27. TATE
TATE
The team shouts, voices echoing off the locker room walls. Ouch. Not good for my head. My brain pulses in time with my heart as if it’s trying and succeeding at breaking through my skull.
My head pounded like a deathcore metal band through yesterday’s semifinal, and it’s back for an encore in the conference championship.
Somehow, I have to act like everything’s fine, meanwhile, my insides feel like they’ve been scorched with acid and stabbed with needles.
Whatever the fuck they injected me with fried my insides.
I guess I don’t blame them for using something strong.
Probably specially made just for me. If you’re going to take Tate VanCourt down, it’d better be powerful enough to sedate an elephant.
Still, sucks for my organs.
We’re about to take to the ice. As McKinnon passes by, he whispers, “Everything okay, Coach?”
“Yeah, fucking dandy, McKinnon. Go win the game.”
I don’t have time for his cheerfulness today. I haven’t been this much of a mess since my first week at college.
Luke is somewhere in the stands. I’m going to grind my teeth down to nothing, thinking about it. I lean against the boards, glad that this game won’t boil down to my coaching skills with how distracted I am thinking about Luke.
Wait a second, what’s happening over there? Sometime between them hitting the ice, and me daydreaming, Ryan skated over to McKinnon while the rest of their teams warmed up. I don’t like how close they are, and a low growl starts in my chest. If McKinnon doesn’t get his face away from—
Did Ryan just pull out his cuff? Yeah, he did. What the fuck are they bickering about? Ryan shoves. McKinnon looks like he’s about to rip Ryan’s helmet off.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “McKinnon!” I point toward where the rest of the team is doing warmups. Where he should fucking be. Not picking fights with my husband. “Shoot pucks in net.”
He gives me an apologetic look, but he’s only sorry he got caught. My gaze follows said husband. The ice is his sanctuary, so I don’t expect to see much on his face that would give him away, but he won’t fucking look at me.
I was supposed to give him the damn phone I brought for him, which I’m pretty sure fell out when I was doing …
cartwheels, and then maybe I’d have a read on him, but I fell asleep.
He left via another route, so Ethan didn’t get the chance to correct my fuck up.
So, I don’t know why he left. Did he hear someone coming?
Did he have to get back? Was it what I said?
Fuck me.
Something’s off. I study everything during the first faceoff—his body language, the way he carries the puck, all seems usual. But it’s not. And fucking goddammit, I can’t pinpoint what. I can’t do anything about it.
Frustrating.
I massage my head. Wish there were a way to massage my brain.
The period opens with a barely legal shoulder check by the raging bull otherwise known as my husband, playing as if he’s playing in my murder hockey league. His friends aren’t much better, and it’s a party in the penalty box, three of them, including Ryan.
It’s the last game of the tournament, though. Whoever wins this gets an automatic bid into the national tournament, which means there’s going to be enough testosterone on that ice to spawn a whole new species of caveman.
That could explain the extra vengeance in Ryan’s eyes.
The violence continues. Blood spills onto the ice. It seems to kick up a frenzy. More penalty box parties, sometimes four guys in there at the same time. This game has been a never-ending penalty. But at least McKinnon managed to score us a goal. He skates over to the bench at the end of his shift.
“What the fuck is going on out there, McKinnon?”
“I dunno, man. He’s crashing out or something. Won’t stay off my ass, Coach,” he says with way too much innuendo.
I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me, I know how totally consumed he is with my brother, but he’s going to be a stain on the ice if he keeps that shit up. He’s only safe now because of my brother. I care less and less about this game by the second.
“Um, too far?” he says, the two brain cells that roll around in his head on speed, warning him of the danger before him.
“Way too fucking far, McKinnon,” I growl.
“Sorry. I’m just tryna lighten you up, Coach.
” Is the tension twisting my muscles that noticeable?
His body sighs as if he’d like to say more but is resigned to the fact that he can’t in the middle of the bench.
He leans over so he can speak quietly in my ear, so he doesn’t have to shout above the pandemonium.
“For what it’s worth, I am trying to stay away from him, but he’s got a personal vendetta going tonight. ”
Yeah, which is weird. I know he doesn’t love McKinnon, but this is more than his usual.
Finally, Ryan scores a goal. Yes! Nice one, baby.
But it’s not enough to erase the added tension in my muscles.
Ryan’s next attack is centered around McKinnon.
The refs miss an accidentally-on-purpose slash to his skates, McKinnon goes flying.
It only fuels McKinnon. He tosses his stick down; gloves and helmets go.
Mckinnon swings. Crack! His knuckles connect with Ryan’s face.
Now my husband’s blood is on the ice, and I’m going to have to murder McKinnon. None of my shouting stops them. Where are the fucking refs? They go down, heads cracking together, fists continue to fly to a live soundtrack of cheers and boos from the crowd.
Finally, a whistle.
But as much as I want to blame McKinnon for everything, Ryan is the raging bull of the game. There’s grunting amongst my team about him, which means I’m not the only one to notice that he’s off.
“He’s a fucking dick, McKinnon,” Shep says, talking about Ryan. He and McKinnon are good friends, but they fight like teenagers.
“What was that?” I snap.
McKinnon elbows him, eyeing me in his periphery. “Bro. Shut. Up.”
Oh, good, they can tell when a tiger is about to rip their throats out. Not that they’ll ever need self-preservation instincts when they have their wealthy parents to save the day for them. Thankfully, the horn sounds, ending the first period before I take action on my dark fantasies.
Has it really only been one period?
In the locker room, I take some Advil. Ethan bitched at me when I tried to take them this morning, claiming I should give my liver and kidneys a break, but fuck my liver and kidneys. My head is about to explode.
Ryan is just down the hall. I could find a reason to go in there, find out what he’s enraged about. I remember him being upset about the Griff thing yesterday, but he wasn’t … like this. No, this tantrum on ice isn’t because of Griff.
He doesn’t think I said yes, does he? I’ve made myself very fucking clear several times—he can leave this marriage in a wooden box. Alright, so maybe I haven’t said it quite like that, but maybe I fucking should if he’s going to doubt me.
I introduced him to Pearl, intimately.
You also told him you loved him.
Yeah, when I was high, so he probably didn’t believe me on that one.
I shake my head. No. Even if he didn’t believe me, he knows he’s mine, and if he had any doubt, he’s smart enough to figure out that you don’t drug someone who’s compliant—ask me how I know—which means I couldn’t have given in to fucking Clarence and Henry.
A brief glance at myself in the mirror shows me where I’m at. God. I’m terrifying. I didn’t bother to do my hair; it’s loose, everywhere, and with those giant bags under my bloodshot eyes, I’m giving deranged. It’s a wonder they let me into the building. No hello from my friend Kazimir either.
A text comes through, and I jump to answer, hoping Ryan somehow managed to get a phone despite my fuck ups.
Luke
Tell Ace to behave himself. And maybe tell your fake husband to lay off him?
Normal words. My muscles coil tight.
I read them a second time. And a third. After four times, I put the phone away. I won’t let myself freeze in a loop.
Luke is going to know. Maybe he already does.
Irritating text message. I should delete it. I should delete all text messages from Luke going forward. If I stop talking to Luke first, make it my decision, it won’t hit me as hard.
My neck begins to ache.
I reach into my pocket for the little glass eye, smoothing my thumb over it. I wish it were Ryan’s heart, beating under my hand.
Okay, so the fucking phone does end up in my hand again.
Luke is … Luke matters. I protected him. I sacrificed for him. But I also sheltered him from understanding me.
Every interaction was a lie.
Everything Luke did was for nothing.
What will that do to him? Will it break him?
That’s what I’ve doomed him to, and I’m too much of a coward to watch.
Uncle Jasper taunted me with this, revealing me to Luke, and I feared his disappointment so much that I was willing to do anything, even kill for Uncle Jasper, so that he’d keep my secret.
Wouldn’t he love to see this? I’m sure he’s celebrating in Hell.
The second period doesn’t improve. I’m surprised no one’s been tossed from the game.
I have to climb up the damn boards to yell at my dumbass players, but it’s like they’ve all been possessed, and no one listens to me—unheard of.
But fuckface, otherwise known as Coach Bruce, finally gets on his team for all the unnecessary—yeah, I’m saying that—roughhousing, and North Point gets some shots on goal.
They don’t get them past our goaltender, but at least they’re trying.
For the last half of the period, it looks like an actual hockey game.
I enjoy yelling at my team for half the intermission.
Uncharacteristic of Fake Coach Tate, but everything I want from life right now.
I’m frustrated with them, murderous over what’s going to happen with my brother, and losing my goddamn mind thinking about what’s happening for Ryan. What set him off?
I have to get to him. As soon as this shit game’s over, that’s what I’m going to do.