18. RYAN
RYAN
December
Irub the place where a ring should be. I can’t stop. My brain tells me it should be there, and when I don’t feel it, I get fucking cagey. Like two weeks ago didn’t happen. Like I’m not Mr. Tate VanCourt.
And, yeah, I know, I know, but let’s be for real. I’m Mr. Tate VanCourt; he’s not Mr. Ryan Savage.
Can you imagine that? Tate Savage. Tate VanSavage. Nope. Doesn’t work.
It might help if the man himself would show his face.
Where are all the audits he was supposed to do so he could be with me?
Watch over me? Or if he’s abandoned that farce, where’s his Mission: Impossible-level rescue of the Savage brothers?
And, no, I’m not a damsel—or whatever the male equivalent of that would be—in distress.
I’ve done my part, paid the price. It’s his turn to do as promised.
I’ve ignored every call from my father until they finally stopped, him wanting all kinds of shit, including more tattoo removal appointments that I’m never going to.
But that only means he’ll show up or do what he usually does, and act through the officers here.
My nerves burn with anxiety on a continuous loop, waiting for him to make his move.
I don’t know what it is, just that it’s coming.
Waiting till Tate becomes commissioner might not be an option anymore. Does he have a fucking pivot for that?
“Get into position, cadets!” Major Carter shouts the order, and we all lower to one knee.
Everyone fucking hates this drill. Same uncomfortable kneeling position for thirty minutes, more if anyone moves.
“Rifles up! Fire!”
We do that about a hundred more times. Nobody wants to be the one to earn more minutes for the squad.
You don’t fidget, you don’t make a sound, you barely breathe until you’re released.
My body shakes, muscles screaming at me to move.
It fucks with my head, too much like my father’s tank.
Just like I do when I’m in it, I breathe carefully, imagining I’m anywhere else.
“Did you really have to add honor and obey to our vows, dickhead?” I murmured in the dark. He’d taken me to his condo, stripped me, and placed me in his bed. I fell asleep for a little while, but woke up to find him still awake, head resting on my chest.
There was a seven-heartbeat pause—it’s Tate’s fault that I count in heartbeats now.
“Yes,” he said. And then he shoved his cock into me again.
“Toes tucked under, Ackerman. That’s another five minutes,” Officer Carter says. We all groan. “Another ten for all the groaning.”
After that, there are burpees, sprints, climbing, and crawling through mud in the freezing cold. When it’s finally time to hit the showers, most of us are ready for bed, but that’s not to be. We still have homework, formation, dinner, more homework, and then we can finally crash.
Shower steam wafts like a lazy cloud of bees as I shampoo my hair, lathering until I can hear the foam between my fingers. I try to put all the focus on everything, but Tate—the frequency of my Tate thoughts is unhealthy. I’m becoming the obsessed one.
Beckett slides into the stall beside me, eying me, turning on the shower, wetting his hair until he can slick it all the way back. He’s barely said two words to me since my impromptu wedding.
“How’s the missus?” he says, clearly meaning me and not Tate.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say. He punches my shoulder, lips hitching into a half smile. “Is that supposed to mean I’m forgiven?”
“I signed the certificate, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, like an asshole.”
“I was worried about you, man. That’s all. But Kane was right, you’re smart enough to make your own decisions.”
“Nah, you were right. Things are bad if I’m marrying a guy like Tate—he’s not a good decision, but he was my only decision.”
Only, it’s moved beyond getting out of here. He’s the only decision, because I can’t imagine not being with him. If I tell Becks that, he’ll think I’ve gone off the deep end. Maybe I have.
His tongue moves behind his teeth as he thinks. “I’ve been helping your brother,” he finally admits.
“What?”
“He doesn’t want me to tell you, he’s gonna be fucking pissed at me, but he’s been struggling.”
“Yeah, no shit. That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing.”
“They’ve been pressuring him to enlist, Rye.”
All the air leaves the room. That misty swarm of happy little bees becomes hornets. “No. That’s not supposed to happen.”
“They are. I don’t know how long it’ll be before they simply ship him off.”
“Verbal communication is essential in the army. Medical won’t approve him,” I say. Becks sucks in a breath. “He’s talking, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
I should be happy about that, but the way they got him to talk was probably horrific. I’m surprised it worked at all.
“It’s still a work in progress, but it’s improved … enough. They expect him to be ready by the end of the year. MEPS is supposed to approve him next week.”
“They’re not even gonna let him finish school?” Becks shakes his head.
“Look, it’ll be fine if we get him out of here. Your man needs to pull his weight. What’s his fucking plan?”
I cannot tell him Tate ghosted me. “He’s got one, okay? I’ll call him today.”
“Well, if that doesn’t pan out, we’ll come up with a plan. I’ve got a little money, we pool mine with yours, and we get out of here.”
“If it were that easy, I’d have done that by now, bro.” Not to mention, Tate would hunt me down. I’m twice as stuck here as I was before. “I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, thanks for looking out for him. I appreciate it.”
Rhys shrugs. “Don’t mention it.”
He returns to washing his hair while I silently fume. Tate better have a good fucking reason for ignoring me.
“What about you, Rye?” he says after a minute.
“What about me?”
“What do you want? Unrelated to Griff and Tate and your father. What does Ryan Savage want to do with his life?”
“Well, uh, I mean, hockey. Obviously.” But my voice strangles on the word hockey.
“You don’t sound so sure.”
He’s right, but it’s complicated. I was ripped out of my dream career after a killer rookie season.
For years all I thought about was going back.
It was the hope I clung to while I survived my father.
It’s so fucked up, but it’s like that old dream is haunted now.
It’s become nothing more than a survival fantasy.
And yet, I still love hockey with all my being.
I want to play, but the thought of returning to the big leagues churns my stomach.
None of it makes sense.
“I don’t think I know what I want,” I admit. “Fuck, I can’t be thinking about this shit anyway. Those factors do exist, and what I want doesn’t matter. So long as I need to protect Griff, hockey will have to come second.”
Rhys huffs, licking his lips. He studies me, tapping his fingers on the shower tiles. “You’re making me fucking sad, dude.”
Yeah, me too.
I punch him in the arm. “Stop asking about sad ass shit then.” I turn off the shower and grab my towel off the hook. “Now, I’m gonna go before Tate finds out your dick was this close to me.”
He rolls his eyes. “We’ve been showering in the same locker room a long time. I already know what your dick looks like. Besides, he’s not here.”
Yeah, but somehow, Tate always seems to know where I am.
I’m real fucking sick of the thumbs-up reaction. I’ve sent Tate several messages.
Call me
Thumbs-up react.
When will I see you?
Thumbs-up react.
What’s the plan, asshole?
Thumbs-up react.
I miss your cock
Thumbs-up react.
I thought that last one would spawn at least a devil-react, but no, nothing.
I roll onto my side, thinking. It’s been two days since I talked to Beckett, and two more days of radio silence from Tate.
Hmmm. I know one way to make him speak to me.
It’s dangerous, but what’s a little more danger at this point?
Me
You haven’t spoken to me in weeks. I’m going to assume that means I can see other people. Plenty of guys around here are dying to have the captain of the hockey team fuck them.
My stomach spins with anticipation. This is the most joy I’ve felt all week—pissing off my possessive as fuck husband. Tingles burst up my nape. This is something Ethan would advise against. But fuck it.
I’m the wind.
Tate
You belong to me. Every fucking inch of you. And I have the marriage certificate to prove it. Whoever you fuck is a dead man. Keep your dick in your pants.
At least he acknowledged that we’re married.
Me
Just my dick? Okay. That leaves my ass. No problem.
He hasn’t answered yet. He’s fuming, isn’t he? I can picture the vein in his forehead throbbing. The way that one stubborn lock of hair falls into his eyes when it thinks he’s angry enough, it can escape from the rest of the carefully brushed pack.
And just in case he’s thinking about not responding:
You know … We could still have this marriage annulled.
My phone rings.
“You’re with me for life, sweetheart. All you can do is run. I will hunt your fucking ass down and drag you home. By any. Means. Necessary.”
He pants as if he’s been running, and my heart rate spikes. Why is that so hot? It should terrify me, but it doesn’t. I can’t even speak.
“You wanted my attention, dollface, you have it. What do you want?”
“What do I want? I seem to recall getting married two and a half weeks ago. I want my fucking husband,” I hiss into the phone. I’m alone, but I have to keep my voice down. He’s making it difficult. I’d love to reach through the phone and strangle him.
“I’ve been busy.” He leaves it unsaid that he’s a hockey coach at Shadowridge, the hockey board, and underground murder hockey coordinator. Okay, yeah, I guess that’s a lot. Great. Now I sound like a needy spouse.
“You don’t have time to text me?” I cringe at my own responses. But, I mean, it’s valid, right?
“Is that what you’d like?” he says in bored tones, as if he can’t wait for this conversation to be done. Guess I really am just another collectable. It was cute when he was hot for me, interested, fucking obsessed with me. Now, it’s devastating.
Oh, God. What kind of egomaniac am I? I loved how obsessed he was with me.
“Don’t break your back over it, but no more thumbs-up reactions or emojis. Vetoed.”
“Vetoed? What’s wrong with a thumbs up?”
“Everyone knows it’s fucking rude.”
“Not me.” Right, I guess the man is more than ten years older than me. It was probably acceptable in his era. It’s probably the only form of react they had on whatever archaic form of messaging app they were using back then. “Which emojis are permitted?”
“I’d prefer words, but I want the heart emoji. Anything that contains a heart is fine—heart eyes, heart kiss, you get the idea.” Yeah, it’s gonna give my heart the wrong idea, but I should get my delusion.
“Alright. Anything else?”
“Yeah, we might need to move up the part of the plan where you get Griff and me out of here.”
“Are you in danger?”
I sigh. “No, I just hate it here.”
“Then we need to wait until the end of the season, when I become commissioner. As planned.”
I hate how cold he sounds. No dollface. Or baby. Anxious panic thrums against my insides. I take a slow breath. Maybe marrying him was a huge mistake. He’s got me now, no need to appease me.
I stare at the empty spot on my finger where a ring should go. “Yeah, fine.”
“Anything else?”
It’s like I’m a chore. A bother. But fuck him. He said anything I wanted. “They’re trying to make Griff enlist. My father scheduled the medical exam for next week.”
“Easy. I’ll take care of it.”
That feeling comes over me again, the one that sets my insides adrift and warms them. My eyes burn with wetness. “Okay.”
That’s enough to get me through another week of not hearing from him.
He keeps his promise to stop using the stupid thumbs-up react, but instead, he doesn’t react at all, and I almost want to take back what I said about that stupid fucking emoji.
My messages go unanswered. A little junk pile of text bubbles.
But when next week comes, the doctor doing Griff’s exam looks suspiciously like Ethan—I don’t want to know what Tate did with the real doctor—and Griff spectacularly fails the exam. Father will send someone else, or North Point will bring someone in, but Tate pulled through, and we have more time.
So, I might be left on read as my fucking heart withers, but this was the sacrifice to keep Griff safe, and I’ll gladly pay.
That doesn’t mean I won’t make my dear husband pay for ignoring me.