Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Copyright © 2021 T.A. Richards Neville

  Rule #1

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and locations are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, scenes or events, are purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The author recognizes the use of trademarked brands, sportspersons, and products, including NHL and NCAA teams, which have been used without permission and are in no way associated with the trademark owners. Northvale is a fictional university in the state of Maine.

  Author’s Note

  There are triggers in this book surrounding eating disorders. My main character eventually deals with hers in a way that works best for her. I am not saying this is the right or wrong way, it’s just her way. Because everyone is different, not everyone wants, or feels safe enough, to come forward and get help, and everything can’t always be perfect or neatly wrapped in a pretty bow.

  Please do not read if you think this might upset you.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  HRVY – Told You So

  Grace Carter – Wicked Game

  Kehlani - Toxic

  Chris Brown Feat. Drake – No Guidance

  Sia – The Greatest

  Keri Hilson – I Like

  Ariana Grande ft. Ty Dolla $ign – Safety Net

  AJ Tracey – Yumeko

  Ghetts Ft. Ed Sheeran - 10,000 Tears

  Dutchavelli – Never Really Mine

  Justin Bieber Ft. Big Sean – No Pressure

  Amber Olivier – One Unread

  Nipsey Hussle – Double Up

  Ariana Grande – Bad Idea

  JoJo – Too Little Too Late (2018)

  Mariah Carey – Fantasy

  Charli XCX – Boom Clap

  Alina Baraz – To Me

  Layton Greene – Leave Em Alone

  Layton Greene – Kool Kid

  JoJo – Man

  Sabrina Claudio – Problem With You (Official Acoustic)

  Caroline Kole – Freaking Out!

  Ciara – Level Up

  Hans Johnson – Moonlight (Japan)

  Levox – Eastern Village

  Greenface – Indigo Blue

  A boyfriend’s nothing compared to a friend.

  Especially one who makes you laugh.

  Booker Jones—a two-hundred-and-something-pound wide receiver for NU—slaps a small wad of crinkled bills onto the foot rail, his scowl drooping one corner of his recently busted mouth.

  I chalk my cue stick—for the sheer hell of it—and blow off the powdery excess.

  “What’s the matter, Booker? Scared I’ll whoop you again?”

  “Pfft. You’re cheating, Torre. I just need to get some extra eyes on you. Prove that shit.”

  Laughter flies from my lips. “How can I be cheating? That’s the saddest excuse I’ve heard from you yet. Your head’s hit turf so many times you’re turning soft.”

  Booker racks the balls, one eyebrow sprouting up his forehead as he shoots me an improbable look. “Me turning soft?”

  I roll my eyes, letting the innuendo go sailing over my head. “No patting your ego tonight,” I tell him. “Let’s just play, huh? I’m getting thirsty.”

  “And shiiit.” Booker grins, a feral, lewd tilt to this mouth, and I can practically envision the X-rated scene playing itself out in his head.

  Booker Jones is vulgar and proud. He beds who he wants whenever he wants. He’s also a pretty decent guy. But there’s no rush to go broadcasting the news when he’s already so full of himself.

  He grabs his crotch over his jeans. “I’ll give you something to drink.”

  Pointing my cue stick at him across the red felt table, I warn, “If you were anyone else, I’d shove this all the way up your ass. So far up, it’d disturb the dust particles in your skull. Now, can we get on with it? Your silver dollar’s paying for my next drink.”

  Despite all Booker’s shit-talking and consistent lame attempts at throwing me off my game, I line up my stick with the cue ball, sink the last stripe into the top left pocket, and watch as the cue ball rolls sweetly in after. Booker’s stood and watched most of the game, rather than play it, and I’m not sorry at all walking around to his side of the table and swiping up his cash for myself.

  “Thank. You.” I count the bills with added flare, relishing in how much of a sore loser big, bad Booker looks right now. Fanning myself with the twenty bucks, I flutter my eyelashes with an overdone charming smile. “Can I buy you a martini, sweet cheeks?”

  “Speaking of sweet…” Booker takes a swift step toward me, his muscular arm reaching out and his hand cupping my ass in a firm squeeze. “Is this thing getting bigger?”

  Impulsively, I knock his hand away, the temporary glower rinsing from my face and replaced with a plastic smile. I can take a joke as well as the next person, but my weight has become one humorous step too far. Even after investing in extensive work on myself, I’m way softer around the edges than I’ve been happy with for a long time. My ass and my thighs are not my friends. Some days I wonder if I’ll ever be happy with what God gave me, or whether my issues are purely mental. An ingrain in my confidence I’ll be forced to put up with for the rest of my life.

  I tug on the hem of my tank top, an unflattering habit I picked up when I first started piling on the pounds. I’m wearing a fitted, white V-neck T-shirt underneath, but I’m still conscious of my changing body. Even more so now Casanova himself has drawn attention to my spongy, round backside.

  “Aw, what? You can ram a stick up my ass, but I can’t return the favor? I come fully equipped with my own stick, y’know.” Booker’s suggestive gaze journeys south for a slimy beat, his smirk rising as his honey brown eyes do. “Touch it if you want.”

  “Oh yeah?” I make a show of glancing down, making my confusion abundantly clear. “Where do you keep it? You’re a little flat in the front.” I cringe, stepping back and folding the money into the pocket of my jeans. “You know where I am if you change your mind about that drink, sugar.”

  The handful of teammates Booker strolled into the bar with execute catcalls behind closed fists, ribbing Booker as he sulks back to his booth, launching his cue stick on the table in tantrum.

  I take the winding set of stairs to the bar on the upper level, where I left my own dwindling group of friends. When I reach the landing that leads to a cluttered seating area and bustling dancefloor, my eyes struggle to distinguish one sweaty face from the next, so I push my way through to the bar and slot myself between the stacked bodies.

  All the eye contact in the world couldn’t get me served this side of tonight, and I slip onto one of the vacant red leather stools stationed at the bar. Even though I’d like
to get a drink within the next hour, I’m missing the necessary pushy gene to make it happen. Between the three bartenders bustling around on the other side of the bar, each one walks swiftly by me, pouring and asking for everyone’s drinks but mine.

  It’s fine, I’ll wait. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t starting to get annoyed. I am. Hot, too. It’s unreasonably crowded in here, even for a Friday night.

  When my gaze collides with one of the bartender’s, I lift my hand and make a little waving motion with my money. The universal signal for: I want a fucking drink before I perish of dehydration. But he’s already walking away before my polite smile can reach my lips, throwing a dirty rag over his shoulder and disappearing through a doorway with a metallic silver plaque that reads ‘Staff Only’.

  I drop my chin into my hand with an inaudible sigh, the deep bass of R&B masking my increasing annoyance. Catching the attention of another bartender, I sit up straighter, only for him to also walk right by me. “Hello?” I say to no one who’s listening. “Am I friggin’ invisible?”

  “Here. Let me.”

  I twist my head, identifying the masculine voice with the faintest Canadian accent over my shoulder as belonging to Weston L’Heureux. All he’s required to do is dip his hand into the back pocket of his washed-out blue jeans, pull out his wallet, and there’s a female who’s been carefully avoiding looking directly at me for the last ten minutes salivating in the palm of his hockey-playing hand.

  “What’ll it be, Brooke?”

  I look up into smiling gray eyes. “Use this,” I say, holding out Booker’s money.

  West scoffs, leaning over me to speak to the bartender above the noise. I have no idea what he’s ordering, but whatever it is, I’ll take it. It’s guaranteed to be better than swallowing air.

  I don’t wait long for the chilled bottle of Corona that’s placed in front of me, complete with a lime wedge and a shot of tequila.

  “Thanks,” I say to West. “It’s been a desert over here.”

  He laughs, picking up the other two bottles of beer. My eyes tail the bottles as West hands one to the guy he’s with. “Brooke, this is my teammate, Roman King. Roman, this is Brooke.”

  “What’s up?” The dark-haired stranger’s beer is already tipped to his lips, eyes leveled on me in the lowly lit room. Obscured, multi-faceted irises rest on my face in a confident, steady gaze. This guy’s so stupidly attractive he sucks all basic logic out of me just with his eyes. I mean, Jesus, I thought West was handsome. This one’s something else entirely. Next-level handsome with a generous sprinkle of way-out-of-your-league.

  “Hi,” I say, gently reminding myself we’re all human here. “That’s some name you’ve got there. I can see why West was a true asshole and used all of it.”

  A steady smile stretches out from behind the rim of his beer, the blunt edges of straight white teeth against full pink lips. I think I catch sight of a small chip in one of his incisors, but I can’t be sure in this poor lighting. Regardless of the trivial imperfection, his smile’s no less panty-melting.

  “I was blessed with hilarious parents. My sides were splitting when they registered me at birth.”

  “Drink that.” West puts the tequila shot into my hand. I inhale a small breath, brace, and then tip it back, the fiery burn sliding down my throat to pool like lava in my chest. I slide the empty shot glass away from me, hiding how badly I want to gag, and West motions with the tilt of his head for me to follow him.

  Taking our drinks with us, we relocate to the far side of the L-shaped bar, where it’s less cluttered and you can physically feel the benefits of the AC. The heavy-duty fans whirring overhead and lifting tendrils of wavy hair from my shoulders, my skin breathing for the first time since I walked into this place. Plus, it doesn’t help that I’m averaging ten or fifteen pounds heavier than most girls in here, therefore packing a lot more heat. I’m relatively tall—five-seven/eight. And my mom loves to remind me how my weight evens itself out because of that. Other times she’ll tell me I’m ‘just big-boned’. Exactly what every growing girl wants to hear. Before that? it was puppy fat. And before that? Well, I was a lot slimmer. As a child I was flat-out skinny. It all went pear-shaped—literally—somewhere around puberty.

  Despite my squishy size, I’d been cruising my way to blending into the background during my senior year of high school. It’s been enlightening witnessing firsthand how extra weight, ironically, turns you invisible. Luckily, I’ve always had great friends, and not having a serious boyfriend hasn’t been a problem. At least, not a completely unpleasant one. It was a bit shitty when I did like someone, only for them not to like me back, or like one of my friends instead. But I’m used to it now. I’ve learned, processed, and I keep my feelings to myself. If I’m into a guy? You can bet your ass I won’t be sharing that info with him. I might be the smallest I’ve been in a few years, but that nasty voice in my head hasn’t quietened down any. In fact, it’s turning into my worst enemy. While I shrink, it grows.

  “Are you here by yourself?” Weston asks. He’s leaning an elbow on the bar top, his beer in hand. Thick, light brown hair curls around his ears in casual perfection.

  “Madison’s here somewhere. I sort of lost track of her when I went downstairs to play pool.”

  West smirks. “Whose money you steal this time?”

  “Booker Jones’. But it was only twenty dollars. I’ve hooked bigger fish.”

  “You hustle?” Roman asks, earning a grunt of laughter from West.

  “No,” I say, unsure if he’s joking. “I’m just good at pool, and most guys I know happen to be awful. All talk and no game.”

  “You only play for money?”

  “Only if you don’t mind leaving here with lighter pockets.” I smile sweetly, wheedling a thin, gradual smirk from Roman. The sleepy curve to his smoldering hazel eyes hits me somewhere right around my chest. The guy’s ridiculously big. Weston’s six-one—easy—so Roman must be at least six-two, six-three, with lean muscles formed under his white hoodie with black script lettering across the chest.

  “My pockets are already unimpressively light. So, how about a game? Best outta three?”

  “Ooh, fighting talk,” West goads into his fist. “What do you know about pool, King?”

  “That the balls go in the pockets, which is already more than you know.”

  Intrigued, I ask, “Best out of three for what?” My dad raised me to be the son he always wanted, and I never turn my nose up at a friendly wager. I live for that shit.

  West and Roman dominate the space surrounding me, two wide bodies looming over me in our isolated corner. Roman reaches behind West, sliding his empty beer bottle across the bar. “A hundred.”

  I almost snort out my drink, catching myself before there’s recycled beer dripping from West’s fancy shirt and I’m picking up the tab for his dry-cleaning. “You think I have a hundred bucks on me? I’m flattered. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had all week.”

  “I’m sure we can figure something out,” Roman says with a one-shouldered shrug, and seriously, those eyes. He needs to redirect that piercing gaze.

  “Fine.” I suck back more beer to escape his intensity, suppressing a burp and pushing it all the way down. My eyes water. “Let’s do it.”

  Madison finds me forty minutes later, downstairs at the pool table. Roman just handed my ass to me on a shiny silver platter, and its one-a-piece, this final game the deciding winner.

  “Brooke!” Madison calls as she teeters down the spiral staircase in her dangerously high heels. As is usually the case, all eyes sift in her direction. “I’ll be right over here.” She points to the row of booths along the wall.

  Beautiful to the point of unfair, Madison Monroe is petite, dark-haired, and disgustingly feminine. I adore having her as my best friend, and I love every single thing about her, but I won’t lie, there have been one too many times I’ve wanted to be her. I’ve even tried acting like her and mimicking her style, but I’m nowhere nea
r that refined or lady-like, and it doesn’t come naturally. It’s probably why a gaping chunk of my friends tend to be guys. There’s only so long a gal can pretend to be cute and nice. Every once in a while you just need to laugh at farting noises.

  West projects an appreciative look that endures Madison’s route from the stairs to the least crowded booth she picks out, holding her short skirt in place as she shuffles onto the seat.

  Just once, I’d like to have that effect on a guy. Turn him into a docile, ogling zombie for five minutes.

  Oh, the power.

  “You know,” Roman says, tearing me out of my never-gonna-happen daydream, “I’ve seen you around campus.”

  I rein in a full-blown frown. “You have?”

  “Actually, yeah. I see you all the time. Last week I was chillin’ at home, lifted the black-out blind and, bam, there you are.”

  I’m mortified. “That did not happen.”

  Roman offers me an amused look, indicating I can decide for myself whether that’s bullshit in the extreme or there’s a chance I might be stalking him. I say nothing as he makes his shot, straightens with a cocky glint in his eyes, and then motions for me to take my turn.

  “Not sure why you look so smug,” I say to him. “You just missed.”

  Roman’s shots are mechanical, and the suspicious in me suspects he squandered that last, and—might I add easy—shot deliberately. I don’t possess as much control over the spin of the cue ball. I know in my head where I’d like the ball to end up, but Roman’s a master of control. My dad would adopt him into our family on the spot. Probably even make an under-the-table exchange in place of me.

  I take my turn and miss by what looks like an eighth of a centimeter. It’s him. For some reason, he’s single-handedly tangled all my nerves.

  Right now, he’s sighting his shot. The cue ball’s sitting in front of the near side pocket, the eight ball mere inches from the top right. It doesn’t even seem like Roman takes any notice of the diamond markers as he lines up his stick with the cue ball and steps into the shot, shooting straight and smooth. The tip of his stick connects with the ball with honed precision, and I watch in awe as it rebounds off the side rail and sinks the black in a perfect bank shot.