6. RYAN
RYAN
Iknock over the row of expensive hockey sticks, tearing off my jersey, throwing it at the wall.
Doesn’t look like I’m going to need it anymore unless I can convince Tate VanCourt otherwise.
What the fuck is up with him? I sucked his dick, once.
It didn’t mean anything. And the way he turns me on?
No. I have to stay the fuck away from that.
It’s all-consuming.
And it stands out because …
Well, because.
I haven’t been into anyone in a while. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m into Tate. Figures. The one person I’m this attracted to in a long-ass time, and it’s an obsessive psychopath. Yeah, I picked that up, because, clearly, he’s decided I belong to him, or some shit.
The behavior of a psychopath.
He didn’t say it in so many words. But it was in the air. The way he touched me. The way he had to fucking mark me. I skim my fingers over the throbbing bruise where he viciously sucked my neck. My cock is so damn hard. God. I liked it.
I don’t want my cock hard because of him. I want to rage at Tate and throw things. I don’t want to imagine him pushing me against the wall in his office, yanking down my gear, and fucking me till I can’t walk right.
But I am.
Fucking goddammit.
I punch the wall until I’m sure a knuckle’s broken or at least heavily bruised.
What am I gonna do now? All I can think about is Griff’s face at meals.
Head down, staring at his plate, wearing that fucking mask.
He’s allowed to remove it for meals, but he wouldn’t eat until fuckhead Rowan intervened. Probably on behalf of his dad.
He won’t speak to me. Won’t even look at me. I don’t blame him, this is all my fault, but not being able to protect him or do anything about it is driving me to insanity. I need to fix what I broke before it breaks him.
Joining this league was pure idiocy. But I had to do something, and I had to do it fast.
There’s a knock on the locker room door. Buddy with the firearm tucked into his belt pokes his head in. “Boss says to hurry up.”
I sneer. “Tell your boss he’ll be lucky if I show at all.” I bend down to unlace my skates.
The man laughs. “You’re hilarious, bud. You’ll be going if we have to drag you. You get five more minutes. The boss is not a patient man.”
I toss the skate, blade side out, at his head.
He dodges, narrowly missing a skate to the face.
Glaring at his back, I move my ass—guess I’m not showering—tearing off my gear and changing into my civilian clothes: A loose pair of jeans, a fitted gray T-shirt, and black boots.
I couldn’t care less about Tate’s impatience, but I want this over with.
I need to figure out how I’m gonna tell the guys that the psychotic dickhead that owns this place won’t let me on the ice.
I haven’t even had time to process the fact that it’s Tate VanCourt, mild-mannered college hockey coach. I mean, I figured out over the summer that he isn’t who he pretends he is, but I’d never have guessed owner of an underground hockey ring.
The door creaks open again. “He’s shouting in my ear to tell you to make sure you wash your face.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter. But this locker room’s fancy enough, it has clean towels, and a rack filled with lotions and shit. Guess I can see why he wants my face clean—I look rough, face smeared with blood that probably isn’t mine.
And, what the…? Motherfucker. I knew there was going to be a hickey on my neck, but it’s the largest one I’ve ever seen. If my father sees this, he’s going to murder me. If anyone sees this and tells him, I’m gonna hear about it.
We drove an hour to get here, and when we arrived, it was chaos.
The ground level is a massive brewery; that’s where we entered.
Beckett had us on some list, so that part went fairly smoothly, but there were only the five of us, and the eccentric blond man who checked us off the list strongly suggested that we recruit more team members.
“The likelihood of injury is high,” he’d said.
“Up to you, Cap,” Becks said, because apparently, he only spearheads illegal activities; he doesn’t actually see them through.
There were more than enough stragglers who’d showed up with gear, hoping to get a spot with a team, but without having seen them play, it was hard to hold on-the-spot tryouts.
I ended up choosing based on how big they were.
If they were shit players, they could be bruisers.
Except Jonathan. He was a little smaller, but something about him screamed hockey player.
From what I’d got to see in the first period, I was right.
The pushy security guard enters just as I’m tossing the wet washcloth into the bin. “Time’s up. Let’s go.”
For the love of fuck. “Okay,” I say, stepping toward him. He moves as if I’m a fire. Huh. That’s interesting. “You’re not allowed to touch me, are you?”
… if someone else touches you like he did, there’s gonna be a massacre on the ice.
Those words lit up my insides. I liked it. I don’t wanna look too deep into why I did. But looks like it’s not just the guy on the ice; Tate doesn’t want anyone touching me.
“We can if necessary,” he says. “Will you move it, already?”
“I have one more thing to do.”
He huffs, but I’m right—he’s gonna have to wait unless he wants to drag me, and he’s gonna do his best to make sure it doesn’t come to that. I pull my phone out of my bag, opening it to my chat with Griff. He might be silent, but our chat never is.
Until two days ago.
I’m so fucking scared to text him. If Major Jarvis found out, he’d punish Griff with that mask. I can’t be the reason he’s strapped into that thing any more than I already have been. But I keep hoping he’s found some way to get in touch with me. Maybe through Wren or Scout?
Still nothing, though. I pocket my phone.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Lead the way.” My hand smacks into his chest, and he stumbles. His face says he wants to eviscerate me, but he doesn’t retaliate.
Tate’s eyes rake over me as if he’s taking inventory. There’s arousal there, sure, but I get the distinct impression he’s looking for damage.
Weird. He’s so weird.
Once he’s satisfied, he takes a glass off the table. We’re in a sectioned-off area above the rest of the crowd. There are leather chairs, a TV, food and drinks. “Champagne?” he offers.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” I say, automatically.
“You were drinking alcohol the last time I saw you,” he says.
“How did you—”
“It was on your breath.”
There’s no way I’m getting into the details of my forced sobriety with him. “I’ll have water if you have it,” I say instead of explaining myself.
He reaches into a bucket filled with ice and hands me a bottle. I sigh, taking a sip. “Why am I here?”
“You don’t want to watch the game?”
No one’s on the ice. We must be at an intermission before the third. “I want to play in the game, VanCourt. How can we make that happen?”
Tate pauses, sipping champagne. “Tell me why you need to play, and maybe we can work something out.”
No way he means any of that. He wants information from me. I know when I’m the underdog in a situation. I might have to give a little to get a little here. “I need the money.”
He raises a brow. Yeah, okay, I deserve that brow raise. The idea that I could need money is ridiculous. He might not know much about me, but my family name is infamous. “It’s for something Father wouldn’t approve of,” I add.
“Want to buy that new Porsche and Daddy won’t let you?”
“Something like that. It’s important.”
“How much money do you need?”
I take a breath, standing taller. “One hundred thousand.” But my voice wavers.
Because every time I say it or think about it, my brain reminds me that one hundred thousand dollars isn’t enough to get Griff and me away from Henry Savage.
I’m reminded how much I’ve fucked up my life and Griff’s. I can’t bear it anymore.
So, yeah. Cheers to utter desperation. Have I developed any confidence in the plan since its inception? No. But there’s been nothing else, and every day that I’m forced to leave Griff to the wolves ratchets the ever-present anxiety curdling in my gut.
Like, fuck. Shouldn’t he be on some kind of suicide watch? What if he tries something again? I don’t know what’s going through his head.
Tate nods. “I can arrange that if you do some things for me.”
“If you’re about to ask me to be your whore, the answer is no.”
He smiles, a laugh playing on his lips. “I don’t need to pay you for sex if that’s what you mean by whore. And I wouldn’t pay. If you want my cock again, you’ll have to beg for it, dollface. You can beg me to let you be my whore.”
My cheeks heat. I’m probably a severe shade of red. But my hard cock’s begging me to beg him. “What do you want, Tate?”
“First, I want you playing for Shadowridge. The team needs money; your dad has enough to solve their problems.”
Their problems. That’s an interesting way to put it when he’s the coach.
But that one’s easy to figure out. He cares as far as it concerns him.
I take a long chug of water to make it look like I’m thinking, though.
Because me playing for Shadowridge is never going to happen.
He’s either unaware of the Savage legacy with North Point, or he’s just that arrogant.
It’s probably the latter.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. It’s not something I can give him.
“What’s the other thing?” I say, taking another sip.
“Marry me.”
I spit out my water. “What the fuck? For a measly hundred grand?”
“Name your price, then.”
“A million,” I say just to hear him say—
“Done.”
What? That’s not what he was supposed to say. He was supposed to laugh and reject me. “For how long?”
He frowns, the crease between his brows deepening. “Marriage is forever, Ryan.”