Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  He tilts his head from side to side. “I might for five.”

  Him and Brooke share a look. “Same,” she says.

  Kimberly’s drink of water almost kills her. “What was that now?”

  “You would eat that,” I say to Brooke, glancing at the falafel, “but you complained over an old Frito that hadn’t been in anyone’s mouth?”

  “I haven’t got Rabies,” West says, sounding put out.

  “Breezy has,” someone else says. Everyone laughs.

  I collar Brooke as we’re leaving. It’s raining outside, and we stand under the sloping canopy in front of the restaurant. “Where are you staying?” I ask her. There hasn’t been that many opportunities to talk to her, not with everyone around. Brooke makes friends like you wouldn’t believe. My teammates haven’t left her alone all night.

  “The Harbor Inn. Your aunt wanted us to stay with her, but Kimberly shut that down.”

  “That’s right by us. We’re in the Hilton.” I eye Aunt Steph and Anna leaving the restaurant. Steph smiles and waves. Guess this is it.

  I push my hands into my suit pants pockets and suck in a breath.

  “I’ll see you at school, then?” I can’t tell if that’s a question or not, but Brooke doesn’t sound or look any more pleased about that fact than I do. It’s little consolation, but I’ll take it. There isn’t much I can do about it. She’s got work, I’ve got another game that I need to get some sleep for.

  “Yeah, I’ll see you at school.” I pinch the cold fabric of her jersey between two fingers. “You can wear this.”

  Brooke snorts. “Obviously. Next time I’ll come wearing a paper mask of your face. How’s that for you?”

  I suck in air through my teeth. “Frightening.” We both laugh, and I talk myself out of reaching for her when she starts backing away.

  “I’ll keep an eye on your game while I’m at work,” she says. “And don’t torture West too much. He’s been through a lot already. He needs your support now.”

  I scale my jaw with my palm, laughing. “West needs to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth out with Bactine.”

  Brooke smiles, straight, perfect white teeth against her naturally pink lips.

  What the hell is it about her?

  She’s still on my mind when I’m back at the hotel, and I could use a break from it all. Wasn’t she supposed to be the solution to freeing me up from relationships? She’s having the reverse effect, pushing me to rethink our bet and what I thought I was getting out of it. Brooke’s the one in charge here, not me.

  West’s sitting on the twin bed adjacent to mine, his back against the headboard. He’s watching our game on an iPad. “We come out in the second with no flow. We just lose it, and our lead.”

  “The second was sloppy,” I agree. “Too on the edge, and we gave up too many penalties.” We’d put the Terriers on the power play twice. We killed both power plays off, but still. It was exhausting just watching it. “We could go through some breakouts at morning skate. Get the puck out wide to get out of the zone more.”

  “Look right here.” West tilts the iPad, loaded with a specific breakdown of our strongest plays and weakest mistakes, to show me the screen. “Look at all that space. Our D isn’t marking him. Porter’s so focused on the puck, he’s left the forward wide open, right in front of the net. This third line’s gotta learn how to fucking communicate.”

  “I’ll mention it,” I say.

  If I think about the game too much or start analyzing every play and mistake this late in the night, I’ll never be able to get any sleep.

  It becomes clear around an hour later, ESPN on the TV screen, that I’m not getting any sleep whether I obsess over the game or not. I can’t wind down, and I’m becoming more and more frustrated with myself.

  I sit up and push off the bed. I’m only wearing shorts, and I grab a T-shirt from over the back of the chair at the tiny table with the big, ugly lamp on it. I stretch the T-shirt over my head, then grab my jacket.

  West points his eyes at my socked feet as I sit on the chair and put on a pair of Nikes. “Uh, where do you think you’re going, mister? Curfew’s in half an hour.”

  “Out,” I say, leaning over my right knee. It’s averaging forty degrees out, maybe even lower now, so I pull up my socks.

  “And leave me here worrying sick over you?” West tuts. “I want you back in this hotel room at midnight and not a minute later, young man.”

  I stand up and snatch my phone off the bed. “See you in a bit.”

  Any one of the staff could be hanging around the hotel, and I don’t mess around in the lobby in case someone sees me and questions where I’m going so late. When I’m outside, I call Kimberly.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Brooke with you?”

  “What’s it to you?” Kimberly says defiantly.

  I’m already walking in the direction of Brooke’s hotel. The rain’s coming down harder, and I flip up my hood with one hand, regretting the shorts. Kimberly’s question makes a loop around my brain, and I stop walking, glancing up at the tall, brick building ten feet down the sidewalk, overlooking the river.

  “Nothing,” I tell Kimberly. “It’s not important.” I hang up the call, tip my face into the icy rain, and put my phone away.

  Tensions run high before the puck’s even dropped. Forty-five seconds after we faceoff, straight after the first line change, Daniel Cross, left winger, is wiped out off a massive hit delivered by a Boston defenseman. He gets back up after a minute on his forearms and knees, but that’s just the beginning.

  I’m racing up ice in my third shift with the puck on my stick. Both Ds skate into the slot, and I dash the puck straight down the middle. Dodging the D on my right, I reach forward and swipe my stick across the ice, scooping the puck back on my blade and leaving the defense behind.

  I could shoot now and probably get it in, but I call out to West, who’s streaking down the right side, just ahead of me, then sling the puck to him on my backhand. It hits his tape on the curve, and he flips it in over the goalie’s leg pad.

  A huge body rams into me, and I crumple at the waist, my shoulder and my helmet smacking into the glass as I drop to the ice. The whistle blows, and Kempy’s got one of the Terriers up against the glass by the neck of his jersey.

  When I’m standing up, I grab the fucking lunatic who charged me when I didn’t even have the puck, and a linesman hustles himself between us, the rest of my team and some of Boston’s skating over to get involved.

  “Come on,” the D-man with a face like Chewbacca goads me with a smile, shoving at the linesman.

  I reach around black and white stripes, and we’re both skating circles around the wedged-in official, trying to get to each other.

  Someone pulls on the back of my jersey, dragging me away. The D’s sent to the box, and Kempy skates to the door at the half boards, unclipping his helmet. He stomps down the tunnel, pulling off his helmet and flinging it at the wall.

  I’ve been handed a penalty for roughing, and I glide over to the box, rubbing a glove over the front of my jersey to release it from where it’s stuck in the top of my pants, damp with snow. Awolnation ‘Sail’ drowns out the arena noise, and the officials gather around the video monitor and put on their headsets. Our Assistant coach heads down the bench to find out what the holdup is.

  I sit on the bench in the penalty box and get my breathing back on track. It’s another bad penalty, and Kempy’s been ejected. After the refs have watched the replay, the crowd stands and boos when Spencer, the D-man who put me on my ass, is kicked out on a game misconduct for instigating a fight.

  The Terriers make a vocal fuss over the call, their coach’s neck veins ready to pop. I pick up a water bottle and spray my face with it.

  In retaliation to us holding Leonard off from our net, blocking as many shots as possible, Boston’s defense gets restless and pissed off. By the middle of the third, the game’s completely changed, and we’re all under threat of picking up maj
or penalties. We’re leading the game, 2-1, and Boston are piling the pressure on. Their skating’s sloppy, though, and it’s getting harder not to kick back at all the chirping and the sly elbows and slashes creeping into the game.

  It all kicks off in front of our net. Leonard streaks inside the circle off the rush, and Kater throws his stick out, knocking Leonard off the puck and off his skates. He goes sliding across the ice, a tripping penalty’s called, and then the puck’s shot at our net after the whistle, dinging off the side post.

  A stick lands at the top of West’s back in a snide crosscheck, and the winger shoves his glove into the side of West’s helmet. West snaps and pivots on his skates, throwing out his elbow and dragging both him and the winger down, tripping over another body in the crease.

  It’s fucking mayhem.

  We win the game 3-1.

  “This is your final piece?” My Intermediate Arts Professor tents his fingers on the corner of my sketch, angling it toward him on the table and tipping his wire-rimmed glasses down the bridge of his nose.

  “My final piece,” I confirm. I’m not changing my mind again. Besides, I’m running out of time. It’s this or I’m ripped to shreds by the other art professors during my final critique. And I can’t fail in any of my classes. It’ll taint my grade average, and there’s no room for error or indecisiveness. Not when I had every opportunity to avoid it. For the only time in my life, I don’t want to blend in. I want to stand out. I need to be seen.

  Professor James’ head bobs, analyzing my charcoal sketch with narrowed, critical eyes. “Okay,” he says, still nodding. Then he walks away, back to his desk in the front corner of the studio.

  What in the hell? That’s it? ‘Okay?’ What does that even mean?

  I straighten out my picture for some heavy scrutinization. The girl I was working on is out, the Northvale Warriors men’s hockey team taking her place. During the Boston game, I snapped an impromptu picture of the team while they crowded the bench during a timeout. Roman was standing on the other side of the boards, head turned sideways to look across the ice. His left skate was rolled to the heel, and he held the butt of his stick to the ice, the curved blade in his glove under his chin.

  I’d opened the camera on my phone and snapped the moment. There was no huge, poignant reason why. The casual look on Roman’s face, on his teammates’ faces, was camera worthy, I suppose. It was to me, anyway. A split-second of artistic inspiration, and I took it, freezing it in time. Each of their expressions, however similar, tells a slightly different story, shining varying shades of light on how the game’s going. And now they’re part of my art project.

  No pressure there. Roman doesn’t know, so it’s fine. The picture of him I’d outlined on a bar napkin while I was on my break at work, camped out under the TV screen, is an entirely different story. That went in the trash the moment it dawned on me what I was doing, and I’ll never speak about or think of it again.

  It’s a secret I’ll share only with myself.

  That Saturday night game against Boston had been worlds away from Friday’s. Penalties were tossed out throughout the periods, and Roman had taken some ugly hits I was surprised to watch him come back from so quickly. I can’t imagine his coach will be all that pleased with him, considering he’s the captain, and their leader. But the Terriers were playing dirty, and the Warriors answered. I’m pleased I wasn’t there for it.

  I’ve got another shift at work tonight. Extra, since I took off Friday to drive out to Boston. Kimberly’s been staying with me and Maddie for over a week now, and she’s in the kitchen when I return to the apartment after my final afternoon class.

  “Hey.” I drop my backpack onto the table and walk over to the fridge. I grab one of the bottles of apple juice and twist open the cap, easing my gaze to Kimberly, who’s statuesque at the oven stove just staring at me. I take a drink. “What?” I say, recapping the juice.

  “Nothing,” she says, an air of indifference about her. “Would you like some oatmeal?”

  “At three o’clock in the afternoon?”

  “Why not?”

  I take my juice and pick up my bag. “No thank you.”

  “I don’t mind making it for you. I’m having some anyway.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I call back.

  “Okay!” Kimberly’s voice chases me down the hallway to my bedroom. “I’ll just fix you a small bowl, then.”

  I lift the plate off my tray and slide it onto the booth table. “One buffalo, one honey garlic.” I slide on the remaining plate, then hand out the sodas and beers. “I’ll be right back with your cheese fries and chorizo burger.”

  Work’s been unusually busy from the moment I pinned my hair back and tied my apron. I’m always grateful not to be freezing my butt off on the sidewalk, though. Winter’s crept in, and any more nights as of late and I’ll be immortalized as a glossy ice sculpture for all future winters to come. My plaque would read: Here lies Brooke Torre. Silly college student who sacrificed her prime years to perish on the street corner for minimum wage. RIP Shit for Brains.

  I drop off the fries and burger, and drift through the rest of my shift on autopilot. I save that setting for when I really don’t have the energy for entertaining and humoring customers, and tonight’s one of those nights. Plus, I have a 9:30 class in the morning that I’m already tormenting myself over.

  I’m hanging out at the bar when my shift ends, sipping on a Diet Coke and chatting to Lisa. She’s thinking about getting a new tattoo, and I’ve offered to draw one and then henna it on to her to see how it looks. I’m always looking for blank skin to get my hands on and paint, so I’m happy to do it.

  Lisa’s blue eyes coast to my right, rounding slightly as a modest smile manifests on her lips. She glances at me, and then slots her fingers into the tops of three empty glasses on the bar and picks them up. “I’ll check in with you before you leave.”

  “Okay,” I say. It’s slowed down compared to the earlier hustle, and now I’m not running around on my feet, every second of my shift packed with one table to see to or another, I tune into how hungry I am, and how this soda’s making that emptiness worse. It’s making me kinda sick.

  “Still waiting for that phone call,” a voice says from behind me.

  I turn my head, and Luke Cole’s filling the padded leather stool with his tall, athletic body. He’s got most people’s eyes on him from around the bar while he does it.

  I wrap my hands around my glass and lean on my forearms, so tempted to smile at him. “Not from me, I hope.”

  A smile glimmers in his deep blue eyes. “That was the point of me giving you my number.”

  “You gave Champ’s your number.”

  He laughs at that. Not out loud, just a humble slip that lifts his chest and curves his mouth. “You’re going to be hard work, is that it?”

  “Your first guess is correct.” He hasn’t looked away from me. Not once. And I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling since I gave myself permission to indulge. I really hate that. What am I even smiling at? Then I ask, because how could I not? “What do you want?” I’m not questioning him. I’m confused by him.

  My gaze automatically slopes to Luke’s lower lip drawn between his teeth.

  “You.”

  Did I just hear him right?

  “You want me?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Funny now I’m pounds lighter I start showing up on people’s radars. I don’t know if that makes me feel better, worse, or the same.

  My eyes narrow. I fix my expression, aiming for less hostility. “Why?”

  His mouth parts to soft laughter, his eyes opening like he genuinely finds what I’ve just asked funny. “You need a reason?”

  Is that cockiness, or does he just not know why himself?

  “I don’t,” I say, unwrapping my apron from around my waist and dumping it over the bar, to the shelf underneath. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Luke.”

  I pick up food on the way hom
e. Enough greasy takeout to feed four people. It’s after eleven, so Maddie and Kimberly are probably in bed.

  I make as little noise as possible putting my key in the door and opening it. I grab paper towels and take them and the bags of food into my room with me. There’s a clean work outfit in my wardrobe, and I dump what I’m wearing in my laundry basket and change into sleep shorts and a tank top, tug out my hair tie and leave my hair loose. I rub my fingers into my scalp, where my hair physically hurts from being tied up all night.

  My head jerks over my shoulder when my bedroom door opens, and Kimberly’s standing in my room without knocking first. “You scared me! I though everyone was in bed.”

  Kimberly looks at me blankly, standing in an oversized lime green T-shirt that floats around her thighs, her curly hair loose over her shoulders. “I was in bed. I woke up when I heard you coming in.” Her heavy gaze dips to the bed behind me, and the two bags of food on it.

  I adjust my position so I’m standing in front of it, hiding behind the farse of pulling back the quilt. Like I would actually climb in there and drip greasy takeout all over my bed.

  “Did you need anything?” I ask Kimberly, glancing back at her. I really want her to leave now.

  She gets this look of trepidation on her face, and panic seeps into me at an alarming rate.

  “Brooke… what’s all that food?”

  “All what food?” Really, Brooke? That’s all you’ve got?

  Kimberly’s gaze slips to the evidence. “On the bed. The food in the bags.”

  I clamber onto the defensive, because I can’t do this. I just can’t. “Kimberly, I’m really tired. Do you mind?”

  “That’s a lot of food for one person.” She isn’t letting it go. And I feel like I’m being pushed into a corner I can’t negotiate my way out of. My head starts to swim. “Do you eat that much all the time?”

  “It’s not just for me. I brought it in here while I changed for bed. It’s for all of us.”