My brain finally figures out what that thing is. A mask. Only big enough to cover his jaw and mouth, but enough to be fucking humiliating, especially if he’s the only person wearing one. Everyone who looks at him will notice it first, and the leather will cling to his skin, turning every deep breath, every yawn into a conscious effort, never letting him forget it’s there.
Griff shakes his head. His mouth moves as he tries to force the words out, but they won’t come. He squeezes his throat, but then his eyes light with an idea, and his hands move rapidly.
“I want to talk,” I translate out loud for him. “I promise I do, but I can’t. I’m trying. I’ll keep trying. Please don’t make me wear that.”
My voice falters on the last words. Griffon clings to my uniform as if it’ll prevent Jarvis from doing what he’s set on doing.
“Look,” Major Jarvis says. “You’re his literal shield. This isn’t healthy. You two will thank me at the end of semester when Griffon’s able to have whole conversations.”
He holds out the mask, but not to Griff, to me. “No,” I say.
“You’re going to put it on him. This is the level of compliance I expect from both of you.”
Griff’s trembling now.
“I won’t do it. If you want him to wear it, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
“For every minute you delay, I’m adding a day. Right now we’re at one, but in about thirty seconds, it’s two.” He pushes it toward me.
I take the cold leather. It’s heavy in my hand, and there’s a crude buckle that fastens at the back of his head. “Okay, we’re sorry, we get it. No forms of communication other than speaking.”
It’s doable for Griff and me; we’ve had to do it before. I’ve gotten good at reading what he can’t say. But I can’t stop the stampede of thoughts—he’s being stripped of his ability to communicate.
“I’m glad you’re getting it, cadet, but actions have consequences. We’re at two days now, put it on before we get to five.”
Did he forget how to fucking count? I close my eyes and open them again. This is worse. Worse than the tank, worse than anything Father’s thrown at me. Griff’s eyes are red, he’s still shaking his head, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m losing my fragile patience,” the major snaps.
These are the kind of moments when Father’s conditioning actually comes in handy. The terrible ones, where I need to find that partitioned off place I float to so I can survive the tank. I harden my body, spinning Griff. I’m barely present as I buckle the awful thing around the lower part of his face. He doesn’t fight me, but he turns once it’s on him, pure betrayal in his eyes. He fingers the smooth leather over where his mouth is.
“You did this,” Major Jarvis drives home.
Maybe I did. Maybe I’m not good for Griff—not here at least. Griff’s breathing gets louder, on the edge of panic. I put a hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it off, refusing to look at me. I’m a coward, because that part’s a blessing. I can’t look at him either.
My stomach twists. I’m gonna be sick. I can hold back puke on the ice after a million sprints, but not for this. He’ll be humiliated. My head’s screaming on the inside while tears stream on the outside. Chest fucking heaving.
So much for a strong, brave front. The Savage men have been reduced to fucking tears by a man with a superiority complex and a leather mask.
He smiles. “Knew I could make you sorry, cadet.”
Fuck him and his evil villain moment. I’m sure he gets to do that every minute of every goddamn day. I gather my courage, looking to Griff. His head’s down, hands covering the leather as if he could hide it. All I wanted was to free him, but all I’ve done is suffocate him.
Just like I let them do to me.
5
TATE
Straightening my suit jacket, I drop the mask and settle into myself. When I’m Hockey Coach Tate, I have to put on a show, convince everyone that while I may be a strict hockey coach, I’m still a fun-loving guy. Here, everyone knows I’m not.
Thank fuck.
A roaring crowd is the backdrop, the metallic scent of blood already in the air, and the unique mixture of heat from all the bodies and the chill that you can only get in an ice rink. The arena fits over a thousand. Not quite like some of the grand, underground colosseums in Rome that could seat up to twenty thousand, but give me time.
A puck echoes off the boards, booming in my chest, and I release a contented sigh. I’m still more at home in an ice rink than I am anywhere else. I take my place in my box seats, above the pandemonium, in a comfortable leather chair. A TV screen to my right, a table with champagne and snacks to my left.
This is what I was craving. A night away from college chaos and the endless minutes of being on stage. A few moments to be me.
