4. RYAN #3
“No. It would be the stupidest fucking thing we’ve ever done. Besides, the games are on the weekends. We already play hockey on the weekends.”
“The way we practice is like playing two games in a row anyway. Another team couldn’t handle it, but we can,” Gideon says. “Besides, we’d start before the season opener at Shadowridge and get two games in. That’s just three games extra we could fit in during downtime.”
I check on Becks to see what he has to say. It’s nothing. He’s still lying in wait, as if it’s not a matter of if I’ll say yes, but when. “Alright, let’s hear the logistics, Beckett.”
“Some games we’ll play when we’re away, but for the first one, this Saturday, I have an arrangement,” he says.
I shake my head. “Sounds too complicated. We’ll be caught, and this’ll come down on me.”
“But—” Gideon starts.
“Leave him alone, guys,” Becks says. “He’ll come around.”
“I won’t,” I say, shoveling more food into my mouth to prevent me from saying anything else. Things like, Maybe. Things like, Well, one game couldn’t hurt. I’ve got this whole Griffon thing to deal with. I can’t get involved with any risky shit.
By the time my long-ass day fucking ends—classes, then a bunch of army-related drills and shit—I get to see my brother. He’s been moved from med bay to the room he’s sharing with Gideon’s younger brother, Wren, but Wren’s not here.
I don’t know what I expect to see, but Griff casually working on his laptop ain’t it. I cornered Scout and Wren at lunch, so they could tell me what the fuck happened. Rib contusion. He took a nasty fall during a training drill.
“Griff?” I say, knocking on his open door.
He turns quickly, forgetting about his injury, wincing when what I’m sure is a fucking painful stab hits him.
“Stop, I’ll come to you.”
But he slides out from the desk anyway and stands up, stiffly.
I take a moment to look him over. I already miss his copper hair.
It gave him that Griffon softness I’m always fighting to protect.
His buzzed head gives him the harder look he’ll need for this place, and he wears the school uniform well—navy trousers with a gold stripe up the side, a long-sleeved button-up, and a navy tie.
His uniform jacket hangs over his desk chair.
Griffon’s knuckles are taped, and I pull in a sharp breath when I get a clearer view of his face. Black eye, blood crusted over a cut that was from a ring. I know that ring. It was the same one I got treated to a few times in my plebe year. Captain Jarvis.
My heart races, blood seething with rage. I’m going to fucking kill Captain Jarvis if it’s the last thing I do.
“Ry—Ryan…” Griff’s raspy voice says. I haven’t heard my name from him since our mother died. It should make my insides sing. Instead, they run cold. They made him talk, didn’t they?
“Hey, shhhh. You don’t have to say a thing unless you want to, Griff.”
He nods. He might want to, but he can’t.
Those fuckers.
I put my arms around him. I want to squeeze him so bad, but I don’t, being careful of his injury. I kiss the top of his nearly bald head and pull away. “Haircut looks badass,” I say.
He gives a weak smile. Bet he hates it. I hated mine. Couldn’t wait to grow it out.
You look tired, Rye, he types on his computer.
He’s not wrong, but I wish it didn’t show on my face. Father’s right. I’m weak. Maybe he was right to send me here.
“I’m good. Promise. Just my body getting used to the season. I’ll be a stallion by next week.” If my body ever stops feeling like ground meat. “At least you’re out of drills now. That’s a perk of being injured.”
Griff bites his lip, staring at his hands. Then he reaches for a slip of paper on his desk, handing it to me.
“What’s this?”
Griffon Savage. Cleared for modified training. No contact.
“This is fucking bullshit, Griff. No. No way. I won’t stand for this,” I say without as much confidence as I used to have. There was a time when those words meant something. Before my power was suffocated.
Griff shakes his head. He types.
Please don’t, Rye. It could get worse.
That’s just great. Griff’s stopped believing in me, too.
Powerless. Hopeless.
Fuck!
“Or it could get better. Stay here.” I pick up the bullshit doctor’s note and march my way down to med bay.
I’m dressed in my North Point standard-issue T-shirt and sweats.
It’s what we’re expected to wear to the gym—everything at North Point is scheduled and controlled.
Right down to the fucking briefs I wear.
I don’t need any more physical activity today, but I was planning on getting a little stretching in before doing some homework and having an early night.
I’m dead on my feet, but my mind’s whirring without end.
I don’t get how I can be so tired without being able to sleep. That’s its own kind of hell.
The corridor opens wide, ceiling soaring overhead, giving hostile vibes—the sharp lines, dark stone, gold metal details, controlled symmetry.
Nothing forgiving. The size isn’t freeing, it’s exposing.
You’re unable to hide in a way that suffocates.
The floors are painted with gold lines you’re expected to follow.
Every move dictated, no room for free expression.
The polished floors reflect the lights overhead, and the plaques stare down from the walls like judges.
Discipline, Honor, and Obedience stated proudly on golden flags, hanging against the black stone.
No matter how many times I wash my nose, I’ll never get rid of the smell of this place—old paper, something stale, and the faintest hint of bleach.
By the time the red cross of med bay comes into view, it feels like the building’s been watching me the whole way.
Striding into med bay, I get some looks—I haven’t been announced—but I don’t give a shit. Whoever made this call is a quack, and I’m calling them on it.
“I’d like to speak with the doctor who wrote this,” I demand, showing the man at the desk the paper. His frown says he’s dealt with entitled students like me too many times before, and he’s over it.
“Give me a moment, Mr. Savage.” He picks up the telephone receiver.
I wait, arms crossed, rehearsing what I’ll say.
I’d like to believe that someone around here has a heart, but I’ve never seen it.
A man in a white coat exits from a set of stainless-steel double doors.
His hair’s a salt-and-pepper blend, same with his goatee, and he has hard features that complement this place.
I already sense the failure smothering me, and my arms itch with the memory of restraint, that damn jacket surrounding me.
Breathe, Ryan. Breathe.
“I think there’s been a mistake. My brother can’t do any activity—at least for a week. He must have been downplaying his injury.”
“Let me see,” he says, reaching for the paper. He studies it, head tilted, scrupulous eyes flick to me briefly. “Griffon Savage. Hmmmm. My assessment stands. Will that be all?”
“No, it won’t be all.” But all I can do is stand there seething, cheeks heating.
Because the longer I stand here, the more apparent it becomes that I have nothing.
Fucking nothing. Father has all my hockey money.
I was forced to hand it over to him as part of his reform program.
I have free use of the bank and credit cards he’s given me, but that’s for buying “stuff”—things that make me look the part of his heir.
So I can attend events that only his heir could attend.
Paying off the staff at North Point … I guess that’s possible, it’s not like he checks every receipt, but he’s the one with pull here.
Half of the officers are loyal to him. They’d rat me out in a heartbeat.
A physician? Too hard to say, and not worth the risk.
In this case, I’d have better luck speaking directly with Father.
The doctor—who hasn’t bothered to introduce himself to me—crosses his arms over his chest, managing to look down at me even though I’ve got a few inches on him.
“And what do you plan to do about it, Mr. Savage?”
“I … I’ll speak with my father.” Another shot of embarrassment lights my veins. My only fucking option. A terrible option.
The right corner of his lips curls into a crooked half-smile. “You do that, Ryan.”
Not “Mr. Savage,” the name he read off the paper, but Ryan. Yeah, he definitely knows my father. I’m forced to stand there, grasping for words like a fish out of water, while he disappears through the doors. I’m going to have to call Father now. I have to try.
Spinning, I almost ram chest-first into Major Jarvis. The man’s clean-cut—military-precision hair, smooth, shaved jaw, and he fits his service uniform well. He’s unfairly good-looking, but the only attractive thing about him is the way he looks. His personality is shit.
I come to attention, standing taller, arms by my sides. “Sir.”
“Are you injured, cadet?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Do you have permission to be here?”
I take a breath. “Sir, I—”
“Not interested in anything but yes or no sir.”
“Sir, no, sir,” I mutter.
“How many demerits is it for being where you don’t have permission to be?”
“Five, sir.”
“Correct. And how many demerits for speaking disrespectfully to a member of staff?”
“Five, sir. But I didn’t—”
“I didn’t hear a single sir, but I did hear a threat.”
Professors and civilian members of staff don’t get the same standards of deference that officers do, but we’re supposed to treat them with respect. I don’t agree that I threatened him … okay, well, maybe I hoped contacting my father would concern him, but it’s clear he didn’t feel threatened.
“I’m tacking on another five for the threat, which means you’ve earned yourself two evenings of corrective duty, cadet.”
My hands ball into fists, and my knuckles crack. “Sir, permission to speak, sir.” This fucking place. Having to ask just to speak. It’s a prison. But I can’t afford more demerits than the ones I’ve already been given.
“Go ahead.”
“Sir, my brother shouldn’t be cleared for drills, sir.”