Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Sophomore left-winger, Jackson Kemp, scarfs down the last quarter of the salami and chicken sub he cleaned out the refrigerator to make himself. I’ve never seen anyone eat the way he does—without chewing. Must have been a famine out in Wisconsin, where he’s from.

  West stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. “Kempy, you must have indigestion all day. You know that deli meat was a week past its expiration?”

  Kempy rubs his stomach over his black and white Warriors hoodie, opening his jaws wide and letting out a roaring burp. “I’m working on my bad bacteria tolerance.”

  A sensible practice I frequently get behind myself.

  “That’s what they’re teaching you in sports science? No wonder you’re failing.” West scoffs, balling up an old piece of ratty paper from his pocket and bouncing it off Kempy’s melon. “And more like you’re working on a gut. How do you even skate? What do you weigh? five hundred?”

  “Two-ten, nutsack. And who the hell said I was failing?” Kempy flexes his left biceps and then deftly smacks West on the back of his head with the same hand. “You wish you had abs as hard as mine. You could sharpen your blades on these beauties.”

  My truck’s parked in the main lot near the entrance to the student village, and I fish my keys from my pocket as we walk down the sidewalk between buildings and manicured square cuts of lawn. My breath hangs in a cloud in front of me, and I hunch my shoulders against the frosty climate.

  Skahlake, Maine’s usually mild in October, considering how cold it gets when winter comes around, but the last week or so’s been pretty intense in terms of me freezing my fucking ass off. You could say I’m not looking forward to November, if you were in the mood for the understatement of the century. And I’m from Colebrook, New Hampshire. No stranger to low temperatures, but not the biggest fan either.

  Stepping off the sidewalk onto the cracked asphalt, I press the button on the fob to unlock my truck. A black Ford-F150 from my uncle Paul after he upgraded to a GMC Canyon.

  I crank the heat to full once we’re inside and load the playlist on my iPhone. It’s a five-minute drive to the rink, and we’ve got practice at three p.m.

  “Check this out, boys,” Kempy says from the backseat. He lets his window down and cups his hands around his mouth, howling at the two chicks jogging down the side of the road, minding their own business, unlike Kempy.

  After a quick check in my mirrors for traffic, I slow the truck to a little below ten for some creepy curb crawling.

  “Isn’t that Brooke?” I say to West, my gaze split between the road and the two casual joggers. She’s with the same girl from the bar, and they couldn’t be dressed more different. The petite brunette’s wearing spandex booty shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, and a Lycra jacket that cuts off at her midriff. She’s toned everywhere, if not more on the skinny side.

  Brooke’s covered from neck-to-toe in black leggings and a thick gray hoodie. Her mint hair’s knotted at the top of her head, sweat glistening on her flushed skin.

  “Yeah, that’s her,” West says, his head turned in their direction as we cruise by. I press on the horn to confirm my theory of this girl showing up everywhere I go, and Kempy pierces the air with a double wolf-whistle.

  I push harder on the gas, and we’ve already passed them by the time I see Brooke in my side mirror turn her head to follow my truck with her eyes, a frown forming as she looks inside the rear window. She shields her eyes with her hand from the dull, low-lying sun that’s showed up for aesthetic reasons only. Judging by Brooke’s perplexed expression, she’s none the wiser to who we are.

  “You know that girl she’s with?” I ask West. I hadn’t paid her much attention at the Drunken Barrel, but she’s got my attention now. All of it. Must be the shorts.

  “Ah...” West slides his snapback on. “Madison something. First-class feedbag material.”

  “Fucking fire,” Kempy cuts in from the backseat. “I sent her a friend request on Facebook a month ago and I’m still waiting for her to accept. Stuck-up vibes.”

  West grunts. “She probably saw your ugly mug and hit block.”

  “Act any more jealous and you’ll turn greener than my Uncle Mat’s ingrown toenail.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” I complain, the poisonous image of Kempy’s uncle’s crusty fungal foot skirting into my mind and staying there.

  In true douchebag style, Kempy’s finger creeps around West’s headrest, the wet tip darting into his ear.

  Ducking toward the window three seconds too slow, West scrubs his palm over his ear, disgust twisting up his face. “Jesus Christ, Kempy. Like I need your toxic spit in my ear. I’d rather not smell like your cheesy breath all afternoon.”

  It isn’t until I turn off into the campus arena parking lot that my teammates finally give it a rest and stop going at it like two seven-year-olds. We head into Kolstar Arena, a few of our other teammates trickling in through the doors at the same time.

  Good enough to have bagged myself a full athletic scholarship, I’m in my third year of playing for the Northvale Warriors, a division I college hockey team in the eastern conference. In my first year of captaincy, a championship’s the end goal this season, and since I’m graduating next year, that only gives me two attempts to make it happen. And believe me, that’s nothing.

  After centering the first line on my high school varsity team through to twelfth grade, turning heads at most puck drops in my junior and senior years, the scouts started to take notice and I entered the draft the minute I was eligible, signing for the New York Islanders in the first round. It was agreed from both parties that college was the safest bet for me, the next four years essential to hone and perfect my individual game and skill level. It’s a decision I wouldn’t change even if I could suit up and hit the ice at Belmont Park Arena tomorrow. I need a fallback if hockey—for whatever reason—doesn’t work out. I sustain an injury my body doesn’t bounce back from? I’m fucked with a capital FUCK.

  So even though it’s a heavy course load that pretty much cripples my social life, I chose to major in mechanical engineering. If hockey was suddenly erased from my future, then at least I’m equipped and prepared to work in an area that excites me even a little bit. The nine-to-five gig isn’t for me. Engineering doesn’t bore me to tears, but I’d still rather be on the ice any day. No doubt about it.

  In the locker room, we change into our gear. I grab my stick and peel off the old tape, adding a new layer to the heel of the blade. Turning the stick in my hands, I tape the butt as well, thickening the layer it’s already wrapped in.

  “What was that the other night? With you and Brooke? Your arm was all the way around her, King. Didn’t think she was the type of girl you were into.” West stuffs on his black glove, the other one wedged under his armpit.

  “She isn’t,” I admit. “But I had to do something to keep Jen away. She’s starting to become a problem I haven’t got the headspace to deal with.”

  “So you’re using Brooke to turn her off?” A frown touches West’s mouth. “Knowing Jen, that shit will just make her come for you even harder. You’re bitching she’s a stage-fiver, but you’ll just end up hooking up with her eventually.”

  I grunt, picking up my own gloves and shoving them on as I stand up from the bench in front of my stall. “Like fuck. I’ve hooked up with her once.” Twice, but how important are numbers?

  “And made out with her five hundred times. You took her virginity,” West states like I don’t already know that. Like I wasn’t there for it.

  “What do you know about it?” I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. Probably because I know West’s right.

  “I’ve seen you in action. Once you’ve had a few drinks, you’re all over it. And she texts you at least ten times a day.”

  “So?” I don’t mention that I hardly drink or go out now.

  West lifts a cynical eyebrow. “And you reply ten times a day.”

  Shit. What do you know? Looks like I’ve made a bed I’m
not too keen to lie in.

  I feebly attempt to wriggle my way out from under the landslide of crap I’ve trapped myself in. “Yeah, well, all that’s going to change. Jen might be more physically my type than Brooke, but I’ve got no interest in dating her, or even hooking up with her again.”

  “Right.” The word rolls from West’s mouth smothered in condescension. “Tell that to your dick. Because I don’t think he believes you, either. You. Bone. Virgin. Now you’ve got a mate for life.”

  “Second time mentioning that,” I say flatly.

  We grab our sticks, filing out of the locker room and down the white and black hallway covered in Warriors alumni posters to the rink. Now West’s brought up Brooke, I remember I never got an answer from her. My proposition was serious, though, and if I can use her to keep Jen on the fringes, then she owes me anyway. It’s either this or the hundred bucks, and she was in no rush to open her wallet and hand over that sweet green.

  We skate laps to ease into the warm-up, and both Brooke and Jen have swiftly exited my brain by the time I’m on my fourth loop, knocking a puck from my front to backhand as I glide round the boards.

  The forwards group at one end of the ice with our head coach, Paul Gachet, for our first set of drills.

  I’m up; positioned outside the hash mark in the faceoff circle on the right wing. Coach fires pucks at me, each one hitting the front of my tape as I one-time the rubber high and fast into the net on my forehand. No flashy stickhandling, just quick, reactive thinking for the best scoring chance.

  We move through a series of passing drills. Settling and shooting saucers, lateral, cross and drop, back drop passing.

  Taking five minutes out to run through the second half of practice, the defensemen and forwards kneel on the ice while Coach breaks down the rest of the drills on the whiteboard stuck to the Plexiglas.

  It’s small area scenarios, and some of us are sectioned into groups of three, one forward, two D-men. I’m in a group with Sonny Montclare and Kris Wolf. We line up on our respective hash marks along the circle, with a bunch of pucks and a net.

  The whistle blows. Monty pivots backward to collect a puck along the wall and gets it on his forehand. I’m closest to the net, he eyes me and makes a clean, tape-to-tape pass. I wraparound the goal and roof the puck.

  Easy.

  We go again, sticking one of our goalies in net this time to get more out of the drill.

  In the last ten minutes, before it’s time to clear out of the rink, we fuck around on the ice when the coaches start heading out and the equipment manager, with the aid of his rookie minions, gathers the loose pucks and cones.

  West launches a puck at me, and I saucer it into the net with my stick chest high. A couple more pucks fly, and we switch roles. I belt grenades across the ice, barking with laughter every time West batters-up and smacks the puck into the net so hard it’s a fucking miracle it doesn’t tear through the other side.

  “West! King!” Morris, the equipment manager, hollers from the half boards. “Stop acting like the team clowns for five minutes and put the damn pucks in the box.”

  Toe-dragging the pucks across the red paint, I scoop one onto my blade and tip it in the box. Always one step better, West starts shooting them cross-ice, pucks rattling the boards and dropping into the box.

  Fun’s officially over though after I’ve showered and I’m sitting in my stall with my Warriors T-shirt in one hand and my phone in the other.

  Jen: Hey Mr. King. Wna come ova after practice n chill? been grocery shopping n got all ur fav stuff xx

  “What’s up with your ugly face?” West leans into my stall to read the text that was sent twenty minutes ago. “What’s all your fav stuff?” he asks, a half-grin pulling up one side of his mouth. Dick.

  “Probably something I’m not allowed to eat.” I swipe outta the text and zip the phone away in my backpack. I’m not replying to that. For all Jen knows, practice ran over, or Coach called last-minute video analysis. “Gym?” I ask West. My classes are done for today, but I’ve got some homework that needs finishing tonight. West chose to go down the history route with a minor in philosophy, zero science behind his chosen major, just that he needed to pick one before the deadline hit, so I know he’s got just as much work to do as I have.

  “Does Kempy’s mom shit in the woods?” West pulls his T-shirt over his head, damp hair sticking up everywhere. “Sweet pump.” His biceps flex. “Sweet munch. Then home for a sweet dump.”

  I slide him a look that he shrugs off, and we head out to the gym for an hour. “Chipotle after?” I ask West. I’m too tired to cook.

  “Sounds good.”

  “The beans will help with that sweet dump you’ve got planned for later.”

  I clear out my tray, placing the bottles of Budweiser and two baskets of chicken wings on the table occupied by six guys, two of them I recognize from around campus. I resist tugging at the hem of my tight, scoop neck orange shirt that sits uncomfortably across my bellybutton, revealing a chunk of skin that only remains flat curtesy of my constantly breathing in. My stomach’s tensed around the clock. I don’t even have to think about it anymore, or remind myself to suck it in. It’s become a part of everyday life. At least I can wear fishnets under my inappropriately short black shorts. Not all the girls who work here do, but their thighs are cellulite free. Mine are not.

  “Was that everything?” I ask the guys at the table.

  A few mumbled ‘yeses’ are tossed back in response, too many sets of eyes roaming over my body prompting me to back away from the table and become tangled in the badly lit crowd, making myself more anonymous.

  Long Saturday’s aren’t my usual shifts, but Mark, the owner of Champ’s, was a waitress down. One of his full-timers off with the flu. I usually fill in where my college schedule allows, and even though the money would absolutely come in handy for my poor partial-scholarship ass, I’m relieved when I look up at the football-shaped clock behind the bar and see that it’s almost eleven-thirty.

  Since there’s only three minutes left until my twelve-hour shift’s over, and Mark or Preston, newly appointed assistant manager, isn’t anywhere in the vicinity, I take off early. I grab my coat and purse from the staff locker room and let myself out the rear fire exit.

  Maddie’s personalized ringtone shrills from inside my purse as I locate my car in the packed parking lot. I’m dubious to answer considering the time, my thumb hovering over the screen, but I can hardly ignore her in case she’s in trouble.

  “Hey.” I clamp my phone between my ear and my shoulder blade while I get a handle on my purse and keys, pressing the fob to unlock the central locking system on my Fiat.

  “Hey, yourself. Where are you?”

  “About to get in my car and head home. Make me some peppermint and licorice tea?” I ask in my sweetest, needy voice, hoping I sound as pitiful as I’m trying to be. “I’m sore everywhere.”

  “Uh, okay, no? Colin checked into our building on Facebook like an hour ago. There’s a party downstairs and he. Is. In. It. You need to hurry up and get back here because I can’t show my face without you.”

  “Were we invited?” I frown as I turn the key in the ignition, checking my mirrors as I pull out of the space. Behind the wheel, I’m a liability around this many cars in such close proximity.

  “It’s open house. Okay, enough chit-chat. Just drive, and I’ll see you soon,” Maddie blurts in a frantic stream of air. She cuts the call, and I reside without argument into my fate. If Colin O’Shae is at a party, then like it or not, a party’s where I’m going.

  Back at the student village, Maddie doesn’t even let me through our front door. She bursts out of it and onto our tiny balcony before my hand can reach the knob, a blur of Dior perfume, long, straight hair and spray-tanned cleavage. She grabs my hand, marching me back down the exterior stairway I just walked up.

  “I can’t even change?” I protest, eyeing the weed-stained glass pipe sitting outside the apartment below us, left
out for the garbage.

  “No time,” Maddie says without a backward glance. “Party’s been going on now for over an hour. My entrance is now or never.” After practically running down the second-level stairway, Maddie grinds to a halt next to someone’s chained-up bike, turning to face me. “I look okay, right?”

  I peruse over her ivory bodycon dress. “You look phenomenal. And how do I look?” Pinning a hand to my hip, I part my faux fur-trimmed coat and strike a pose, lips pouted.

  Maddie pinches the skin above my shorts. By now, I’m so hungry, my belly’s turned concave all on its own. “Like a sexy stripper.”

  “Think I’ll keep this zipped, then.” I pin my coat together with my fingers, and Maddie rolls her eyes.

  We round the building to noise central, and the door in question’s standing open, sickly yellow light spilling out onto the breezeway. We squeeze by the four guys hanging around the entrance, leering stares directed at Maddie’s pert, round behind. It happens so often she barely notices anymore.

  It’s mission: Where the Hell is Colin when I grudgingly part with the ten dollars entry fee and we step inside the apartment that looks identical to all the other student apartments, minus the fifty or so intoxicated bodies crammed inside. Weaving through the tightly packed crowd, my hand remains in Maddie’s firm grip as she scours the room for the stocky dirty blond who has no idea of the effect his name alone has on my best friend.

  “Should we get a drink?” Maddie says loudly over the blaring dance song.

  “Sure,” I shout back. “I’ll have that tea you were supposed to make me.”

  Maddie flicks a glance my way long enough to tsk, like I’m not taking the reason we’re here serious.

  My ambush from car to front door means I literally have everything with me. My coat, my purse. Keys. And you can bet your sweet ass I don’t trust a single person here to go leaving anything lying around. This has been my favorite coat for the past two years, and I’ve grown quite attached to my credit cards and cash as well.