13. RYAN
RYAN
Late October
It appeared in my room. A long box with a lone black rose inside it.
I should have cut it into pieces, burned it.
Instead, I fell asleep with it on my chest, which I don’t recommend.
I ended up with thorn marks across my right forearm—Tate biting into me from afar.
I also should have been pissed, but I was relieved.
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, telling him I don’t need him, telling him to stay the fuck away from me, I regretted them.
I don’t want Tate gone. Ever. Even if being my dark protector—and warden—is all he ever is.
I can’t have it all. Love, in any form, isn’t in the cards for me.
Not from Father, not a lover, maybe not even from Griff anymore.
Speaking of Griff, he’s way over there, sitting at a table with Rowan, who’s supposed to be sitting with the hockey team. But guess when your dad’s an officer, you get preferential treatment. It’s not something I’m going to complain about. If Rowan comes anywhere near me, he’s losing his teeth.
Becks sits his large ass down beside me, his hair pulled back, scalp in full view. “So? Thanksgiving weekend?”
It’s reserved for family and gratefulness.
I have neither of those at the moment. No, I haven’t forgotten about Rosaline, but even she’s been silent this term.
Pretty sure it’s because she’s seeing someone and she doesn’t want her overprotective big brother to know about it.
Lucky for her, I’m self-involved for the foreseeable future.
“Or will your boyfriend still not let you play?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” And I mean it. If Tate wants to own me and call that the whole relationship, he doesn’t get to put a cute little label on it. I was stupid enough to try it out and look how that ended up. Beckett raises a brow. “We fuck. That’s it.”
“Whatever you want to call it. Your situationship, then. We could really use you. We almost got our asses kicked last game.”
They don’t win; they don’t get the money. Because on top of everything else, there’s that, too—my friends. If I marry Tate, I don’t need the money anymore, but they do for … well, I don’t know. Not my business unless they make it my business, but I trust that it’s important.
I’ve always been there for them, and they’ve always been there for me. Fuck Tate for ruining that with all his rules. If they need me, I’m showing up. End of story. I’m my own goddamn person, and I decide what I fucking do.
“I’ll play,” I tell him.
“Did I just hear you say you’re playing?” Kane reaches over my shoulder to pluck a sausage from the tray. “Won’t your not-boyfriend chain you up or something? Yeah, I heard the ‘he’s not my boyfriend’ comment. I vote he is, though.”
Kane takes a seat beside me, chewing loudly, generally causing a ruckus as he scoops way too much food on his plate.
I glare. Maybe I should punch him in the throat. “Not a fucking vote, Kane.”
“Easy, Savage. Kane has a point, as much as I hate to admit it. We’ll have to sneak you in. That one skinny dude’s fucking scary,” Becks says.
Gideon shudders. “Ethan. I swear he’s a witch or something. The way he stared into my soul, like he was gonna eat it.”
“Ethan’s not scary,” I say. I mean, maybe a little bit, but soul-eating? Their imaginations are next level. It’s kinda hilarious he scares Becks, though.
“I’ll flirt with him as a distraction,” Torin offers. We all spin our heads. Because, yeah, we call him the pretty one, but his feminine lashes and masculine jaw combo will only get him so far with Ethan, who tames Tate’s roughest guards. He shrugs. “I like a little danger.”
“Suit yourself,” Kane says. “I don’t think he’s a witch, though. Vampire, maybe.”
I’m still pissed at Tate. The rose helped, but it’ll die, and then what? Why would he get me something I’ll lose? He still hasn’t called or texted. But despite all that, thinking about telling him what my friends think of his terrifying assistant makes my lips twitch at the corners.
“I think you’re a bit insane for testing the big guy, Rye—and that’s coming from me,” Kane says while stuffing his face. “But I need the money, so I’m all for putting your ass on the line.”
“I’m not scared of Tate.” I also happen to know that Tate is going to his brother’s place for Thanksgiving.
Our weekend college hockey roster consists of home games with the Black Knights from Pacific Air Force Academy and the Tacoma Lightning.
The locker room’s a cacophony of chaos and hollering, because Coach hasn’t entered yet.
There’s already sweat and the usual locker room dampness in the air despite the wide air-circulating fans whirring in the background.
“Motherfucker,” Gideon’s deep voice hisses from beside me. He scrabbles to pick up what fell out of his cubby. I bend down to help. “No, don’t—”
“What the fuck?” I think what I’m looking at is a long lock of hair.
Fire-red hair. There’s only one person I know with hair like that, and I’d know it fucking anywhere.
Before rational thought can reach my brain, I have Gideon slammed against his cubby, head leaning back, jersey pulled tight enough to choke.
“Why the fuck do you have a lock of my brother’s hair?
“Not … your brother’s,” he chokes out.
Torin steps forward to one side of us and Rhys to the other, but they don’t step in.
My hands itch to punch Gideon in the face, but my lizard brain finally diverts to my intelligent one.
Griff’s hair’s never been that long, ever.
It’s one of the few things he wouldn’t do for Mom.
She wanted him to grow it out so bad, but he was acutely aware of looking too “feminine” because of Father.
I suspect he always left it long on top for her, but that lock Gid has is ponytail-manbun worthy.
“Sorry, man. My bad.”
He shakes his head. “No need to apologize,” Gideon rasps once I release his throat. “I’d have done the same.” Gideon glares, but it’s not for me; his gaze lands in Rhys’s direction. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Gid must be thinking about something that’s pissing him off.
“We’ll talk later,” I promise him.
But the drama doesn’t end there.
Kane and the Black Knights captain, Magnus Blackwood, are at each other’s throats.
That results in all of us in the penalty box at one time or another, defending his ass.
I’ve got blood on my face and a yet-to-be-determined number of bruises forming, which I at least try to avoid, because it pisses Tate off.
No, we don’t care about that anymore, remember? We told him never to contact us again, and he listened.
Do I believe that? Not really. He’s probably planning to abduct me or something else psychotic. That brings some kinda warmth to my chest in this cold-ass penalty box. Well fuck me. I’m looking forward to his next obsessive display of affection.
But it doesn’t change the fact that I should play in that Thanksgiving game to help my friends. Unless Tate wants to support all of them … I mean, he did say anything I wanted.
No, I’ve got to do some shit myself. I’m going onto that ice, and Tate can suck it up. Plus, he deserves it for being such a dick. I can’t let him back in easily. The rose was endearing, but it’s not enough.
I nudge Kane beside me. “Why are you trying to kill Blackwood?”
“Because he exists.”
That’s all I’m getting out of him. He glares at the ice, trying to set it on fire. I’d tell him that was impossible, but don’t think he cares right now.
My blades cut the ice as I leave the penalty box. I skate up ice in time to sweetly accept a pass from Gideon.
Savage shoots, he scores! The puck slides right through the goalie’s pads just before he closes them.
Kane collides with Blackwood, thankfully after I’ve scored.
He rips his helmet off, cracking his face with his knuckles over and over.
It’s kind of a feat considering the size of Blackwood.
A tooth skitters across the ice before the refs pull them apart. Kane’s ejected from the game.
Probably for the better, cuz.
But I always have his back, so I take over riding Blackwood’s toothless ass on Kane’s behalf. I illegally slash his ankles when the refs aren’t looking. Enough to trip him up without actually tripping him. He fumbles the puck a lot, and it pisses him off.
“Careful, Savage, or I’m gonna think you’re sweet on me,” Magnus says before we face off.
Sweet on him? Yeah, no chance of that. For some fucking annoying reason, Tate’s breath ghosts my ear, and I shiver. Yeah, from his imaginary breath. Because I’m still on the ice, and he’s not here.
The puck drops, his blade snags it before I ever move my stick. I shake my head, going after him. But fuck. His chirping rattled me for the wrong reason. Not because I’m worried anyone will think I’m sweet on Blackwood. The truth is far more fucking disturbing.
I might be sweet on Tate. God fucking dammit.
Catching up to him, I slam him into the boards, take possession of the puck, and pass up to Torin. He takes a shot at the net, but it hits the post.
At least my goal from out of the penalty box wins us the game, but we’ll probably still hear it from Coach.
Gideon’s eyes are wild. Something truly unhinged.
Whatever he’s got in that box, he doesn’t want to show me.
I usually leave my friends to their business but seeing that lock of hair’s still throwing me.
There aren’t a lot of redheads at North Point, and the only one with hair that shade of red I know of is Griff. I need it to make fucking sense.
There’s something defensive in his demeanor, as if maybe he thinks once I know what he’s gonna tell me, I’ll attack him again.
It’s just us in his room. The others took advantage of postgame celebrations. I made Gideon stay back with me because this shit needs to get sorted out now. But maybe I should have had at least Becks stay with us. What if Gid tells me something that royally pisses me off?