“Of course.” Maddie nods, stands up and scoops my hand in hers.
Outside the late-night diner, the local, greasy hangout catering to worse-for-wear students, almost as many people cram into the streets as they did the bar. Maddie, Sienna, and Claudia talk to anyone and everyone as we wait in line to give our orders and get our tickets.
When we’ve got our food, I’m the only one who doesn’t immediately unwrap the chicken sandwich and start eating. Although I’m famished, I’ll eat when I get home.
“Thought you were hungry?” Maddie drunkenly knocks into me as we walk out of the diner.
“I am.”
“How are you even alive? You barely eat.” Snatching the sandwich from my hands, Maddie reaches up to ram it into my mouth. Crippled with laughter, we stumble into a group of guys huddled together outside the diner.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” Maddie scolds them, which just makes me laugh harder. The guys rope her into whatever they’re talking about, and Maddie sidles between two of them, eating her fried chicken wrap as she does her best to stay balanced on two feet.
“Causing trouble again?”
I look around me for the voice.
Roman’s sitting on the low wall in front of the flower planter display on the street corner. His hands are in his jeans pockets, a black sweater hugging the planes of his chest and his square shoulders. The corner of his mouth quirks. Just a little bit.
I cross my ankles, wobbling on the spot. “Well, well, well. You again.” I’m starting to like running into him. A girl could do worse.
Roman laughs, head dropping as he looks off to the side. He brings his gaze slowly back to me. “So, it’s like that?”
My feet are now officially on fire, so I walk over to the wall and sit beside Roman while Maddie entertains her new comrades. She could be a while, and Sienna and Claudia are still in the diner.
I’ve been with Roman for all of five seconds, and the blond girl he’s always trying to escape is walking toward us, holding her black clutch purse in two hands in front of her. She’s shivering, her shoulders hunched against the frigid cold.
She hurries the last remaining steps as she gets nearer to Roman, creating a wind that blows through her long hair, so it’s hovering above her shoulders.
“There you are,” she says, stopping next to Roman. She doesn’t sit.
Roman pulls his gaze from mine, his carefree expression drastically changing to one less carefree. Before he can say anything to her, I shuffle in closer, looping my arm through his and leaning my body into him.
For a moment, the blond looks stunned. Her smile breaks down until her mouth’s a flat line across her face.
I’m not taking it any further than this, but clearly what I’m doing’s enough to make small waves.
Roman doesn’t push me away, so I guess this is okay.
“How are you getting home, B?” he turns to me and asks.
I look blankly at him. We haven’t actually arranged anything yet. The plan for the moment is dawdling on the sidewalk while we wait for Sienna and Claudia.
“Uber,” I say, but it’s more of a question than an answer.
“You wanna share with us?”
“There’s four of us,” I say, chasing it with a yawn that brings tears to my eyes.
Roman looks up, glancing at Maddie and her troop. Colin O’Shae is with them, and now I may never get her to move from that spot. Looks like everyone’s turned up, and this night could potentially stretch on for longer.
Dropping my head on Roman’s biceps, I close my eyes. The sickness is overwhelming now, and I concentrate on breathing in and out. I need to eat. And soon.
“Roman.” That’s Jen talking. Her name’s suddenly sprung to my mind. “They’re waiting for us. We need to leave. Now.
“You go. I’ll text West later what I’m doing.” Roman’s abs tense against the backs of my fingers as he talks, the deep vibrations from his voice reverberating through me.
“I’ll wait with you.”
“No,” Roman says, his firm tone out of character. “You just said they’re waiting. There are no taxis tonight. There’s a line back there the size of the equator. Just go. Don’t worry, you’ll hear from me.”
I peel my eyes open in the silence that follows. Jen meets my eyes, a look of frustration in hers.
“But…” she doesn’t finish that, just slides her gaze between me and Roman, probably trying to understand the situation. “I can stay with you.” It’s said in offering, but I can tell Roman wants rid of her. I’m just drunk enough that if I cared less about showing him up, I’d tell him to cut the cord and let this girl go already. She clearly doesn’t do hints, and Roman’s dropped about as many in five minutes as I’ve received in my life.
Well, I’ve done all I can here.
Tearing myself away from Roman’s solid warmth—and believe me when I say that isn’t as easy as you might think—I take my sandwich and stand up. “I better, ah…” I point to Maddie and her tribe. “Go over there.”
Roman’s eyes narrow on me, but Jen’s already swooped in and claimed a space beside him. I pull my features into a ‘hey, I’m sorry. But what can I do?’ look, the faint smile ruining it at the end and stealing sincerity. I’d say my performance warrants a shaving of at least ten dollars off my debt.
The message I received an hour ago burns up my phone. I didn’t get the chance to reply, already running twenty minutes late for the interview I was roped into giving for the college paper. It’s Athlete Focus month, and since I’m leading point scorer across the nation in DI hockey, I’m October’s feature.
The girl firing questions at me—don’t ask me her name, I don’t remember it—aims another pointless bullet my way.
“Do you have any weird superstitions you stick to on game days?” She stuffs the microphone under my mouth, looking pretty pleased with herself, like I’ve never been asked this question five hundred times before.
We’re sitting on the half boards at the benches, and I’ve had to stop this girl from falling over them and onto the ice twice now. If it happens again, she can figure it out on her own. We could have done this anywhere, but she insisted we do it this way. Something about showing Northvale readers how relaxed I am in my own environment. I dunno. Maybe someone told her I was born right here in this rink.
“Not weird,” I say. “I don’t change my routine. I keep everything the same, from when I wake up, to when I eat. If it’s a big game, like a championship or playoffs, then I’ll stick to the same meals.”
She takes the mic away. “What meals are those?”
“Pasta. Mostly. I’ll always try and have it with broccolini.”
“Why?” her smile stretches.
“Because I like it.” I realize that answer is the most basic it could get, but it’s the truth. Nothing weird about it. My game day routines are based off what works, not what’s entertaining to other people. I don’t rely on a certain pair of lucky socks or wear my boxers inside out religiously. I think it’s a crock, and superstitions are for people who don’t believe they’re good enough to win on their own skill. Obviously, I would never let the rest of my team hear me say any of that. They’d toss me into a fire and watch me burn alive.
The junior reporter for Northvale U asks me to stay for a couple pictures with her once the interview’s over, and then I’m haul-assing to the parking lot, choosing not to waste precious time with the text message, driving straight home instead.
I blow through the apartment like a tornado, not at all prepared for who’s sitting on my couch, even though she told me she would be here.
I’d ask who let her in, but West walking out from the hallway leading to the bedrooms clears that short-term mystery up.
Kimberly turns and smiles sheepishly at me, hands tucked between her thighs, closing herself in. She knows she’s fucked up. Knows how fucking pissed I am with her. She doesn’t need me to say it, but I let loose on her anyway. I’ve just had to sit thr
ough a half hour of questioning made up of twenty percent of the actual sport I play, eighty percent what juice brands I prefer and whether I’m into the cool side of the pillow. I’m not in the best mood.
West takes one look at me, drops a look to my sister, and then walks back the way he came.
His bedroom door closes.
“Listen—” Kimberly springs to her feet.
“No, you fucking listen.” I press my keys into my pocket, staying by the door. Chances are, I’ll need to get out of here to stop myself from really going off. “You know you shouldn’t be here. Where does your school think you are?” I run a hand through my hair. “Where does Steph think you are? Fucking hell.” I tip my head back, a loud sigh streaming past my lips. “Did you tell her you were coming here? How did you get here?”
“Are you going to get even more angry with me if I tell you I hitched a ride some of the way?” The expression on her face is answer enough. I wish I’d never asked.
“And the rest of the way?”
“I took the bus.”
“Which you paid for how?”
She nibbles on the corner of her lip, eyes glassy as she progresses closer to tears. “Money from Uncle Paul’s wallet.”
I give that a minute. Okay, ten seconds.
“You didn’t.”
She nods. She damn well did.
“I don’t understand you, Kimberly. What’s going on? You can’t just crash here when shit gets tough. I’m not even here half the time. I’ve got two games this weekend. I’m gonna be in Connecticut for three days.”
“I’ll be fine by myself,” she says desperately. “You can trust me.”
I laugh. “You just admitted you stole money from your legal guardian. I can’t trust you, Kimberly. None of us can.” I shake my head, but my frustrations go nowhere. “What did you bring with you?”
A frown creeps over her eyes. “A couple bags.”
“Go get them and I’ll drive you back to Berlin.” No one’s got time for a road trip to New Hampshire, but Kimberly needs to go home and fix whatever she’s got herself into.
Her frown morphs into anger. “No fucking way. I’m staying here. West already said I could.”
“Yeah? Well West doesn’t make the decisions. Get your bags and then get in the truck.”
“Suck a dick, Roman. You’ll have to gag and bound me before I get in your stupid truck.”
“Don’t give me ideas, Kimberly.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” West steps into the living room in a pair of basketball shorts and socks. “You two need to cut that shit out. King, lay off. She’s obviously going through some stuff.”
Kimberly hedges me a smug smirk, one eye narrowed. She folds her arms over her chest. “Yeah, King.”
“She can have my room and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No you won’t,” I snap at West. “Because I’m taking her home. Where she lives.”
Like the stubborn little brat I grew up with, Kimberly turns away from me and sits on the couch. “Go knock a puck around a melting patch of ice and get off my back. I’m staying.”
I raise my eyes, to West sitting on the armchair, but he just shrugs back at me.
That afternoon, I sit through an hour-long lecture for my materials science and engineering class, but I’m zoned out of what the prof’s saying for most of it. I need focus, though, in the computer lab, and I push myself through the specified formulas for the design drawing assignment we’ve been given.
I’m in the same building as Colin O’Shae, and he’s in the student break room smashing his fist against the vending machine as I walk by the open door, destination ‘Exit’ so I can get home and convince Kimberly to go back to New Hampshire and put her delinquent ass in school before I have to be at the rink for afternoon skate.
I backtrack a couple steps, grabbing the doorframe and sticking my head in the room. “Yo, Col.”
He glances back at me. “What’s up, King?” Then he pounds on the plastic screen. “This piece of shit ate my dollar.”
I walk inside, holding up my hands because, you know, this is completely out of mine. I’m simply carrying out a favor for someone who I’d really like it returned from.
“Hey, so you know, I’m asking for someone else. I’m not interested in you that way.”
I completely understand the frown that settles over his eyes.
“I might know a girl who may or may not have creepy, peep-hole polaroids of you pasted across her bedroom walls. Does that sound like something you’d maybe wanna get behind? Or have you already got a girl on the go?”
Col smiles. And then I’m pretty sure he blushes, which makes me feel super fucking awkward.
“Not a girl,” he says over a subtle wince. “But there is someone.”
Brooke’s not gonna like this, but I did warn her. “Say no more.”
“Who is she?” O’Shae asks before I make it out into the hallway. Yeah, I’m not that stupid.
I turn around, backpedaling to the open door. “Sorry. Can’t tell you.”
Now he looks intrigued. “Is she hot?”
“Smoke show.”
His eyebrow arches. “Really?”
“Really. But you’ve got someone, so… best of luck with that.”
I shoot a text to West and Kempy to say I’ll meet them at the arena. No point trailing all the way home just to come back here.
As I walk across campus, reading plaques on buildings I’ve never even heard of, and have got no idea what’s inside those buildings, my mind keeps strolling back to Brooke. It’s doing that more and more lately, like I’ve lost control over my own brain.
But then Kimberly comes crashing in, wiping Brooke from view, and I feel the scowl settle over my face. This is a massive year for me. Captain for my team. Prospect for the New York Islanders, and I’d still like to graduate with a bachelor’s degree on top of that.
I’ve got no plans of being rostered to a farm team after this. I want that spot on the top line—second at a stretch—straight out of development camp. I’ve worked too hard for anything else.
I duck into one of the cafeterias on my way to the rink and snag a bottle of Powerade and two bottles of mineral water. My rehydration stash is in the truck, and like hell am I cutting back across campus to dip into it.
West and Kempy are already suiting up in the locker room when I get to the arena. They barely say a word, taping their socks and pulling on skates in thick silence that isn’t normal at all.
“What’s up with you two?” I tighten the laces in my pants, then grab my jersey off the bench in front of my stall and stretch it over my head and shoulder pads.
West’s hunched over his knee, yanking on the laces in his skates. “You can tell him.”
“One of you better fucking tell me.” I sit down and reach for my stick. Turn it in my hands and check out the tape job. A bit shabby, but it’ll do for today.
“Dude.” Kempy leans back against his stall, his black and white hockey gloves in his hands. “You could have told me your sister was coming.”
West mutters something under his breath. “He’s trying to say Kimberly’s walking around the apartment in silky underwear, and…” He glances sideways at Kempy, who looks ready to swing a fist. “Yeah, silky underwear. Not much more to say on that. That’s about the whole picture.”
Kempy can’t help his dopey, lopsided grin. “Congratulations on your sister.”
He might be smiling, but I’m not.
“Shut the fuck up.” I stand up and leave them in the locker room to talk shit where I can’t hear them. Stomp down the hallway and through the tunnel to the rink.
I step onto the ice and glide round the boards. Drag the first puck I see over the ice with my stick blade, then accelerate forward, controlling the puck on my backhand. I speed over the blue line and ding the puck off the crossbar, into the empty net.
Kimberly must be doing everything in her power to get on my nerves for threatening to send her home. It wasn�
��t even a threat. I meant it. I still want her to leave. Even more now she’s got herself on display for my teammates. She’s been seventeen for all of two minutes, and the girl acts like she’s an adult now. She’s a kid. An immature one attracting all the wrong attention.
The rest of my team starts filtering onto the ice. Kempy streaks up the boards and pivots in front of me, snow spray dusting my right leg and pants.
He rests his hand on the butt-end of his stick. “I’d never touch your sister.”
“I know that, douche. She’s just stressing me out. I wasn’t expecting her to turn up here.” We turn and skate to the other end of the ice for breakout drills. “I never know what she’s going to do next.”
Kempy nods under his helmet. “Well, you know I’m good for my word. Just let her do her thing. She’ll go home eventually.”
I drop my head, shaking off dry laughter. “You don’t know Kimberly. She never does what she’s supposed to.”
“So threaten her ass with child services.”
I slide him a look. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kempy skates to his wing, and I skate to where our two Ds, Austin Emmons and Robbie Kater, are standing at the top of the faceoff circle. West skates up, and we hang around until Coach blows the whistle, then skate to position.
Kater makes a play for the puck as soon as West receives the pass off Ems’ tape, slimming down West’s options for getting the puck outta the zone and getting on the breakaway. West’s on his off-wing, and he gets the puck up off the ice, chips it off the glass on his forehand. Kater gets nothing on it, and I scramble after the loose puck, sweeping it in on my blade and skating it over the line.
We go through all the breakout options and scenarios in our groups, and then skate over to the bench for a water break.
My head’s somewhere else when we set up on the blue line for timing drills, and I float through the rest of practice, dreading going back home. Kimberly’s been here less than a day, and already she’s causing problems. I can’t be this distracted at Connecticut, it could end up costing us both games. But while she’s here, that’s where my mind is—on her. I can’t control it. It just goes there, because she isn’t responsible for herself. Everyone else gets saddled with that role.
Rule #1 Page 9
