5. TATE #2
He’s not as conniving as my uncle was; it’s new to him. Maybe Jasper liked his naivety? Don’t know. But it’s fun. Like playing chess with a toddler. He’s probably afraid of the mayhem that taking action would cause.
“And you’re never going to see the sun from the ocean floor if you don’t leave.”
Huffing, straightening his jacket, blood smearing, he struts off. I down more champagne—I need something stronger.
“Who let him in?” I snap.
“Sir, he said—”
“I don’t care what he said. Next time, I’m stringing shitty guards up on the ice and letting the angry hockey players use them as pinatas during warmup.”
“Yes, sir.”
I sit amidst the broken glass, tapping my fingers against leather. Even the champagne tastes like shit now. This was supposed to be a drama-free evening. Maybe I should have broken his hand. At least that would have made me feel better.
But the lights come down, and my attention’s pulled to the ice. The Headbashers are announced for the second period to pump up the crowd. They skate onto the ice to some Metallica song, wearing glowing, spray-paint stenciled masks with Xs for eyes and paint-dripped unhinged smiles.
The crowd screams for them, and the men wave like they’re already celebrities.
The money is the biggest attraction to games this dangerous, but they’re made to feel like Roman gladiators, and often that’s more delicious than the money.
Those types reveal themselves immediately, and I file that in my mind about The Headbashers in case I need it.
People are easy to manipulate if you know what they love and what they hate.
Pain points. Pleasure points. That’s what Uncle Jasper always used to say. Humans are simple reptiles.
The announcer welcomes back The Voiceless, and a wash of tingles nearly consumes me. That sets every nerve on edge. I don’t get tingles like that for any reason. I sit up taller, Clarence and his drama forgotten.
It’s a Bad Omens song that I recognize. They skate onto the ice like deadly apparitions.
Silent, but there. Their masks have a glow, too, it’s a requirement, but their masks have a half-skull thing going on with the other side blank.
And … hmmm, there’s a faint glow from where a mouth should be, but I can’t see …
I take a better look at the TV screen. There’s a glowing mouth underneath, but they’ve buried the mouth under silver duct tape in various ways—an X, a line, designs in the form of a feral smile. The one with a C on his jersey has the entirety of the bottom of his mask sealed with duct tape.
The crowd doesn’t just scream for them; they go fucking bananas, but The Voiceless don’t react. They don’t wave. They don’t relish the adoration. They’re like predators on the ice, moving with calculated efficiency.
My heart rate speeds up, pounding against my ribcage.
We haven’t had a team this exciting in a long time.
I lean forward in my chair. And fuck. I’m helplessly drawn to the sealed-mouth captain.
I have mixed feelings about that. Being drawn to anyone is so rare for me that it stands out. But twice within months of each other?
That doesn’t happen.
Unless …
No. It can’t be him, can it?
But the leak of intuitive adrenaline that hits gives me the terrible feeling that it is. And if it is, he’s coming off the fucking ice, now.
I don’t have to wait; this is my colosseum, my game, my fucking everything, but I want to see if I recognize him by how he plays. I want to be sure before I have him dragged into my office. I stand up as if that will improve what I see down there, but I’m too far away, and those masks don’t help.
Deep in thought, I don’t catch much of the other team members, but I’m momentarily distracted by their goalie. Fuck, he’s massive. Maybe as big as me.
The lights come up again, and the two captains faceoff; bent over, sticks on thighs, heads tilted toward the puck in the ref’s hand. It drops. The Headbasher’s captain shoves the other captain with a usually illegal cross-check, using the moment of shock to steal the puck.
That tells me two things. The Headbasher’s captain is more familiar with our hockey rules than the other captain is, and it’s clear the Voiceless captain is professionally trained, conditioned to play by those rules. We don’t call for minor penalties.
But the other captain catches on quick, sliding his stick out, almost hooking the other captain’s foot.
He jumps and manages to keep himself upright but loses the puck to the Voiceless captain.
He passes it behind, and his left winger catches it in his blade too seamlessly.
They definitely play on the same team. They’ve played together a lot.
Enough to read each other. The captain skates up, and I read the play.
I’ve seen one like it a thousand times. He’s making himself open for the pass …
Wham!
Defense from The Headbashers rams the large team captain into the boards.
I didn’t expect the gloves to come off so soon, but the intriguing team captain sheds his.
Frustrated already? I guess if you’re used to the rules of regular play, this game would be the epitome of frustration.
The refs aren’t even obligated to stop play if they think a player recovered fast enough. It’s the wild west of hockey.
Alright, fine. Ethan was right, I regret missing the first period. I would have loved to watch this captain slowly lose his cool.
With gloves off, they skate counterclockwise, fists up. The crowd’s ready. This is what they came for. They’ll have their apps open, betting on which player’ll win the fight. Refs won’t break them up unless it’s about to get deadly. We fight until there’s a winner.
But while the crowd hoots and hollers, I study how the captain moves.
They grab each other’s jerseys, twisting.
Helmets are gone, but not the damn masks.
The guy I’ve deemed as Other Guy throws a couple of good rights, the captain swings his barrel arms, landing a nice crack against the side of Other Guy’s face where it’s unprotected by the mask.
The captain turns his head. I’m glued to the TV screen. I see the flash of black ink—a black widow spider crawling up the front of his neck.
Ryan. That’s fucking Ryan.
Other Guy swings again, but this time, the crack to Ryan’s face hits a place inside me, setting off my feral instincts.
“Stop the fight,” I say to the guard behind me, my eyes still focused on the screen.
“But, sir—”
“Bring the hockey captain to my office.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “Ethan’s gonna throw a fit.”
And he will, because he’ll be the one who has to deal with all the angry patrons who bet money on them and won’t get a payout. But I don’t care. That’s what I pay him for. Maybe I’ve been too soft around here if they’re more worried about Ethan’s fits than my orders.
It’s true what they say about all that manifesting shit.
Act as if you already have it. In all my conversations with Patrick, I assured him we had the funding when we didn’t.
In all my conversations with Luke, I assured him I’d have a husband by the end of the season, even when it seemed like finding the right husband for my purposes would be impossible.
The cherry on top? This new development guarantees my bid for commissioner.
The universe just handed me a unicorn—Ryan. I don’t love the way the universe went about it, but now my obsession with him makes sense, and it’s useful. He could be the answer to my problems.
I finally get to see his beautiful face.
It’s already swelling and bruising around the cheekbone.
He’s still dressed in his hockey gear and skates, but his mask’s off.
He pulled it up and over his head when he got here, slamming it on my desk.
He saw it was me, blinked those pretty, doll-like lashes a few times, and launched into a tirade. He’s been yelling at me ever since.
Not very voiceless of him.