10. RYAN #2
Oh, come on. Who’s believing this shit? Part of me wants to stand up and point out the imposter among us, but the other part of me is impressed that he’s able to fool so many. It’s clear from the smiles and bright postures around the room that they admire Tate. Even Father has a smile for him.
Bet he wouldn’t if he knew how hard he was railing his dick up my ass when I was at Shadowridge. It’s hard not to snicker. I’m way too immature for a meeting like this one.
“We have a lot on the docket today,” the commissioner says. “And Coach VanCourt has prepared a proposal for us on recruiting.”
“Ah, and player safety policies,” Tate interjects. “Something has come to my attention, so I added it. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You know how important player safety policies are to me. We’ll make time for it.” God. Even the fucking commissioner loves Tate. Probably wants to suck his dick, too. Well, nobody can have him. He’s mine.
The commissioner begins with boring shit I have zero interest in. Rosaline would eat this up. She loves policies and procedures. I just wanna hack away at a puck.
My eyelids flutter, begging to close. I didn’t sleep last night, and this man’s voice is like a lullaby. Father’s turned just enough to face the commissioner, riveted. On this front, Rosaline takes after him. She’d be the same, taking notes, formulating questions.
I’m doing my best not to fall asleep and not to look at Tate. But all I want to do are those two things. Falling asleep on Tate would be the perfect combination. I want to look. Just one, secret sip of him. He’s playing the I’m-pretending-I’ve-forgotten-who-you-are card anyway. I might as well.
I look up.
Tate’s dark eyes are focused on me.
My insides burn. I bite my lip. I look away first.
Holy shit. Did I just swoon at him? I peek again.
His smirky little smile says yes. Fuck. I’m supposed to glare murder at the asshole, not swoon like some lovesick idiot.
That’s it. No more looking. But I can’t listen to the commissioner talk anymore, I’ll legit fall asleep.
Maybe I can lust over the commissioner just to make Tate jealous.
Would Tate kill someone I was lusting over?
Ugh, he probably would. Though I’ve never seen him kill anyone.
Maybe he’s all talk. My eyes find their way back to him.
He’s still focused on me as if it might be killing him to be so far away from me.
I have to be imagining that. Projecting what I want into the smallest hint of feeling from the unfeeling creature before me.
God, though. I want to hear his gruff voice murmuring dollface in my ear. I will never, ever admit that out loud.
Slut, he mouths. A zing travels straight to my groin. This fucker. Flirting with me in the damn meeting. But I can’t help myself when I’m around him. It’s impossible. As casually as I can, I lick my lips, which roughly translates into, yeah, I’m your slut, VanCourt.
Eventually, we break eye contact as if we’ve come to some mutually formed agreement about it. We probably shouldn’t be staring at each other like we want to fuck in the middle of a conference governance meeting unless we want to be caught.
So, I divert my attention back to the droning commissioner, but there’s a smile on my lips.
I can’t deny it, Tate’s presence makes me feel better.
It’s an unexplainable phenomenon. Unless he’s performing whatever magic spell he’s put on this room on me.
What do I mean, unless? He definitely is. I’m just another one of Tate’s victims.
That’s all you can ever be to Tate, Ryan.
This fucking sucks.
“I’m going to give the floor to Coach VanCourt in just a sec here, but I’m going to make something else official that some of you have already heard rumors about,” the commissioner says. “I’ll be stepping away after this season. That means we’ll be opening submissions for this position next week.”
That sentence is ice-cold water in the face, pulling me from the fun flirting we had going on, back to my stark reality. What phase is become commissioner in Tate’s master plan? I can’t remember, but it’s a core component. I feel Tate’s eyes burning into me, but I don’t look this time.
I know, I know. I promised to talk to my father, and I haven’t.
“Okay, VanCourt. Take it away,” the commissioner says.
The room turns to him, and immediate jealousy seizes me in a way it never has for anyone.
I don’t want them staring at him, eyes mauling him.
I saw the way that chick with the highlights was licking him in her mind.
Cathy. Pretty sure I heard someone call her that.
I’m going to pluck Cathy’s pretty little eyes out if she keeps that shit up.
His ass is mine.
Tate claps his hands together. He doesn’t stand, but he doesn’t need to. He still owns the room. His size is a factor, yes, but it’s more than that. He’s mastered the art of pulling all the energy his way. Even if you hate him, you can’t tear your eyes from him, wondering what he’ll do next.
“I did some numbers on the last six years, we’re losing top-tier talent to other conferences—refer to your booklet for charts and references. We need to refine our strategy for keeping talent.”
Father leans back, considering Tate, but he’s the only one who appears the least bit skeptical. Everyone else is already eating out of his hands.
They’re large hands.
I’ve had nice red prints of those hands on my ass.
“I was blessed with Ace McKinnon,” he says, souring my mood. Fucking Ace McKinnon. It pisses me off how much he idolizes him. “His father went to Shadowridge, and so did his mother. Naturally, Ace followed suit. Isn’t that why Ryan goes to North Point, Henry? Following in your footsteps?”
My heart leaps into my throat. The way he says my name does things to me, things I don’t want happening with my father sitting right next to me.
Father nods. “The Savage family has a long history with North Point.”
“That’s right, so Ryan chose to stay with the Pacific Conference and to play for North Point.”
What the fuck is he doing? Is this his way of taking matters into his own hands? Where is he going with this? He can’t be stupid enough to think he’s going to convince my father at a conference meeting.
“Yes. He’s a legacy like I was,” Father says with pride in his voice that isn’t about me, but about being a legacy himself.
“What if he had done better playing with McKinnon?”
“I would have been happy for McKinnon to come to North Point,” Father says as he shifts in his seat.
The room chuckles.
I cringe.
Father’s uncomfortable. Tate’s making everything worse. I take slow breaths. My brain chants I need air, I need air, I need air, while I fight the urge so that I don’t hyperventilate. Overriding my body’s broken instincts with discipline.
“Just as Shae McKinnon would have been happy for Ryan to come to Shadowridge.”
Father sniffs. Yeah, right. I only got out of North Point in the first place because the NHL came calling.
Father wasn’t happy. Even if my social life hadn’t exploded the way it did, I suspect he would have come for me.
I was the fool who made it convenient for him.
He was getting me to North Point one way or the other.
“Which is my point. Thankfully, Ryan and Ace are in the same conference, but what about the other generational talent locked up in the east and west?”
He makes us sound like we’re just assets, chess pieces to move around. But I’m a little curious as to how he plans to circumvent family loyalty in his little speech.
“We need more scouts who can pitch a sale. That sale would be directed to the players about being their own legacy.”
Is he fucking insane? That’s not going to do anything except for poke the bear—my father being the bear in case that wasn’t clear.
As I predict, Father scowls, opening his mouth, about to say something—
“That’s brilliant, Tate,” the commissioner says as if Tate just saved Christmas.
Wait.
Is that what …?
My mind whirs, trying to catch up to Tate’s. Oh. He’s not trying to impress my father. Doesn’t give a fuck what my father thinks of this proposal, actually. In fact, it’s all the more entertaining for him if Father hates it but is forced to play along.
Because—and I can’t fucking believe this—but the commissioner is one of the good guys. I’d forgotten that good guys exist beyond North Point. Beyond families like mine. It’s not often a guy like the commissioner—now I wish I’d learned his name—makes it to a position of power.
It’s the snakes of the world that get there, every time.
But it’s a bit of a political trap for my father. Not the strongest of traps. But enough to be a nudge of pressure. Apparently, Tate’s not an ass-kisser while he negotiates. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
Father’s mouth snaps shut, his mind having to perform some mental gymnastics for a counterpoint that won’t make him look like he doesn’t care about what the players want.
“Children should choose their own paths—if we can offer something better, they should have the opportunity. Isn’t that right, Ryan?” the commissioner says.
Wait, Ryan? That’s me. I’m not supposed to say anything, but I can’t ignore a direct question from the commissioner. And what am I supposed to do? Tell him the truth? He wouldn’t believe me, and on the slim chance he did, that would put Father in a spot.
Which I’d like to see.
But I’m in no fucking position to do it.
As for Tate, he can’t think I’d help him with this, or does he? This can’t be the moment he expects me to have the conversation with my father. If this is his brilliant plan to get me out of North Point, he’s failed in the proof department.
God fucking damn it. I want to claw my own face off.
I clear my throat. “I’m proud to be in this conference, sir, and I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out.”
“Well, there you have it,” the commissioner says.