Page 16 of Vicious Butterfly
“Yes, sir.”
“Then this is where you play. How you play.”
He knows all about what they do to you here; he was treated the same. He’s even on the MVP alumni wall. He was also at the top of his class while he was here. Grandfather would have expected no less.
So, this is where I play. No mercy. Next to no humanity. The drill just … keeps going. Full ice. Blue line to red, red to far blue, pivot, back again. Over and over. I want to die.
“Again,” Coach Bruce barks.
“Sir, yes, sir,” the team says in unison.
Coach Bruce has officer status, and we’re to respect him as such. He watches like a stone sentinel from the sidelines, gaze always cold and analytical, making notes on his clipboard. It’s fucking nerve-racking, because one of those notes could be for you. Getting reamed out in front of everyone is a given, and it could escalate to punishment, but get enough notes that he deems you uncoachable, and your parents get brought in.
No one on this hockey team wants their parents called.
I find what’s left of my fortitude and skate. I skate as if my life depends on it, because it does. Because of Griffon. Father can’t come here any more than he already will. I need to keep him away from Griffon.
I was worried Griff wouldn’t pass the psych evaluation before he left the hospital, because there was no fucking way I was leaving without him after what happened. But somehow, I forgot, Father dips his hands in everything. With enough pressure and the assurance that Griffon would get the best outpatient care money could buy, the hospital’s psychiatrist signed off without blinking. My father is way too fucking charming when he wants to be.
Know who else was charming? Ted Bundy.
But at least it means Griff will see someone twice a week. They’ll come right to the school. It was a terrible situation with the best possible outcome. Otherwise, I don’t think Father would have pushed for the therapy.
Griffon was still expected to attend the Plebe Block training program as all first years are. Father thought it would be good for him. No, he did not consult with professionals. At North Point, it works differently from other military colleges. It’s three weeks, beginning a week before the first semester.
I understand why it’s impossible to skip Plebe Block if you want to survive your first month at North Point without earninga thousand demerits—I went through it in my first year—but they should have let me go with him. The plebes, sometimes referred to as freshies, return today, hence why we have a few on the ice.
Worrying about Griff will have to wait until after practice, if I make it. It’s a bit like rising out of my body, sequestering the pain that’s threatening to buckle my dying legs into a box in my mind until it’s background noise. When I want to collapse on the ice, I think of Griffon in that fucking bathtub, the Shadowridge U hoodie soaked with blood. My strides keep their edge, and the chill air ices my airways, even as sweat dampens the inside of my gear.
Someone behind me retches, my stomach lurches, but I don’t stop.
The weighted vests come out for the scrimmage. Specially tailored to slip right over hockey gear. I want to hurl myself off a cliff. But I pick it up and slip it over my head without a word or a groan.
“Losers do five minutes of laps after practice,” Coach says. “Anyone stops, and we start over.”
Normally, five minutes of laps are a breeze, but after our practices, no one wants to lift a finger, let alone skate laps. It turns violent fast. Sticks slashing at ankles, pummeling each other into the boards harder and dirtier than we’d dare in a game—we’d be suspended. But it’s what Coach wants to see. We have to give him enough blood on the ice to satisfy him.
One of our defensemen sends me flying across the ice, and the air leaves my lungs too fast. Motherfucker. Once I’m recovered, I go after him, grabbing his jersey from behind, slamming his helmeted face into the glass. All is forgotten after practice, but during it’s expected you do what you need to. Winning is all that matters.
My hands start to shake, and my legs wobble, fresh out of glycogen. I fumble a pass I could make in my sleep, but Gideon catches it anyway. Barely. We’re all out of fuel. My arms might fall off at this point, failing to obey my simple commands.
Blood.
Shadowridge U hoodie.
Griffon.
I push.
The rink is a silent symphony of skate blades carving ice, the breath of grueling work, and the crack of the puck against sticks, but no words. No cajoling, or jokes, or even any chirping. A stark difference from every other team I’ve ever played on. Not because we don’t want to, but because it’s not allowed.
Finally, it’s over, and thank fuck my team wins. But it doesn’t matter for Rhys Beckett, our goalie, or for me. I’m the captain; I stay regardless. All winning means for me is that Coach doesn’t question my place on the team.
I catch a couple of freshmen crying. Cage helmets hide a lot, but I’m looking for it. The coaching staff’s gonna eat them alive if they keep that shit up. All I can do is give them advice on surviving that they’re not gonna like.
“C’mon, freshie,” I say to the smaller one. “You’re gonna skate with me.”
He stands taller. “Yes, sir.”
