4. RYAN #2
I shove the paper back at him. “Nuh-uh. No way. This is rife with disaster. It’s called Sudden Death. That alone should deter you.” Beckett’s still smiling, though. That’s not right. “You don’t just want the money, you like the idea of this.”
He shrugs. “It’s what we do in practice anyway. Just, y’know, a step further.”
I snatch the paper from him. “… games can and will result in death,” I read for him. “This is … it’s fight club for hockey players. Murder hockey. The practices we have might be bad, but no one’s ever died.”
“That we know of,” he says.
“What are you doing walking around with a paper like that? You should burn it, Becks.”
“Relax. They don’t hand them out at the local supermarket. Someone gave it to me. Come on, just consider it. The payout per game is twenty thousand each.”
“If we win.”
“We’ll win.”
“That’s not much for your life,” I hiss.
“We sign up for however many games we want. We do five games this season, and it’ll be the easiest one hundred thousand we’ll ever make,” he says, licking his lips, tasting the blood on his broken bottom half. “Cash.”
I could do a lot with one hundred thousand. Start a business, invest … it would be enough to start a new life under usual circumstances, but it’s not enough to get away from my father, so what’s the point?
“I already talked to the others. They’re in if you are.”
“Why does it boil down to me?”
“We stick together. You know that. Besides, we need our captain on the ice.”
We continue to dress in silence. I do up the choking collar, and even though the material is lightweight, heaviness settles over me. I move faster, since we have to get to formation, which better fucking go quickly because I’m about to eat my hand.
Becks nudges me with his massive shoulder. “Think about it, okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll think about it,” I say, even though there’s nothing to think about. It’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. Hard fucking pass. If I were caught playing in an illegal underground hockey ring, dying on the ice during a game would be a saving grace.
No amount of money is worth that kind of risk.
Standing at attention after practice is a torture all its own.
The whole school gathered on the parade ground while the officers walk through the ranks, making sure our uniforms are perfect—no slouching, no talking.
It takes them thirty fucking minutes, and then we’re blessedly released for breakfast.
My stomach is eating itself at this point.
The hockey team sits together in the mess hall.
Even if we didn’t want to, it’s our assigned seating.
Many of us began our first year together last season, and we formed a tight bond.
But today, I’m less interested in my hockey brethren, looking out for Griff as soon as I enter.
The plebes set up the mess hall for meals. He should be here.
But he isn’t. I can pick Griff’s red head out in a mob.
Instead, it’s Torin’s and Gideon’s brothers, running toward me.
“Sir! Sir! Mr. Savage, sir!” Torin’s younger brother … Scout, I think it was, shouts too loudly.
That’s going to get the kind of attention we don’t want if I don’t get him to cool it. The officers expect the upperclassmen to handle the lower-level cadets, but they’ll step in if necessary. It’s good to see some of their Block training sunk in. At least they know how to address an upperclassman.
I know why they’re tossing the rest of their training—Griff. They just want to tell me about him, and that’s all I want, too. But it won’t end well if we attract the wrong attention.
“Plebes. Slow down.”
“Uh, sir, sorry, sir,” the other one says.
I let out a huff, curling my fingers into fists. All this protocol is fucking ridiculous. I want to get to Griffon.
“Address properly, cadet.”
The pair snap to attention, their leather boots click together. “Sir, Plebe Ackerman reports an, uh, injury?” he states as a question, “involving Cadet G. Savage, sir.”
“Understood. Thank you, Plebe Ackerman.” God fucking dammit. “Where is he?”
“Infirmary,” he says. I raise an eyebrow. He sighs. Yeah, protocol is shit, but it must be done. “Sir, infirmary, sir.”
“Eat your breakfast, freshies.” My stomach growls. I take a long look at the table filled with trays of scrambled eggs, breakfast sausages, pancakes, and more. Fuck, the smell of butter and onions alone has my mouth watering. At least we eat good here.
I book it over to Captain Grady, the mess hall officer who’s least likely to be a dick about allowing me to leave.
“Sir, request permission to be excused, sir,” I say, straightening my posture, chest out.
His gaze rakes up and down. “Have you eaten, cadet?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Then sit. Eat.”
I lick behind my teeth. Stay calm, Ryan. Stay, fucking calm. My brain scrambles to find the right words that won’t get me sent to detention. I can’t help Griff in detention.
“Sir, my brother’s in the medical bay.”
“I know where your brother is, cadet. I assure you, he’s being well looked after.”
I’ll be the fucking judge of that. I don’t say it out loud, but my grinding teeth say it for me.
His lips are in a firm line on his face. “You’re the hockey captain, you’ve just come from practice, you need to eat, cadet.”
Do I look like I’m about to pass out? Probably, but I’ve got some protein bars in my bag that’ll tide me over till lunch.
Just another reason I hate this place—they’re fucking sticklers for routine, mealtimes, and lights out.
I don’t mistake his instructions for care; they’re for keeping one of their star athletes well-fueled and in line.
“Sir, I—”
“It’s not your job to look after him. It’s our job. Sit. Eat.”
Like fuck it’s not my job.
“Dismissed,” he says.
My exit isn’t graceful, but he doesn’t call me on it like any other officer would, letting me storm back to the hockey table.
Pulling out my chair, I drop onto it, glaring at my empty plate.
Ackerman smirks, taking my plate, piling eggs and sausage onto it, which is fucking annoying.
Becks analyzes me, and I can read his mind. You ready for my plan yet?
No, I’m fucking not.
Gideon pours me some juice and leans back to enjoy the show.
Shadows cling naturally to his eyes as though someone smudged charcoal beneath them, sharpening an already predatory stare.
He thinks I’m gonna lose it. Last year, I would have.
This year I can’t. Father finally got his fucking wish.
If he wanted to reel me in, he should have done this with Griff sooner.
Kane saunters in late—that’s going to be five demerits for him—turns a chair backwards and sits, loosening his tie. That’s another two demerits. He’s going to get suspended from the team, and I need his ass. I turn my ire toward him, hoping he’ll catch my drift. I’m not in the mood to chastise him.
He’s not just a friend; he’s my cousin on my mother’s side. My mom was a King.
“Relax, captain.” He plucks a greasy sausage from the tray with his fingers, tilting his head back to drop it in his mouth, chewing like a damn cow. “What did I miss?” He talks with his mouth full.
“Our fearless captain got told to sit down and eat, and then he waltzed right back here, obeying like a good boy,” Torin says. “I’m not sure it’s him.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill you, Ackerman,” I promise.
“Ouch. After I plated food for you.” He grabs one of the breakfast sandwiches. What’s everyone got against cutlery today?
Becks eats with his hands too, smiling, waiting for me to break. Asshole. I use my fork as a form of protest. Maybe they can learn some manners from me.
“Did you tell him about the hockey fight club?” Kane says, grabbing another sausage.
“Shut the fuck up, dumbass. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Becks growls.
Kane shrugs, finally using a napkin. “You said you needed money. I thought you’d be all over that shit.”
I turn my rage on Gideon and Torin, the rats who told everyone my business. But Beckett and Gideon are cousins, and Gideon and Torin aren’t related, but they’re as close as brothers. Apparently, that’s all it takes to turn a bunch of grown men into a fucking hen house.
“Oh, c’mon. You’re not mad at us, are you?” Torin says. “They were gonna find out.”
“We’re not talking about this here. Eat, or I’m telling Coach to bench all of you.” I keep eating, hellbent on shoveling enough food down to satisfy Captain Grady, and maybe get to my brother.
One of the higher-ranking officers, Major Carter, marches up to our table. He’s also the TAC officer for my company. “Cadet King.”
Kane looks up, in no rush to be told off, meeting the officer’s eyes with an expression that’s politely curious instead of the fear he should have. Major Carter is the fuck around and find out officer, a major fucking dick.
“Sir?”
Major Carter’s gaze takes in the backwards chair, his forearms draped over the back, his loosened tie, and everyone eating with their fucking hands.
“Unacceptable. Chair forward and fix your tie. The cutlery is not a suggestion, gentlemen.”
Kane’s in no rush, his chair sliding against the wooden floor, standing slowly, his demeanor fixed on Major Carter. He makes a show of fixing his tie and then spinning the chair around.
“Come with me,” Major Carter says.
“Oh, c’mon. I did what you said,” Kane says.
“Now, cadet.”
He turns, expecting to be followed. Kane makes a dick-sucking motion with his fist, poking his tongue into the inside of his cheek, smirking.
“He wouldn’t actually … would he?” Gideon says.
“Dunno,” Becks says.
Torin twirls his finger by his temple. “Love the dude, but he’s got more than a few screws loose. I say he would.”
I say so, too, but I keep that to myself. I don’t want to think about what Kane’s been through to make him like how he is. He acts like a crazy fucker, but I see him. His crazy keeps the demons at bay.
“But he has a point,” Gideon says. “I wanna do it.”
“Not you, too. I was counting on you, Gid.” I sigh.
“Then let us,” Torin says.