10. RYAN #3
My thoughts tumble and tangle in my mind as my stomach does somersaults.
Father still hasn’t said a word, and no way am I looking in his direction.
The other board members fire questions at Tate.
He uses fucking McKinnon as his example for everything, quoting all the media attention Shadowridge has gotten because of him, and how their fundraising efforts this year were off to a brilliant start because, you guessed it, McKinnon.
“Wasn’t McKinnon involved in some sort of a scandal recently?” Father finally says.
“Scandal? No, nothing that serious,” Tate says. “It was a simple case of usual frat boy antics, and a bored student journalist.”
Father purses his lips.
There are another twenty minutes of questions for Tate, which he volleys and blitzes through like a racehorse to the finish line. But he couldn’t have missed that none of those questions came from my father, who’s been silently seething through all of it.
“If there are no other questions for Tate, I think we can move on to player safety,” James—finally caught the commissioner’s name in all that—says. He and Tate are on a first-name basis.
“Actually, I have a question,” Tate says. “More of a proposal, I guess. It’s for Henry.”
Father grits his teeth.
I close my eyes and draw a breath before opening them again. Don’t say anything stupid, VanCourt.
“McKinnon is unprecedented. So many teams want him, the media’s on tenterhooks waiting to hear who he’ll play for.
If Ryan came to Shadowridge, even just for one term, the attention we’d generate in a multitude of ways would spill over to the whole Pacific Conference.
I know how much your legacy means to you, but this would have a real impact. ”
Like that. Don’t say anything stupid like that. The need to facepalm is almost insurmountable.
James clears his throat. “Shouldn’t that question be for Ryan?”
Tate chuckles. It’s fake as hell, but I seem to be the only one who isn’t fooled by his faux charm.
“How ignorant of me. My apologies, Ryan. I’m used to speaking to your father at these meetings. But you’re an adult. You make your own decisions,” Tate says.
No, I don’t. He knows that much. Unless … is this his way of testing me? Seeing if I’ll make a loyal husband? If it is, fuck him. I don’t have loyalty to him. We fucked around a few times, and yes, I’m stupidly attracted to him, but this is my fucking life he’s playing with.
He doesn’t get it.
No matter what I have to do, even if Griff’s not communicating with me anymore, where Griff goes, I go. If he’s at North Point, I stay at North Point.
“I’m afraid you’re too late, Coach VanCourt. My family’s already gotten to me. I’m loyal to them for life.”
Tate’s face doesn’t give away anything. Did I say what he expected I would, or not? He smiles. It’s his fake I’m-coach-of-the-year-smile. I wanna rip it off his face. Then he shrugs. “Well, we won’t get ’em all, James, but we’ll get more than if we don’t try.”
Tate does a brief talk about player safety, securing permission from the commissioner to hold audits as he sees fit.
I stew, hating Tate, wanting Tate. Hating that I want Tate.
The meeting ends with Father excusing himself, hoping to get a few private moments with the commissioner.
Tate leaves without a word or a look. I get that he can’t exactly kiss me goodbye, but a text would have been nice.
Whatever.
Father will be a while, so I’ll find the restroom. The hallway is empty, but the windows shake, a storm rumbling outside. I relate to the storm, letting the noise fuel my rage. I think … fuck, I think a small part of me was beginning to trust him. Or more like, beginning to hope I could trust him.
It’s clear that I need help. That I can’t get Griff or me out on my own. My family’s reach is too big. But the only person willing to help me is Tate. A monster to fend off the other monsters. With no promise that once he has me, he won’t release his monster on me.
A hand covers my mouth before I can scream.
The storm muffles the sounds of my dragging feet, dress shoes scuffling along the marble floor, but no one’s around to save me.
What a fucking metaphor for my life. And whatever man posing as a human metal cage is goddamn impenetrable.
At my size and strength, I should be able to at least—
Oh, wait, it’s Tate, isn’t it?
Motherfucker. I don’t stop fighting, twisting, or trying to inflict damage. Do they grow VanCourts in labs? Because what the actual fuck? My feet hit carpet as we pass a doorframe. I kick my head back and—crunch! My skull cracks his nose.
He releases me, and I spin in time to catch him wiping blood from his upper lip, smiling, almost proud. Okay, I thought I did a lot more damage, but even his nose is more resistant than everyone else’s. Maybe Tate’s not human.
“You think you’re so smart. Manipulating everyone. Making them eat out of your hand. This is a fucking circus to you. My life is a fucking circus to you.”
He shrugs out of his suit jacket, shutting the door. Locking it. Then he turns, dark eyes cool, movements slow and calculated like the predator he is. My heart races.
“I’m more than smart, dollface.” Tate does that thing he does, trailing his gaze over me, as if he’s taking stock, making sure his property’s still in the condition he left it in.
He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, crisply rolling them up.
Why’s that so damn hot? “You were distracting in there. Could barely keep my eyes off you.”
“You used me as a pawn, asshole.” My hands meet his chest; I push him toward the wall.
We’re in someone’s office. Just like the theme in the boardroom, there are more monochrome tones—wooden shelves, a mahogany desk, even a tall wooden grandfather clock—but there are rows upon rows of books, and a large set of windows behind the desk, the gray daylight flattening the room into something colder.
My mighty shove only sends him a step back, but I advance on him, shoving some more. This time, he hits the wall, bookshelves rattling. But he let me do that, didn’t he? Purposely not holding his ground. A way of waving a flag of surrender.
“You used me. We’re all your toys, and you use us to your design.” I can’t believe how much that hurts. How it rips into what’s left of my tattered heart and drains what blood it has left. Tate’s breath hitches. “Is this turning you on?”
Tate reaches for my tie, circling it around his fist, using it to draw me to him. My breathing’s ragged, blood filling my cock. Guess not even being furious with Tate will stop that from happening. My cock’s an asshole, too.
“Of course, it turns me on. I use people to my design, it’s always been that way, but dollface, you should know by now, my only toy is you. I couldn’t give a fuck about the rest of them.”
“Is that supposed to be sweet?”
“It’s what’s true,” he says, staring at me as if he’s captivated. “And I definitely plan on using you, but in a very different way than I use them.”
A shudder knocks against my bones, and the rest of the world falls away. Like all the other times, I want Tate to consume me. Make me forget where I am. Who I am. Take all my responsibilities away.
No. No. I can’t let him do that this time.
But he’s too close. He smells too good, like spicy cologne and sweat. I want to feel his sweat against mine and lick it away.
“Say one more fucking word like that, and I’ll break your face,” I growl, slamming him harder into the wall, a forearm braced across his chest. Our lips are close. Breathing the same air.
“I love our foreplay.” Tate lets out a breathy exhale, body stiff, coiled like a spring waiting to be released. “If you must, dollface. God, you’re beautiful.”
He pushes the hair off my face.
“Tate.” My voice strangles. Because he makes it hard to hate him, to stay furious with him. I don’t want to be like the people of the board, or his coworkers, or fucking McKinnon. I want to be able to resist him.
“For the record, I wasn’t treating you like a pawn. Never. I mean, there’s a good chance my brother thinks I am after a conversation I had with him, and I’m sure it looked that way to your father, but you’re clearly a weapon.”
Tate makes me feel like something when he says shit like that. Like I’m not worthless, and that’s the real danger here. I can’t start believing him. Pride has no place in my father’s prison.
“You can’t think this was going to win my father over. There’s no way I can ask him now.”
He tightens his grip on my tie, the closeness of his lips more a threat than seduction. “You never were.”
It’s an accusation, and that pisses me off. I tried to get him to understand without telling all, something we agreed neither of us had to do, but he wouldn’t listen.
“You don’t get it, Tate,” I snap. “I can’t ask my father, and it’s not because he’s stubborn; it’s because he doesn’t want me to have a life. I’m his prisoner. I do what he tells me to do, and I don’t ask for shit.”
My chest heaves as if I’ve been sprinting. I hate having to admit that out loud. When I don’t think about it, when I focus on other things, I can pretend it’s not happening. My heart races as he stares into my soul.
“What do you mean you’re his prisoner?” he says in a slow, deadly voice.
I grit my teeth. Fuck. What I wouldn’t give to take the words back. But they’re out there; I said them. He knows. Who says I have to give him the details?
“None of your goddamn fucking business, asshole.”
Tate snarls, yanking on my tie. His eyes darken and glitter with all the danger of a feral wolf. But he can be as scary as he wants to, I’m not saying shit.
“Fine,” he says, getting the message. “But your father’s on my list now, Ryan. It’s a list no one wants to be on.”
I shiver, the cold wind of Tate’s malice funneling through me.
“I did work my ass off to get my father to let Griffon go to Shadowridge. He said no.” Which is putting it mildly, but there’s no way I’m launching into that story now or ever.