23. RYAN #2
What the fuck? Where’s Dylan? He’s usually here on a Friday night—one of our fellow upperclassmen.
Someone who’s not too particular about interrogating us as long as we sign out through the digital logbook.
A rock sinks to the pit of my stomach as the NCO comes into view.
I’ve never seen him before, so he may not even know who we are.
Not all of them are sticklers, but he looks like a stickler with his military fade and ramrod posture.
Something tells me he’s not gonna be as lenient.
None of us is in uniform. We’re the hockey team after a victory, why would we be?
But don’t think he gets that, if his frown is anything to go by.
Our laughter comes to a halt as he rakes disapproving eyes up and down all of us.
I adjust my posture without thinking. Not a full ceremony snap to attention, but I stand taller, squaring my shoulders. All of us do, except Kane.
“Where are you headed, cadets?”
“The wind-up for the hockey team, sir,” I say. “It ends at zero hundred hours.”
He nods. Shocking. I thought it would be a lot harder than that. “Go ahead and sign out then.”
We release a collective exhale, and Torin goes first, typing his name into the iPad. Gideon is next. Rhys. Then me.
“Looks like you have a restriction, cadet,” Sergeant Stick-Up-His-Ass says.
“What? That’s impossible.” But he’s right. It’s there in red.
Status: Restricted.
Yeah, I had detention, but they usually tell you if you’re also restricted.
“Any chance you know why?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll have to take it up with your TAC officer. But you’re not leaving until this is cleared up.”
My TAC officer is Carter, who hates me right now.
But I’m the hockey captain is on the tip of my tongue. He’s sooo not gonna give a shit.
“We don’t need to go,” Becks says.
“Yes, you do. Go. I’ll get this figured out.”
Becks is a fucking mother hen sometimes. He doesn’t want to go without me.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “I’ll … catch up on correspondence.” That’s code for have phone sex with Tate. “I mean it. Have a beer for me.”
He nods.
“Wait,” Kane says. “I haven’t signed out yet. Maybe it has to do with our detention.”
But when Kane signs in, he’s free. I’m the only one trapped in this hellhole.
“Are you sure?” Becks asks again.
“I’m sure.”
I finally convince them to leave, but the further away they get, the tighter an invisible pressure cinches around my torso, reminding me a lot of that fucking straitjacket.
Imarch down to Officer Carter’s office. I doubt he’ll see me, he’s probably gone to bed, but the least he can do is let me know what the restriction is and who put it there.
“Come in.”
Okay, another little plot twist tonight. I head inside, too aware that I’m not in uniform.
“Cadet R. Savage, can I help you?”
“I was on my way out tonight after the hockey game, sir, but there’s a restriction on my name. Any chance you’d tell me why?”
His forehead creases. “I didn’t put a restriction on your account. I’ll take a look.”
“You will, sir?”
“Yes. Have a seat if you like.”
“I’m alright standing, sir.”
Wow, this is almost nice for him. Is it possible he feels bad for being a dick? Maybe he just actually loves this college that much, and this Tate thing has him scared.
“Hmmm, yes. It appears that you do have a restriction. It was put there by the dean.”
Fuck. I rub a hand over my face. “Does it say why?”
“Does it say why, sir,” he corrects me. “You’re already pushing your luck with those clothes.”
“I apologize, sir. I was on my way to the hockey wrap-up.”
“Mm-hmm. It doesn’t say why it’s there but looks like it’s in place for the rest of term.”
My heart fucking sinks. “The rest of term? Sir,” I add when he raises a brow.
“That’s what it looks like. I’ll speak to the dean in the morning.” He stresses the in the morning part.
Once I’m back in my room, I call Tate, because this is fucking fishy, and tell him everything.
“Hmmm, maybe the dean liked me more than I thought he did,” Tate says. “A clear gesture of friendship.”
“Tate.”
“I hated the idea of you out at some restaurant without me.”
“He didn’t do it for you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He doesn’t know we’re together.”
“Fine, but I appreciate it anyway.”
“I don’t. It means I’m stuck here. I won’t be able to see you either.”
Tate laughs. It’s almost an evil cackle. “Oh, dollface. I’ll tear that college down brick by brick if I have to, just to see you. I’m not worried about that.”
“You’re no help.”
Things devolve into phone sex, which, I guess, does help a bit, but once I’m off the phone with him, it’s just me in this room.
Suffocating.
I’ll be choking on an island. Alone. That’s how it’ll feel. Knowing I can’t leave. Knowing that the iron gate keeps me in. The bleach in this place hangs thick in the hallways, always scorching my insides, and every scuff of boots on marble jolts my nervous system. My lungs can’t get a full breath.
Did my father do this? And if he did, did he know that a restriction would feel confining? Or would that just be a happy coincidence for him?