Chapter 29
Connor
The drums pound through Citi Field, loud as fuck. Joan Jett's belting out “Bad Reputation,” and Ryan's screaming along to every word like he's possessed.
Never seen him like this. Ever. Not at practice, not when we win, not even when he's coming. He's fucking glowing.
The black Joan Jett shirt he made me buy is too fucking tight. Never thought I'd be caught dead in this shit. But it’s worth it to see the grin he keeps flashing my way. And I don’t miss the way his eyes rake over my chest as he bites his bottom lip.
Fuck.
Everything this man does gets me hard.
Ryan leans over during the brief pause between songs, his breath warm against my ear. “Thank you. This is perfect.”
I squeeze his hand, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Anything for you.”
The only reason we're even here is because Jackson can't focus for shit. Asked him and Viktor to help find anything I can use as leverage against my parents. Something that’ll destroy them if it goes public.
I even broke into my father’s home office two days ago. The house was empty. Fuck knows if they left on another trip.
But I haven’t found shit yet. Fucking sucks since blackmail is the only option I have. The police won’t help, not when they’re in my father’s pocket.
Jackson got bored yesterday while Viktor was running decryption and started fucking around online instead. That's when he found out Joan Jett was playing nearby and tickets were still available. So, I grabbed two.
“When are you going to get cleared to play?”
“Next week.” I can’t wait to get out of wearing that stupid red jersey. Hate no contact practice, but lights still fuck with my head sometimes. “You ready to take on Quinnipiac this weekend?”
“Yeah. Just wish you’d be playing too.”
“Same.”
Honestly though? Kinda want to watch Ryan demolish people without worrying about my own shifts.
At practice this morning, he leveled Jenkins. Not sure what the sophomore was running his mouth about, but Ryan let the grizzly bear out to play. The hit was brutal, but legal. And my husband even “accidentally” let the blade of his stick hit the back of Jenkins’ helmet as he skated away.
Fucking beautiful.
When the next song starts, Ryan leans in, placing a hand on the small of my back. “I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Want anything?”
“I’m good. Still got some beer left.”
He kisses me before heading across the row and then heads up the stairs.
Joan Jett launches into “Crimson and Clover,” and I collapse into my seat. My goddamn husband wanted to stand the whole time, so it feels good to get off my feet.
I pull out my phone and scroll through Instagram. Same bullshit as always. Until an image of Veronica pops up. An official wedding announcement.
Her face is completely dead, like she's checked out, given up. Her fiancée, Damien Reinhardt, looks cold and threatening.
Normal for him.
The guy has a reputation for beating women. And yet, the Callahans gave their daughter to that psycho anyway.
I shake my head and keep scrolling. Another song starts, and Ryan isn’t back yet. Maybe he’s in line for concessions?
Another picture of Veronica and Damien is on a business news account I follow.
Ben’s off to the side, barely in frame, like he’s trying to disappear into the fucking wall.
He’s probably pissing himself, wondering when his father’s gonna sell him off to close a business deal.
Bet the spineless little fuckling will just cry and go along with it.
The third song starts, and Ryan still isn’t back. Sweat collects along my brow. I swipe at it, scanning the area. When I still don’t see him, I open my text app.
Me: You’re missing the best part. Everything okay?
No response.
“Cherry Bomb” starts. Ryan should be back. My leg starts bouncing as I call his phone. It goes straight to voicemail. So, I hang up and try again.
No answer.
When he doesn’t pick up after the third time my pulse goes from zero to fucking sixty. Something's off. Ryan doesn't bail, especially not from Joan Jett.
I stand, scanning the crowd.
Nothing.
My screen lights up. Thank fuck. But it’s not Ryan. It's my piece of shit father. I tap ignore and try calling Ryan one more time.
Voicemail.
Again.
I push through the row of seats, stepping on people's feet. Fuck their dirty looks.
My shoulder clips someone, but I barely feel it. Blood roars in my ears, drowning out the music thundering from the stadium.
I hit the concourse, heading for the nearest bathroom. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he's sick. Maybe I'm being fucking paranoid.
But my legs are already moving faster, practically running.
I crash through the doors of the men’s bathroom. “Ryan!” A few guys look at me like I'm crazy, but I don't give a fuck. “Ryan! You in here?”
No answer.
I exit and race to the next one. My thighs burn, lungs straining, but I don’t slow. He’s not there either. I check the concession area.
Nothing.
Maybe he’s returned to our seats.
I start making my way back when my phone rings. Fucking hell. My father again.
Fuck him.
I tap ignore again. But he calls right back. This motherfucker. I hit the green button and hold my phone to my ear. “I don't have time—”
“You forget who holds the real power in this family.” He pauses. “Including collateral damage.”
Collateral damage?
My grip on the phone tightens. “What did you do?”
He chuckles, low and cold. “You played a game you weren't prepared for. Every action has consequences. Every weakness gets exploited. And yours? He's about to learn what it costs to be married to a Walsh.”
“Where the fuck is my husband!”
The line goes dead.
The phone slips from my hand, clattering on the concrete.
No.
No, no, no.
My pulse pounds so hard in my ears I can't hear the music anymore—just this roaring sound. My vision narrows until all I see is the phone on the ground. Everything else is dark at the edges.
“FUCK!”
People are staring, but I don't give a shit. My stomach's cramping, threatening to throw up the beer from earlier.
They took my husband. They fucking took what’s mine.
I pick my phone off the floor, then run toward the exit, my legs barely working. My father thinks he won.
Wrong.
I'm done playing their games. Done with blackmail. Done with leverage.
Now, it’s time to burn it all down.