4. RYAN
RYAN
Mid-September
My lungs burn, and my body wants to retch, but I fight it down.
The stink of puke from the benches, from teammates who’ve already tossed their cookies, doesn’t help.
I wait for the whistle that never comes, a reflex leftover from what I’d come to expect from normal practices, normal coaches.
Even the NHL wasn’t like this. North Point, in general, is its own caliber of Hell.
North Point hockey is next-level torture.
“Do you want to continue to play hockey, Ryan?” Father said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then this is where you play. How you play.”
He knows all about what they do to you here; he was treated the same. He’s even on the MVP alumni wall. He was also at the top of his class while he was here. Grandfather would have expected no less.
So, this is where I play. No mercy. Next to no humanity. The drill just … keeps going. Full ice. Blue line to red, red to far blue, pivot, back again. Over and over. I want to die.
“Again,” Coach Bruce barks.
“Sir, yes, sir,” the team says in unison.
Coach Bruce has officer status, and we’re to respect him as such.
He watches like a stone sentinel from the sidelines, gaze always cold and analytical, making notes on his clipboard.
It’s fucking nerve-racking, because one of those notes could be for you.
Getting reamed out in front of everyone is a given, and it could escalate to punishment, but get enough notes that he deems you uncoachable, and your parents get brought in.
No one on this hockey team wants their parents called.
I find what’s left of my fortitude and skate. I skate as if my life depends on it, because it does. Because of Griffon. Father can’t come here any more than he already will. I need to keep him away from Griffon.
I was worried Griff wouldn’t pass the psych evaluation before he left the hospital, because there was no fucking way I was leaving without him after what happened.
But somehow, I forgot, Father dips his hands in everything.
With enough pressure and the assurance that Griffon would get the best outpatient care money could buy, the hospital’s psychiatrist signed off without blinking.
My father is way too fucking charming when he wants to be.
Know who else was charming? Ted Bundy.
But at least it means Griff will see someone twice a week. They’ll come right to the school. It was a terrible situation with the best possible outcome. Otherwise, I don’t think Father would have pushed for the therapy.
Griffon was still expected to attend the Plebe Block training program as all first years are.
Father thought it would be good for him.
No, he did not consult with professionals.
At North Point, it works differently from other military colleges.
It’s three weeks, beginning a week before the first semester.
I understand why it’s impossible to skip Plebe Block if you want to survive your first month at North Point without earning a thousand demerits—I went through it in my first year—but they should have let me go with him.
The plebes, sometimes referred to as freshies, return today, hence why we have a few on the ice.
Worrying about Griff will have to wait until after practice, if I make it.
It’s a bit like rising out of my body, sequestering the pain that’s threatening to buckle my dying legs into a box in my mind until it’s background noise.
When I want to collapse on the ice, I think of Griffon in that fucking bathtub, the Shadowridge U hoodie soaked with blood.
My strides keep their edge, and the chill air ices my airways, even as sweat dampens the inside of my gear.
Someone behind me retches, my stomach lurches, but I don’t stop.
The weighted vests come out for the scrimmage. Specially tailored to slip right over hockey gear. I want to hurl myself off a cliff. But I pick it up and slip it over my head without a word or a groan.
“Losers do five minutes of laps after practice,” Coach says. “Anyone stops, and we start over.”
Normally, five minutes of laps are a breeze, but after our practices, no one wants to lift a finger, let alone skate laps.
It turns violent fast. Sticks slashing at ankles, pummeling each other into the boards harder and dirtier than we’d dare in a game—we’d be suspended.
But it’s what Coach wants to see. We have to give him enough blood on the ice to satisfy him.
One of our defensemen sends me flying across the ice, and the air leaves my lungs too fast. Motherfucker.
Once I’m recovered, I go after him, grabbing his jersey from behind, slamming his helmeted face into the glass.
All is forgotten after practice, but during it’s expected you do what you need to. Winning is all that matters.
My hands start to shake, and my legs wobble, fresh out of glycogen. I fumble a pass I could make in my sleep, but Gideon catches it anyway. Barely. We’re all out of fuel. My arms might fall off at this point, failing to obey my simple commands.
Blood.
Shadowridge U hoodie.
Griffon.
I push.
The rink is a silent symphony of skate blades carving ice, the breath of grueling work, and the crack of the puck against sticks, but no words.
No cajoling, or jokes, or even any chirping.
A stark difference from every other team I’ve ever played on.
Not because we don’t want to, but because it’s not allowed.
Finally, it’s over, and thank fuck my team wins. But it doesn’t matter for Rhys Beckett, our goalie, or for me. I’m the captain; I stay regardless. All winning means for me is that Coach doesn’t question my place on the team.
I catch a couple of freshmen crying. Cage helmets hide a lot, but I’m looking for it. The coaching staff’s gonna eat them alive if they keep that shit up. All I can do is give them advice on surviving that they’re not gonna like.
“C’mon, freshie,” I say to the smaller one. “You’re gonna skate with me.”
He stands taller. “Yes, sir.”
His name’s Read Clark. He’s not from any of the families I know. No fucking clue what he’s doing at North Point. Most of us were sent here by our parents because, to them, each of us was a problem that needed to be shown its place. The people who come here electively have to be a bit insane.
Rhys takes the other freshie, dwarfing the guy.
I’m large, but Rhys is extra-large, a stifling six feet eight inches.
Most goalies I’ve played with are a little eccentric, and Rhys fits that bill, but it’s not the I-talk-to-my-goalposts or knit-hats-for-the-team kind of eccentric.
More like the collects-the-teeth-of-his-enemies kind of eccentric.
Not that I have proof of that, but it’s the vibe.
Even I don’t fuck with Rhys. It’s a good thing we’re hockey brothers and best friends.
I do a quick scan of the rest of my team before I get this skate over with. Bloodied knuckles and distant stares. Barely resisting the urge to keel over where Coach can see them. Not good.
We need to get our shit together.
Fast.
The locker room’s empty by the time I’m done in the shower.
My fresh military college uniform hangs, ready for me, my throat already choking at the thought of that restrictive collar.
I hate everything about the uniform—the way it controls my posture, forcing my shoulders back, reminds me too much of that damn straitjacket.
Add to that the worry about creasing, and the demerits I’ll earn if an officer notices.
I cast a glare at the boots—those fucking boots.
No matter how much I wear them, they always give me blisters.
“Never gets easier to put it on,” a voice says.
I jump.
Rhys Beckett’s there, looming near his cubby in nothing but a towel and his shower sandals.
I shake my head with a grunt, sliding the long-sleeved button-up shirt off the hanger.
At least hockey players get some special privileges.
Like growing our hair out past regulation length.
I had to shave it off my first year on reception day, but I was allowed to grow it out.
There’s still a standard, and Coach will get on your ass if he thinks it’s too long, but so far, Beckett’s managed to get his to chin length.
He’s our star goalie, and I suspect that’s rewarded.
It’s also something that can be taken away if he steps out of line.
I think his undercut saves him. When he ties the long pieces back for class, he looks regulation, and Coach rarely sees it under his helmet.
“Something on your mind, Becks?”
He smiles, something devilish playing in his dark eyes. “Rumor has it you might be interested in making some money this year.”
It’s not a question. Fucking Ackerman. But that’s what I get for telling Torin anything.
I didn’t have much of a choice, though. No matter how hard I tried, the college wouldn’t let me attend The Block with Griff.
I needed friends, aka spies, to watch over my brother.
My only options were Torin and Gideon’s younger brothers.
“I heard your brother—” he starts.
“Don’t fucking talk about my brother.”
Beckett holds up his hands. “Whoa. Okay, man. Respect. I was just gonna say, I’ll look out for him, too.”
I slide into my boxers and then my navy trousers, tucking my shirt in. I’m still not used to needing help. Once upon a time, I ruled everything.
“And I appreciate it,” I force myself to say. “But I can look after him myself.”
Yeah, not remotely true, but maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll come true.
“Anyway, I need money, too, and I came across an opportunity. But unfortunately for me, I need you other four yahoos.”
He pulls something out of his goalie helmet, unfolding it before handing it to me. I scan it, then narrow my eyes, reading it again.