Unloved: Chapter 19

“You said we were spending the day together, just us.”

I the whining timbre of my voice echoing in the car.

“Change of plans,” Tyler says coolly, watching the GPS carefully. “The guys from the Academic Bowl team here got us tickets, so we’re meeting up with them. I told Rodger, Mark, and Davis to Uber here and I’d drive us all home.”

His cutting gaze slides to my stiff form in the passenger seat as his hand settles on my upper thigh with a barely there squeeze.

“I’m sorry, Ro,” he whispers before smiling. “About missing our date last time. But this is better, right?”

It isn’t, really, but I nod anyway.

“Thanks, babe.” Tyler leans in and kisses my cheek before saying, “Mind hopping in the back? You’re skinny, so we can squeeze everyone in.”

And because I’m pathetic and have lost every inch of my backbone, I do. Which means, when we pick up the guys, I’m stuck between Mark and Davis in the backseat, Rodger sitting in the front. It’s my personal hell, especially with Mark’s continued sharp comments (and equally sharp elbow “accidentally” hitting my abdomen) all snidely directed toward me.

“Excited to see your favorite student?”

I want to snap back at him, but hold my tongue. I’ll give him nothing.

The truth is, I happy about the change of plans for that reason alone: that I get to watch Freddy play hockey. There’s a giddy rush to my steps from the car all the way until we grab our decent seats in the arena.

I’m the only girl, and not a single one of the guys—from Waterfell or the Vermont school—attempts to chat with me. Which feels like a strange sort of blessing.

Especially once I see Freddy emerge onto the ice, following Bennett and Rhys.

The arena is fairly empty—an early exhibition game not drawing as many students as I’m sure an in-season, high-stakes game might. Which means that it takes barely a minute for someone to spot me—the hulking goalie, who grabs Freddy by the scruff and turns him toward me.

I can’t help the beaming smile and wave I shoot his way from my spot three rows up. His brows dip before his eyes meet mine and a bright, breathtaking grin spreads across his face, deepening the lines in his cheeks. He skates a little closer to the glass and taps it with his stick with a wink.

“I’m just gonna say hi,” I mumble, tripping over the seats with my long legs, hopping over the two rows separating me from the glass. Tyler murmurs something rude that gets a laugh, but I ignore it, drawn to the smiling boy with his helmet off.

For a moment we stare at each other. I’m usually closer to his eye level, being a tall girl myself, but now he’s in skates, adding a few inches to his height.

“Rosalie.” He smirks. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Surprise!” I say, a giggle bursting. “It was a last-minute thing. But I’m excited to see you.”

“I’m excited for you to watch me.” Our smiles feed off each other, growing wider to the point they’re almost ridiculous. “Thanks, princess.”

Freddy takes off backward, eyes still on me as he circles and starts warming up. I climb back over the seats to sit next to Tyler.

Rhys circles behind Freddy and waves to me as well, eyeing the guys—searching, I think, for a certain best friend of mine at first before his gaze turns wary at my company.

My thumbs-up does little to dampen the intense expressions of the now-three overprotective hockey players—two forwards and a hulking goalie—watching, especially when Tyler grabs my chin and turns my face toward his a little roughly.

“I thought you were here for me,” he whispers in my ear.

“I am,” I say, but my words come out almost aggressive. I’m angry—he’s the one who changed our “casual date plans” into a prep academy reunion of smart rich kids getting drunk at a college hockey game.

My attention stays rooted on the ice, on number twenty-seven mostly. I know the basics—I’ve taught myself a good bit while coming up with real-world examples for Freddy’s math tutoring sessions—but seeing them in real life is completely different.

He’s fast—shockingly so—and larger than life on the ice. My heart thunders to the beat of the music they play between periods and never lets up, too excited. He’s so in his element, like he was truly born to play. It’s clearly a natural talent, one that he’s honed and trained to perfection. He’s so beautifully happy.

I think I could watch him play forever.

As we enter the third period, however, the mood shifts—on the ice and off. Freddy seems agitated, frustrated. The team has barely scored, and it seems like there’s almost constant arguing on the bench, even between the coaches and a few players.

Meanwhile, Tyler and his entire friend group are drunk, getting rowdier by the minute, and going back for more.

“Damn, he’s fast,” someone comments as Freddy speeds by on a breakaway that doesn’t score.

“Oh yeah.” Mark laughs. “Fredderic is fast on the ice, fast running through girls, but… he’s pretty .”

Anger heats my face and I ball my fists in my lap not to snap.

“We’ve all tutored him,” Tyler says, taking a hefty swig of his cheap beer. “The guy’s a fucking idiot. Right, Ro?”

I ignore him, jerking away to slump forward and focus on the game, shame curdling my stomach for not speaking up.

By the time the game ends—a Waterfell loss, two to one—they’re stumbling and shouting as we exit the arena.

I see a few campus security guards watching the group closely, my cheeks going hot as Tyler slams an arm around my shoulders and demands a kiss on his cheek, which I give a little hesitantly.

“What’s wrong?” He sneers. “Too busy making goo-goo eyes at your student, RoRo?”

He says it loud enough that laughter bursts into the crisp night air from his audience of drunken guys. I scoot out from his arm as we start for the car.

“I’ll drive,” I say, reaching for his keys, but he whips them back, furrowing his brow. “Seriously, Tyler, knock it off. You’re all drunk.”

“You weren’t drinking?” one of the Vermont guys that I don’t know blurts, smirking as he leans on his friend. “Figures. You look like a fucking prude.”

“Try the opposite,” Tyler mutters with a grating laugh. My stomach knots, eyes darting around like maybe I need to escape.

“We’re all adults here,” Mark says, “You’re not better than us. Act like it all you want.”

I’ve barely said five words to any of them the entire night, but somehow, the one acting a certain way. Foolishly, I look to Tyler, like he might stop whatever this gang-up-on-Ro session is. He’s talked horridly about Rodger and Mark behind their backs to me, but when faced with us all at once, he’s never chosen me.

Instead, Tyler only sneers. “The only reason you aren’t drinking is because you can’t handle your alcohol.”

“Stop, Tyler. It’s embarrassing—”

“

embarrassing,” he snaps, like the tether on his patience has broken entirely. “I mean, my god, I don’t know how I even tolerate you at this point. I must be a goddamned saint.”

Tyler moves toward me, almost caging me against the brick siding of the building. He’s shouting now; sympathetic looks shoot my way from a few of his friends, but none of them stop him. No one bothers to intervene.

“Fucking pathetic, Ro. Honestly—”

“Do you mind?”

The voice that stops him is gruff, but with a sickeningly smooth quality threaded in the deep tone. And the man it belongs to, now grasping Tyler’s shoulder tightly where he was starting to box me into the corner, is more terrifying.

He’s massive, tall even to me, with warm russet skin and black hair dripping wet. A player, I assume, based on the black-on-black suit he’s wearing, but I’ve never seen him before tonight—even on the roster I studied a few weeks prior.

“Private conversation, man. This is none of your business.”

“You’re screaming at a girl in public—I think that makes this everyone’s business,” he says before flicking his frighteningly bright eyes toward me. “You okay?”

I nod.

“Do you want to keep talking to this loser?”

“Fuck off,” Tyler growls, trying to yank himself away from the force field of a man in front of us. “My girlfriend is fine.”

The guy’s golden eyes swirl with mirth—not with anger, but like a gladiator with the spectators chanting ! He grips Tyler a little harder before yanking him away from me and slamming his back into the brick.

“Now you’re just pissing me off.” He smiles, lifting Tyler off the ground so his feet scrape to find balance. “How is it little pricks like you even—”

“Let him down.”

Everyone stops at the presence of another giant entering the scene. Tyler’s friends, who haven’t scattered, but haven’t intervened either, freeze like pups in the presence of an alpha as Bennett Reiner walks toward the stranger still mildly strangling Tyler.

The guy puts him down, and Tyler trips backward for a moment before saying something under his breath that has the golden-eyed stranger shooting a fist toward his face.

“Fuck,” Bennett curses, pulling him back from going after Tyler again. “Goddamn it, Kane, don’t make me save your ass.”

“I’ve been saving yours all night,” Kane grumbles halfheartedly. “Fair’s fair.”

Shockingly, I see a small grin spread across Bennett’s face as he manhandles Kane away with a rough shove. “Go get your stuff on the bus. I’ll take care of this.”

Bennett turns and I see a visible change in Tyler. He could easily win with words over fists with some guys, but not Bennett Reiner. He’s from a family far wealthier and more connected than even Tyler Donaldson’s.

Threats to sue mean nothing to the towering heir to the entire Reiner fortune, not to mention the son of a hotshot corporate lawyer.

“Reiner,” Tyler sighs. “We were just leaving.”

Bennett nods, arms still crossed as he stands over us all with shower-soaked curls and in a crisp blue suit sans tie.

“Then leave.”

His voice brokers no arguments from the group as they all start to walk away. I turn to follow them, head ducked low in shame, but after we’ve left the spot where the Waterfell goalie still stands, Tyler grabs my arm.

“Find another way home,” he says. “We’re not taking you.”

“You can’t leave me here.” I try to press some authority into my wavering voice, hating the catch of a cry in my throat. “How am I supposed to—”

“You’re a big girl, Ro.” He sneers, swaying a little from the beers he’s been chugging. “Use that big brain to figure it out.”