8. RYAN #2
Kane skates away, and Rowan enters the rink, my brother in tow as if he’s the puppy someone left him in charge of.
He’s not wearing the mask, though. Thank fuck.
And the knot in my chest loosens. He’s got dark bags under his eyes, and he’s curled into himself, but otherwise he looks well.
His hair’s growing back. He’ll be allowed to do the standard military fade.
I stare in his direction, hoping he’ll acknowledge me, but it’s as if he’s purposefully avoiding the ice.
Did that dick weasel threaten him? Tell him he’s not even allowed to look at me? One day, I’m gonna kill Rowan Jarvis. Hell, why get my hands dirty? Maybe I’ll get my rich husband to do it.
You did not just think of Tate as your rich husband. But now I wanna know if he’d murder for me. Not that I’d actually get him to do it. I just wanna know if he’d do it.
Rowan leans over, speaking into my brother’s ear. Griff nods, lips tight. What’s he saying to him? Is he threatening him? That’s fucking it.
A wide stick stops me before I can tear off the ice. “Don’t do it,” Beck says. “He deserves it, but wait until there are fewer witnesses around, eh?”
Just like Rowan did to me. Not that I was planning on reporting him, I’m not a rat, but even if I wanted to, I had zero proof. “I’m going to eviscerate him.”
“And I’ll help. Another time,” Rhys Beckett says in that calm voice of his. It’s a deceiving voice—one you can fall asleep to and one that’ll find you in nightmares. I’m glad we’re best friends. Wouldn’t want him as an enemy. He pats me on the shoulder. “Good talk.”
Practice is the usual avalanche of torture via grueling drills. Coach is a sadist, has to be. How does he still have a voice with all that yelling? We’re coming up to the exhibition game against Shadowridge this weekend, and he won’t accept a loss, even though it doesn’t count toward the season.
I face off with Rowan during the scrimmage and get the cartoon-villain sneer from him.
The whole thing’s fucking ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to choke the life out of him.
He takes off with the puck. Kane bolts from outta nowhere, skating hard toward him, shoulder-to-shoulder, slamming him into the boards.
Something in my memory sparks, but before I can grab at it, Rowan goes down hard, his right knee buckles, and Kane’s large ass topples on top of him.
Oooooh. Ow. Yeah. A knee is not supposed to fucking bend that way.
And a knee bent that way isn’t supposed to have over two hundred pounds of man meat fall on it.
Coach’s whistle echoes off the boards. Rowan’s on his stomach, alternating between pounding the ice with his gloved fists and curling into himself.
“You did that on purpose—fuck!”
“Sorry, my bad, Jarvis,” Kane says, hopping to his feet.
“Skate … blade … fucker.” The words come in agonizing pants. Medics roll the stretcher onto the ice. “You … did this!”
Rowan points in my direction. I look behind me as if he must be looking at someone else, back to him, and spread my arms. I’ve been over here the whole time.
“Yes, you, Savage. You put them up to this.”
“You’re fucking delusional, Jarvis.”
“It was a fair hit,” Coach says to my fucking surprise, and my heart calms down. I can’t get into any more trouble for stupid shit, not when I’ve got bigger shit on the horizon. “Hit the showers.”
Early dismissal and Rowan’s knee is fucked up? Fucking Christmas. The happy shock keeps me in place as a slow smile spreads onto my lips. I take a deep inhale of the chill air, wanting to remember this moment on my deathbed.
“Yikes. That looks bad,” Kane says, using his stick blade to toss the puck into the air. The rest of the team’s already filing off the ice, but I can’t move. This is too good to be true. Then I get a flash, that thing my brain was trying to tell me to remember as Rowan went down.
Kane’s done this before. Second period of Saturday night’s game.
It’s a matter of getting your stick in, right against the other guy’s skate, forcing his legs too wide.
A number of things can happen, the other leg buckling, for example.
He’s learned a few dirty-ass things from murder hockey. He taps his stick on the ice.
“Shame. He’ll probably be out for a while with that one. Maybe he’ll never play again.” He shrugs. “See you at breakfast, Cap.”
Did he do that for me? Yeah, I think he did. It’s hard to tell what’s going through Kane’s mind. But what this also did was buy Griff and me a few minutes. Finally. It’s been two of the longest weeks of my life. I have so much to ask him.
I wanna tell him that … well, that I might have a way out for him. I’ve been thinking about it all week. If anyone can extract us and bring us to Shadowridge, it’s Tate. If he can do that, it’s worth my freedom. Seeing Griff smile every day, that’ll be satisfaction enough.
Turning, I take a breath, ready to call his name. But no one’s there. I blink. Maybe I’m imagining the void on the bench where Griff was sitting.
But I’m not.
He’s gone. I’m alone.
My stomach drops, something dark settles low, tightening. The ice isn’t what’s chilling my bones.
Griff could have left for so many reasons, but the Griff I know wouldn’t have missed the chance to talk to me for any reason.
The truth is, I don’t know how to beg. Even at my worst with Father, I’ve never begged him.
It was my own private rebellion. The only way I could preserve a little piece of my sanity.
It’s sexy, though, and fuck have I loved making other people beg for my cock, but not begging’s become a little piece of my soul.
But enter Tate VanCourt.
Tate
Where did you go?
Me
Alpha Kappa house.
It’s tradition. After the exhibition game, which is always with Shadowridge U, Alpha Kappa Epsilon House throws a party.
But this year it’s underwhelming. Last year, it was massive.
Lots of other houses. Loud music. This one feels like a setup.
The Delta Gamma sorority is the only other house in attendance.
Tate
I don’t remember you asking me if you could go to a party.
Is he joking? I can’t tell. Probably not, but he didn’t do anything about the thing he didn’t like last time. Maybe it’s one of those, I-mean-it-but-I’m-not-super-pissed-about-it-either, things?
Who the fuck knows? But I’m not as mad about it as I was the first time.
Me
Is that what you’d expect from me as your husband? Asking permission?
Tate
And what if it was?
Me
I’d be willing to negotiate.
The fucker leaves me on read, and I catch Betty …
no, Dawn? No … Wendy, maybe? I don’t know.
It was an older name anyway. She’s a Delta Gamma sister who’s sweet on me.
I’ve been avoiding her all night. I saw Becks with someone earlier, but I’m pretty sure they found a room.
Caught sight of McKinnon, too. That guy.
He reeks with the stench of parents who fucking adored him.
It’s not a real reason to hate him, just jealousy speaking, but resisting the urge to knock his teeth out when I see his bright face is a Mount-Everest-level feat.
Maybe I will during a game. But with my luck, I’ll become the villain. No one will cheer my efforts to teach McKinnon that life isn’t fun.
Ducking around the corner, I just miss her again, only catching the scent of her cherry perfume in the wake of her blonde hair. She’s gorgeous, but the thought of being with anyone stirs overwhelming nausea in my gut.
Except Tate.
Finally, my phone buzzes.
Tate
Meet me outside.
Me
WTF??? You can’t be here.
The asshole doesn’t answer. Clearly, he does whatever the fuck he wants. But my heart beats faster, and I don’t like what that means. It’s a bubbly sort of sensation. Fucking, goddamn butterflies.
No!
I slip out the back door. The noise mutes.
Inside was all bass and beer breath, laughter too loud to be real, and frat boys making inappropriate jokes.
I used to be a member of that club, but I don’t relate anymore.
How can I? Every day is survival. Running from the next monster.
I could fake my way through it, sure, chest out, peacocking like the rest of them—I do a good job acting as if I belong. I have to.
But the second I cross that threshold, the frat noise fades.
Nothing else exists except for moonlight, crisp grass, and Tate wearing soft sweatpants and an oversized Scorpions hoodie.
I’m not used to seeing him like this. Even on the ice, he’s in a suit and tie, but this is likely his daily wear.
The casual attire doesn’t steal his presence.
It somehow makes him larger. And fuck if I don’t want to wrap myself up in him—not a feeling I’m used to having.
He’s so handsome, my chest aches. It’s not fucking fair. And I know he’s in his late thirties, but he doesn’t look it at all. He could easily pass for someone in their late twenties.
The cool air bites, as if it knows what’s about to happen.
Tate stands in the shadows, and if I weren’t looking for him, I wouldn’t see him.
He doesn’t move when he sets eyes on me, just stands there, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie like he has all the time in the world to decide whether or not he’ll touch me.
My lungs forget how to work, but then I remind myself to breathe.
“We can go around the—”
He shakes his head, pointing up. An open window on a balcony two floors up. He doesn’t hesitate, lacing his fingers together, crouching low, offering me a silent boost to the low roof over the back porch. It’s gentlemanly, other than the fact that we’re sneaking in.
Though, does it count as sneaking in when I was invited?
My hands cling to the edge, and I pull myself up, about to reach to help him, but the man’s already performing an elaborate parkour move off a brick wall, jumping to catch the ledge on his own.
It’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I have a thing for competence. Tate’s proving a man of many talents.