Page 17 of Vicious Butterfly
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.
I shove the paper back at him. “Nuh-uh. No way. This is rife with disaster. It’s calledSudden 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.”
