4. RYAN #4
“Are you saying you know better than the physician who saw him?”
“Yes, sir. I’m his brother. I know him better than anyone.”
“If you think you know better than a physician, you’re too cocky, cadet. Two days of corrective duty had better humble you, or I’ll do it for you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” I say, but the anger’s about to bubble over. I’m one more irritated word away from doing something stupid.
“I was his Block leader,” he continues, and my eyes flick to that ring of his, the one I know cracked across Griffon’s jaw. “He needs a little tough love. Someone has been coddling him, and now I know it’s been you.”
My teeth grind, forcing my mouth to stay shut with the last ounce of willpower I have.
“Report to Major Carter. He’s holding detention in the drainage ditches today.”
Joy.
At least Kane was there. He laughed like a hyena when I trudged up to him and handed me a shovel.
We dug muddy sewage water for three goddamn hours until we were released.
None of it mattered. All I could think about was getting back to my room so I could call Father.
It chafes that he’s my only option, but he is, and it’s worth trying.
My keycard almost slips from my hand, my fingers frozen in the shape of a shovel handle, my body close to collapse. The lock clicks, and the door gives way as I push the handle. I trip over my feet as I stumble inside.
Becks is there, sitting up in bed, textbook in hand.
He’s not the studious type, I know that much, but at North Point, you do homework or suffer.
Only Kane’s crazy enough to challenge indoctrination from a well-practiced cult.
We tried hard our first year, but they’ve beaten the rest of us into submission.
He wrinkles his nose. “I can smell you from here, bro. What happened?”
“Don’t ask.” I gather my toiletries, shoving my phone in the case, and grab a change of clothes. At least I don’t have to do laundry in this place, that is, unless my corrective duties tomorrow include laundry.
He laughs, but his laughter dies off as he studies me. I’m sure I look exactly how I feel. Mud’s found its way to places it’s never been before. My hair’s stuck to my face via sweat. “You ready yet?”
Thinking about answering him, waiting for the words to leave my mouth, I lean against the doorframe on my way out, letting my forehead rest against the wood and my lids close.
Is this what it’s like for Griff? Thinking words, pushing them through a wall of molasses toward your mouth, them getting trapped before they can make it to your tongue?
Man, I must be tired if this is comfortable. Could fall asleep right here …
“Savage. Wake up.”
“Huh?” Becks is beside me. “Fuck you, man. I don’t need your hockey thing.” I move to leave.
“You might want these.” He picks my shit off the floor, shoving the case and clothing against my torso. The fucker smirks.
I don’t take too much time in the shower, just enough to get my thoughts together.
Everything’s spinning out of control. I thought once we got here, it would be easy to look after Griff, but today’s been nothing but a quick reminder of how little control I have.
Towel around my waist, hair still wet, I check the time.
Eight thirty. He’ll be up, most likely still working.
Taking a breath, I hit send on Father’s number.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah, it’s me, sir. I need … I need your help,” I admit.
It pours out, everything that happened with Griffon.
And I must be beyond my endurance, because my words fall out in the way they only do with a parent, like they used to with Mom.
When you’re asking without actually asking them to pick up the pieces and put them back together for you.
When I finish, I close my eyes—breathe, Ryan—and let the words hang there.
I brace for impact, because I’ve said way too fucking much, but none of the sharp words I’m used to come.
Instead, an ominous silence stretches between us.
All I can do is wait and hope he’s grown a heart in the past two weeks.
“I had a conversation just a little while ago with Major Jarvis,” he says. His voice is soft—not a good thing. It’s the same softness he used when he told me I was coming home from Phoenix, my rookie season in the NHL. “He got Griffon to talk. He’s making progress.”
That fucking bastard got to Father before me.
“He forced Griffon to talk,” I hiss. “What’s going on for Griff doesn’t work like that.”
“You’re not a doctor, nor are you a psychiatrist.”
“With all due respect, neither is Major Jarvis, sir.”
“No, but he’s working closely with both. I was pleased to hear Griffon’s made strides in his first three weeks. I should have sent him sooner, but I listened to your misleading counsel.”
Between Rosaline and me, we were able to hold back Griffon’s enrollment.
“He’s lying to you. I saw Griff today. He’s not okay.”
“Have you ever thought that he’s only that way around you? You’re a crutch for him.”
Lead sinks to the bottom of my stomach. He believes that. “This isn’t about him getting better, he’s fine the way he is. Being forced to speak is what’s breaking him apart.”
There’s another deadly silence. My skin prickles. “The major thinks you’re a danger to his recovery. That you have been all along.”
“What? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Please tell me you don’t believe that.”
“I’m not sure what to believe, but it sounds like your focus isn’t on him getting better.”
I run a hand over my face. “I want what’s best for Griffon.”
“Even if that means staying away from him?”
Slamming my hand on the counter, I kick at the air.
That’s where he’s going with this. My mind grasps for anything it can to pull this away from that direction, but I feel the control slipping away.
Not that I had any real power to begin with, but sometimes Father can be swayed—if you can convince him, he’ll benefit.
“Let me handle, Griff, sir.”
“You’ve been handling him, and you’ve failed. You have hockey and school to focus on. Griffon is in good hands at North Point. You’re not to interfere—do you understand?”
Glaring into the mirror, nostrils flaring, my knucklebones pop with the effort of restraint. I can’t break the mirror like I want to. I can’t afford more demerits. I take a breath. Two words, it’s just two little words. I don’t even have to mean them.
But giving in feels like giving up.
“Go fuck yourself, sir.”
Getting back to Griff is all that’s on my mind after that.
What I did was fucking stupid. Lie, all I had to do was lie.
I don’t have a problem lying to anyone else but Father.
Anything would have been better than telling him to go fuck himself.
He will retaliate. But I force the very long list of what Father could do to me to the back of my mind, so that I look alright for Griff. He can’t see me falling apart.
My knuckles rap a frantic tune on Griff’s door, heart pounding against my ribcage. The door swings open, and Griff’s there. I flinch, already having forgotten his head’s shaved. But he’s fine, aside from the frown. His frown is because of me.
“I’m fine, Griff.”
He exhales, hands moving too quickly for my tired brain to translate, so he pushes me toward his bed, motioning for me to sit. He pulls out his iPad.
Didn’t have luck, did you?
I shake my head.
Will you stop now? Please stop, Rye.
“No. I won’t let them do this to you.”
He sighs, eyes flicking to Wren’s bed, which is noticeably missing Wren. It’s getting close to lights out, and I haven’t done any homework. I’ll need to get back, but I’d feel better knowing he had someone here with him. I make myself comfortable.
“I’ll stay until Wren returns,” I say, pillowing my hands behind my head.
His gaze flicks to Wren’s bed, and I can see the wheels turning. Slowly, he pecks something else out on the iPad.
I don’t even want to tell you this, because you need sleep, not more stress, but Wren was here to pick up his stuff earlier.
No. That can’t be true. I would’ve noticed something like … shit. Yeah. There’s nothing on his side of the room. How tired am I? “Why would Wren take his stuff out of here?”
Griff licks his lips—he knows—but he doesn’t want to answer.
I have a temper, he knows it. I never have and never would lash out at him, but I’m a hair away from nuking this entire college.
He starts typing again, and I close my eyes briefly, trying to call back some of my energy.
Who am I kidding? I’d lose a fight with a housefly right now.
He pecks at his iPad, erases, starts again, erases, and gives up, huffing.
“C’mon, Griff. I won’t do anything.”
I can read his expression. Yeah right.
“Okay, fine. I might plot a few murders and some petty revenge, but that’s it, promise.”
That gets me a small smile. He finally types a full sentence. I think we should fall in line while we’re here, Rye. It won’t be forever.
I sit up. “Not the answer to my question.”
He taps the screen again. He wants me to agree to that bullshit before he tells me.
“We can’t give in. I …” I trail off. I don’t want to say it out loud. How I gave in. When Father strode into the Phoenix locker room, equipped with the psychiatrist he has on his payroll, two of his goons, and his private physician, I went with him.
I didn’t put up a fight, thinking you can’t simply peel someone away from their NHL contract. Guess what, Father can. But I also thought it would be a conversation, something to scare me toward the path to righteousness, and I’d be back in the locker room, lacing up my skates.
Instead, I was on the private jet home, where he kept me for years, “retraining” me.
One more thing, and one more thing … just one more thing. I thought that if I appeased him long enough, everything would go back to normal, and I could go back to Phoenix. But then he sent me to North Point. It’s not going back to normal for me, but at least it can for Griff.
Not if we cave now, though.