Page 94 of Vicious Butterfly
“Gee, can’t wait to work for you.”
“I’d make you a good deal. You have something I want.”
“A good report.”
“Yes. Make my problem go away, Coach, and you can be a king at my school.”
“If I’m a king, what are you?”
Kazimir walks out from behind his desk. “I’m fucking God.”
I stand up, patting him on the shoulder in a way that definitely makes him want to kill me. “Sorry, Kaz. I don’t believe in God. Now, are we done here? I have hockey players to interview so I can write a report for the commissioner.”
Should I piss him off? No. But it’s so easy.
“You shouldn’t fuck with me, Coach.”
You know? I’m starting to think “Coach” is an insult. “Wow, turning on me so soon? Here I thought you wanted to be friends—offers of kingship one minute, threats the next. I’m gonna get whiplash.”
Uncle Jasper always said I was a lippy shithead. Maybe it’s true.
“Get the fuck out and don’t come back here, VanCourt.”
Guess I’m not welcome anymore, but that’s not up to him in this case. I may need to return for several repeat audits to make sure my recommendations are implemented.
“Have a good day, friend.” Maybe I’m his Patrick. I can’t tell. But I think I really like the guy.
I’m led to the ice rink, where an office that’s ten times nicer than mine at Shadowridge sits at the back. This is what Coach Bruce gets? Hmm. I always wondered why Uncle Jasper didn’t station me as a coach here. Shadowridge is nice, but this is luxury. He wouldn’t have wanted me to be too comfortable. It’s bathed in expensive mahogany, the shelves, the desk, even the window frames. He’s been given a tall, leather rolling chair with a headrestandlumbar support. The walls are decorated with his achievements.
The wait is excruciating. I pass the time, a good twenty minutes, snooping through Bruce’s things, back turned from the door I’ve left slightly ajar. It creaks, but I don’t turn, listening for the footsteps. Ryan has his own cadence—well, everyone does, but I’m only concerned with Ryan’s. I want to—need to—hear it. Feel him without sight.
Another creak, the door shutting, and footsteps in his careful rhythm approach. It’s him. I know it’s him. That sense of knowing him by something as visceral as sound ignites in my gut. I turn so quickly he jumps, and I’m on him like a wildcat, pushing him against the wall. I grab his face, securing it in my palm, using it like a leash.
“Omph!” He exhales as I force his back against the door. I reach behind him to lock it, lock him in here with me. Maybe I’ll just take him away with me now. No one will find him where I put him. He’s all mine, after all, why shouldn’t I?
He won’t like it, an annoying voice answers. When did I start caring about shit like that? Seriously? I’m not supposed to care. I wish I didn’t but turns out, I do.
Fine. I won’t abduct him and chain him in my underground lair today.
I make no promises about tomorrow.
Taking a deep inhale, I pick up scents of metallic copper and dirt, and then I finally look him over, taking stock. Making sure my property is in the same condition I left him. He’s not. There’s blood smeared on his face, slick sweat mixed with mud. Leaning in, tuning my ears, I catch what I’ve been craving. His strong heartbeat. It’s jackrabbiting, but his breathing doesn’t match it, slow and controlled. That’s a learned response.
“You’re scared,” I purr.
“Yeah, dude. You’re kinda terrifying right now. D-Did something happen?”
I answer with my lips, attaching them to his neck. God, I love the taste of his sweat. Salty, strong, with that undeniable flavor of man. I want to suck on his collarbone, but his fucking clothes are in the way. I growl at them, yanking on the buttons.
Ryan laughs. “Cammies. This is what we wear for drills. Lemme help.”
But I bat his hand away—I’ll do it—pulling my head back to see what I’m doing. He’s head to toe in camouflage. Jacket and pants are cut from the same rough fabric, the pants tucked into black leather boots.
“This is hot,” I say, flicking the buttons open, giving myself the access I need. But now that I’ve revealed his skin, I’m mesmerized by it, until I see the bruises, even with all thosetattoos to camouflage them. A snarl rips free. “What the fuck is all this?”
“Uh, the usual …? Between hockey and drills, I’m pretty beat up, Tate. You’ve seen my body.”
“I have, but these are new.”
