Slamming my hand on the counter, I kick at the air. That’s where he’s going with this. My mind grasps for anything it can to pull this away from that direction, but I feel the control slipping away. Not that I had any real power to begin with, but sometimes Father can be swayed—if you can convince him, he’ll benefit.
“Let me handle, Griff, sir.”
“You’ve been handling him, and you’ve failed. You have hockey and school to focus on. Griffon is in good hands at North Point. You’re not to interfere—do you understand?”
Glaring into the mirror, nostrils flaring, my knucklebones pop with the effort of restraint. I can’t break the mirror like I want to. I can’t afford more demerits. I take a breath. Two words, it’s just two little words. I don’t even have to mean them.
But giving in feels like giving up.
“Go fuck yourself, sir.”
Getting back to Griff is all that’s on my mind after that. What I did was fucking stupid. Lie, all I had to do was lie. I don’t have a problem lying to anyone else but Father. Anything would have been better than telling him to go fuck himself. He will retaliate. But I force the very long list of what Father could do to me to the back of my mind, so that I look alright for Griff. He can’t see me falling apart.
My knuckles rap a frantic tune on Griff’s door, heart pounding against my ribcage. The door swings open, and Griff’s there. I flinch, already having forgotten his head’s shaved. But he’s fine, aside from the frown. His frown is because of me.
“I’m fine, Griff.”
He exhales, hands moving too quickly for my tired brain to translate, so he pushes me toward his bed, motioning for me to sit. He pulls out his iPad.
Didn’t have luck, did you?
I shake my head.
Will you stop now? Please stop, Rye.
“No. I won’t let them do this to you.”
He sighs, eyes flicking to Wren’s bed, which is noticeably missing Wren. It’s getting close to lights out, and I haven’t done any homework. I’ll need to get back, but I’d feel better knowing he had someone here with him. I make myself comfortable.
“I’ll stay until Wren returns,” I say, pillowing my hands behind my head.
His gaze flicks to Wren’s bed, and I can see the wheels turning. Slowly, he pecks something else out on the iPad.
I don’t even want to tell you this, because you need sleep, not more stress, but Wren was here to pick up his stuff earlier.
No. That can’t be true. I would’ve noticed something like … shit. Yeah. There’s nothing on his side of the room. How tired am I? “Why would Wren take his stuff out of here?”
Griff licks his lips—he knows—but he doesn’t want to answer. I have a temper, he knows it. I never have and never would lash out at him, but I’m a hair away from nuking this entire college. He starts typing again, and I close my eyes briefly, trying to call back some of my energy. Who am I kidding? I’d lose a fight with a housefly right now.
He pecks at his iPad, erases, starts again, erases, and gives up, huffing.
“C’mon, Griff. I won’t do anything.”
I can read his expression.Yeah right.
“Okay, fine. I might plot a few murders and some petty revenge, but that’s it, promise.”
That gets me a small smile. He finally types a full sentence.I think we should fall in line while we’re here, Rye. It won’t be forever.
I sit up. “Not the answer to my question.”
He taps the screen again. He wants me to agree to that bullshit before he tells me.
“We can’t give in. I …” I trail off. I don’t want to say it out loud. How I gave in. When Father strode into the Phoenix locker room, equipped with the psychiatrist he has on his payroll, two of his goons, and his private physician, I went with him.
I didn’t put up a fight, thinking you can’t simply peel someone away from their NHL contract. Guess what, Father can. But I also thought it would be a conversation, something to scare me toward the path to righteousness, and I’d be back in the locker room, lacing up my skates.
Instead, I was on the private jet home, where he kept me for years, “retraining” me.
