You're safe.
Mouse is sprawled on the couch, her mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—stare at me like I failed some test. She digs her claws into my old teddy bear, the one Mom won at the county fair when I was seven.
My body goes rigid, a giant lump forming in my throat. Mouse must've dragged it out of my hockey bag again.
“Hey, don’t wreck that.” My voice comes out raw, cracking on the last word.
She yowls as I stalk over and gently take the bear, my fingers trembling against matted fur that's worn smoothly where I hold him every night. Sometimes I can still smell Mom’s vanilla body lotion on it. Or maybe that's just me being pathetic.
Mouse gets louder, demanding.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” After carefully placing the bear on the coffee table, along with my phone and earbuds, I scoop the cat up. Her warmth against my chest helps somehow. “Let's get you fed, little monster.”
Everything's lined up on the kitchen counter. Novotny left four pages of instructions. Four. Including threats about what he'd do if anything happened to his cat, complete with stick figure illustrations.
Coach Harper physically dragged my teammate out by the neck when he saw that part. Never seen Novotny shut up so fast. His face went all red. Swear he even moaned.
After putting Mouse down on the floor, I grab the food bowls from the mat near the refrigerator, then open a small can and put the wet stuff into one. A small cup of dry food goes into the other. Mouse winds around my legs as I walk back to the mat and place the bowls down.
While she eats, I make a protein shake. Vanilla powder, banana, almond milk. Nothing fancy, just a simple breakfast. I snack on a second banana as the blender mixes the ingredients. When it’s done, I pour the thick shake into a glass and down half of it, the cold helping settle my stomach.
I’m stalling. The next part of this morning routine is the worst.
My skin’s already crawling, heart beating faster. Four years and it's still a challenge. Even here. Alone. I count backwards from ten, then again, then once more.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Ground yourself, Ryan. You are safe. No one else is here.
I repeat what my therapist taught me as I leave my glass on the counter and walk to the bathroom, stopping quickly to toe off my shoes next to the couch. I stand in the entryway and scan the room, then check behind the door, then peek in the small closet. Twice. Then once more to be sure.
Nothing there.
I strip out of my clothes, keeping my back toward the mirror.
Refuse to look at the roadmap of scars covering my left leg.
Thick ropes and shiny patches where they had to graft skin.
Narrow puckering around my knee and calf.
The tattoo I blew a lot of my savings on in senior year in high school, trying to hide what the metal and glass did.
It didn’t work. Just makes it less obvious from far away.
Nobody wants someone who looks like a jigsaw puzzle of skin. Not the girls I started to notice in middle school. Not the guys I crushed on later. And after the group home—
My eyes burn as I reach for the handle and turn on the water. After that incident, I can't stand anyone touching me, no matter how much I might want it.
I step one foot into the walk-in shower when a door slamming shut echoes from somewhere in the apartment.
Every muscle locks up, my heart pounding so hard it hurts.
Someone's here. Someone's in the apartment.
I grab my joggers, hands shaking so badly I barely get them on. The bathroom is a trap. No windows. No way out. Nothing to defend myself with. And my phone is outside on the coffee table.
Shit.
Can’t even call 911.
I ease the door open and peer into the hallway. Twelve steps to the front door, seven if I run. I inch forward, my bare feet silent on hardwood. When the living room comes into view, my knees almost buckle.
Walsh?
My hockey captain turns his head, hazel eyes finding mine right away. “Henneman.”
I can't move. Can't breathe. Every muscle in my body coils up, ready to run, but there's nowhere to go. He's between me and the front door.
“W-what are you doing here?”
“You're going to help me.” His eyes scan over my body, cold and calculating, before he pulls out a gun. “Put on a shirt. And shoes.”
Bile creeps up my throat as I remain glued to the spot, focused on the black metal and his finger near the trigger.
“Get. Dressed.” His voice drops lower, the same tone that makes everyone shut up at practice. “It’s not a request.”
I stumble to my bag in the corner and grab a T-shirt, pulling it on backwards first, then fixing it. My whole body is trembling. I hate it. Hate that he can see it. Hate that I'm nineteen and shaking like I'm eleven again.
I close my eyes, willing myself to wake up from this bad dream.
“Now.” Walsh’s voice cuts through my panic. “Put on your shoes.”
Each step is like wading through thick mud as I move to the couch and sit. After grabbing my sneakers, I shove my feet into them, but I can’t tie my laces. My fingers won't cooperate.
He snorts. “Knight’s right. You’re a goddamn fucking joke. All the size but as harmless as a goddamn butterfly.”
Heat flares in my chest, briefly cutting through the fear. He just had to mention that asshole. Knight has never had to rebuild himself from nothing. He’s never been so broken that breathing feels like betrayal.
I sit up, glaring at Walsh. He smirks, knowing he’s pressed a button.
Mouse appears, weaving through his legs like nothing's wrong, like my team captain isn’t a threat. Maybe to her, he’s not. But to me—
Walsh pulls a bottle of water out of his backpack, then tosses it at me. “Drink and calm the fuck down.”
I catch it but don't open it. Something about the way he watches makes my skin crawl. His expression reveals nothing, not anger or impatience. And that makes everything worse.
He sits in the chair on my left, gun shifting slightly. “Let’s talk about your future at Crestwood.”
“My. . . my future?”
“If you want to keep your scholarship, you’re going to do whatever I tell you, or you lose everything.”
My scholarship means everything. Without it, I can't attend Crestwood.
But after a year of being around Walsh and his friends, I know what they’re capable of. I saw what he did to those lacrosse players. The homophobic pieces of shit deserved it, but still. The methodical way Walsh destroyed them made it look easy to hurt another human like that.
Meeting his gaze, I try to keep my voice steady. “You haven't told me what you want.”
“Does it matter?”
My brows furrow. “Yeah, it does.”
He leans back, gun resting on his thigh. “Drink the water. Don't need you passing out.”
I shake my head, trying to ward off the cobwebs forming. “I’m . . . fine.”
“You're not. You're pale as fuck and about two seconds from hyperventilating. Drink.”
He's right. The room’s starting to tilt. I twist off the cap, then gulp down half the bottle. It doesn’t help, not with the slightly bitter aftertaste.
Walsh leans forward. “We’re taking a day trip to Connecticut.”
“What? Why would—”
“Because we’re getting married.”
The bottle slips from my hand, the liquid splashing all over the floor. “What?”
Married?
To me?
This doesn't make any sense. He’s been dating a girl since the beginning of last season. I shake my head, but it feels funny, like moving through molasses.
“No . . . that’s not . . . happening.” I try to stand, but my body is heavy and the room starts spinning. “What did you—”
“Just something to help you relax.” His voice sounds far away, like I'm underwater.
No, no, no.
“You drugged me?” The words come out slurred.
“I planned ahead,” he says as if kidnapping me is just another item on his to-do list.
My fingers dig into the couch cushion as my vision blurs. I look down at the coffee table, to my bear.
I need him.
But I can’t move. My eyelids refuse to stay open. I blink rapidly and sink back onto the couch, fighting to stay awake as Walsh hovers over me.
And suddenly I'm eleven years old again. Trapped. Metal crunching. Glass breaking. Sarah screaming.
Then nothing.