Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  I sit down on the desk chair, staying clear of the bed. I still have to jump in the shower and get dressed for my first class. Squeeze in breakfast if there’s time, and Jen doesn’t take too much of it.

  I can’t even lie, so I don’t. I’m only half-functioning after last night.

  “Now’s not the greatest time, but since you’re already here…” I blow out a sigh and lean back against the edge of the desk. “No more random shit like that in the bathroom, Jen. My head’s just not in it at the minute.”

  “Your head’s not in it?” Christ, could she look more repulsed? “So, you were hard for what? Because I was the only other person in there, and I doubt you had a boner for the skid marks on the porcelain.”

  I rub the knots from the muscles in the back of my neck, but the tightness there doesn’t loosen. “Jen, don’t make me fucking say it again.”

  When I look up, Jen’s standing in front of me, her fingers on her jacket zipper as she slides it down the silver track. She isn’t wearing a bra underneath, her perky tits ample and round as the jacket parts to reveal them, and then she’s shrugging out of it. I watch it drop to the floor, staring at it like I can summon it back onto her very naked torso.

  My eyes rise back to Jen’s chest, and she steps into my personal space, nudging my thighs apart with the outside of hers. Still in her workout leggings, she rests her hands on my shoulders and straddles me, lowering herself bit by bit, her erect pink nipples hovering deliberately near to my mouth, like she’s hoping I’ll slip one in and send us right back to the way things were.

  Brooke’s so heavily on my mind, a short stroll down memory lane doesn’t sound so bad, but I don’t want Jen in that way. The fun’s been sucked and spat out. She whispers to my dick, but the rest of me doesn’t hear her. It never did.

  I circle her waist with one arm and stand with her pressed against me. When she’s on her feet, I crouch down and pick up her jacket from the floor.

  The bedroom door glides open and West lets himself in unannounced. What he’s walked in on registers in his expression, planting a wicked frown over his eyes before he walks back out.

  “You need to leave,” I say firmly to Jen. “I lied before. There’s nothing for us to talk about. I’d rather stay friends with you, but you can’t keep coming over here and doing this or expecting more from me just because it happened already. And don’t corner me in bathrooms. Can we just cool it for a while?”

  Jen snatches her jacket from my fingers, lasering me with the stink eye as she slips back into it, peeling the zipper up and covering her breasts. Her green eyes shine with wetness, her throat working as she swallows noisily. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  See? This is the exact thing I didn’t want to happen. I don’t want to be the reason she’s crying. I didn’t want to be put in this position of turning her down so brutally. I’d tried to dodge and avoid it, but I’ve only made it worse. She’s trying to make me care when in truth I don’t give a fuck. Maybe she’s right, and there is something wrong with me.

  “I tell you I love you and you pull this shit on me?” Jen’s clutching her jacket to her chest with two fists, her tears a dependable flow soaking her cheeks.

  She told me she loved me? Guess I lowered that one behind a wall and forgot about it.

  “Should I lie to you and then keep fucking you knowing that’s all it’ll ever be?” I push my fingers through my hair, exasperated and tired. Pretty sure saying that was out of line, but I can’t find any middle ground I’m comfortable standing in.

  “If we spend more time together…” Jen’s eyes round with hope that makes me want to give her whatever she asks for. “You could love me too, Roman. You’re the only guy I’ve been with. I don’t want anyone else.” That bomb explodes with nuclear effect, splattering me with ice cold reality. Jennifer Dawson’s slept with no one other than me since freshman year. Cue the haybale and chirping crickets.

  I give her a blank look, refusing what she just said from sinking in. No wonder she thinks she loves me. She struts around campus like she could have anyone she wants, and she has had whoever she wants, and it’s all been bullshit. Now I feel like I’m the one who’s been lied to.

  “It’s kinda early for this, Jen,” I try and reason. “I haven’t even been in the shower.”

  Jen’s one-shoulder shrug is as hostile as it gets. “Because you were taking Brooke home. You let her stay here last night. West told me, so no need to dredge up some fake narrative.”

  Here she comes, bringing the drama. It’s a shortcut to a swift exit. I’m not even mad West’s told her. He’s done me a favor.

  “I don’t need to tell you where I’ve been or what I was doing, so don’t even start.” She can hang around this apartment all day, but I’m getting in the shower and then I’m leaving. I’m done with the explanations.

  I grab a pair of sweatpants and boxers from my dresser and duck into the bathroom. I take longer than I normally would in the shower and then brushing my teeth, and when I walk back into my bedroom, Jen’s gone. My phone’s where I left it on the dresser, a lengthy text message from Jen fresh on the home screen.

  I’ll save that one for later. I’ve reached my limit of Jen for one morning, and I’m not sure I can take any more of her today. She’s theatrical in the worst way, and I’m starting to reconsider bothering my ass over any kind of friendship with her.

  I’m running on reserves for my fluid mechanics lecture, but I’m confident in the problem set assignment I worked on last week and emailed to the professor before class. With the rest of my homework, it’s worth ten percent of my grade, so no room for slacking here. Days like this, I wish I’d picked a major with a little more leeway, or that the bitter taste of coffee anywhere near my lips didn’t make me gag. I’ve played around with the idea of withdrawing from one of my electives before the final cutoff but could never commit to it. I hate giving up. In anything.

  My schedule’s ridiculously tight in places, and I stuff my textbook, laptop and notebook into my backpack and get ready to leave. I’ve got eleven minutes to make it to the rink on time for afternoon practice, and the rink couldn’t be farther across campus. It’s practically in a different town.

  “Catch you later,” I say to Mitchell, the guy I usually sit next to for these lectures.

  He glances upward, still grouping his shit together and clearly not in as much of a hurry as I am. “Yeah, in a bit, King.”

  The room’s on the smaller side, with tiered seating, and I leave from the front of the class, just missing the surge and booking it down the hallway, to the nearest building exit.

  I look up as I push through one half of the double doors. The sky bulges white, snowflakes fluttering to rest on bare tree benches and the benches. It’s freezing, minus-one last time I checked. Once the sun—wherever the hell it is—goes down, it’ll get colder.

  Pulling up the hood on my Warriors jacket, I jog down the steps and keep up the pace. The snow’s setting on the ground, and the spinning flakes come faster and thicker, swirling in dizzy clusters and clinging to my face. Every piece of slush is aimed at my eyes to slow me down. I’m prepared this time, and I’ve got two bottles of water in my backpack, so no canteen stops today.

  Someone calls out to me on the quad, and I throw up two fingers, not bothering to look up and see who it is. Mounds of snow have piled up on my shoulders as I leg it across the arena parking lot. I shake my head and let the snow fly, tugging my hood down around my neck and heading inside, into the warmth.

  This afternoon’s practice is set up around the back-to-back non-conference games this weekend. Over seventy percent of the campus will have cleared out, so half-empty stands is to be expected over Thanksgiving. Doesn’t detract from what we’re working to achieve, though, and Quinnipiac’s goalie is our main focus if we’re posting a single point. Finding an open area of net around Maxon the way he tracks pucks will be nothing short of a mission. If we’re going to take care of business, then that means taki
ng care of him first.

  Rather than practice with my usual 80 flex stick, I grab a 75 and a roll of tape. I’m working on shooting angles and quick release with barely any stickhandling today, so the 75 should work. Not too soft.

  “Oh, shit. Check this out.” West leans his forearms on his thigs, his phone screen illuminated between his hands. I’m taping my stick as I walk over to his stall, and West straightens his position. I sit down, narrowing my eyes at the picture he shows me. “Is that not hot?”

  The cheerleader West’s been chasing after is in just her bra, pigtails, and West’s name painted across the pushed-up curve of her left breast in lipstick, or marker—something that’s bright red. 22, his jersey number, is painted across the right one. Picture cuts off below her black satin bra, so there’s nothing else to see. Obviously she’s got amazing tits, and obviously she’s had some help with that from her padded bra. Not that West looks like he gives a fuck either way.

  “Did you get anywhere with her?” I yank on the tape, tear through the tough threads, and stick down the end on the blade curve, smoothing it over with my fingers.

  “She was hinting for a date, but I need some time to think about it.” West pinches two fingers on the screen and pulls out, stretching and zooming in on her face. But then he quickly drags the picture down, to her generous chest.

  “To think about what?”

  “Whether she’s a clinger.”

  And evidently the proof of that’s in her cleavage.

  “How can you get an answer from thinking about whether she’s a clinger? Wouldn’t it make more sense to take her out and find out that way?”

  West throws me side-eye, scoffs, and then laughs. “I’m not taking advice from you, King. You can fucking keep it. Try using it on yourself.”

  Kempy and Bowers crowd around us. “Who’s she, dickface?” Bowers asks.

  “Pipe.” West smirks. “She’s fair game now, right?”

  “In your fucking dreams.” Bowers snatches the phone right out of West’s hands and zooms out on the picture, reuniting the pair of tits with a face. He exhales a scoff. “West, carry on getting deep with your cousin and leave Piper to me.”

  “Lemme see that.” Kempy makes a play for the phone but West shoots up from his stall and snatches it back.

  “Bowers, remind me to tell Rachel you’re ready for your ball and chain back.” West slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket that’s hanging up, and we stop fucking around and walk out to the ice.

  “You aren’t actually getting back with her, are you?” I glance sideways at Bowers as we hike down the hallway. Rachel piper wasn’t just Bowers’ ball and chain, she was his noose. He got out at the right time if you ask me.

  Bowers grunts behind the cage of his helmet. “Am I fuck. I’ve been talking to this new chick.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Forgot her name. She gave me her student email last week, and I’ve been killing a couple classes with that. If it carries on the way it’s been going, there’s a definite dick pic on its way to her.”

  I fasten my helmet before I reach the door. “Make sure you caption it, so she knows what it is she’s looking at.”

  I step onto the ice, Bowers’ voice right behind me as we skate to the net.

  “She fucking knows. She’ll be choking on it by the end of the week.”

  We warm up, and Coach doesn’t keep us hanging around for longer than he needs to before we move straight into our sections of ice for drills. I primarily work on shooting through traffic and protecting the puck; making sure my stick’s on the ice where I want the pass. All basic shit, but the whole point of this week’s practices is based around putting pressure on the net and finding lanes not necessarily to score—because Maxon’s going to do what he does to stop us—but creating the chance of a rebound and getting those passes off quickly and accurately.

  All in all, it’s a good, hard practice, and I’ll probably use the 75 shaft for the game Friday, see how it works out.

  We finish with 3 on 3 games at either end of the red paint, the aim not to shoot and score but to push and pull the puck to avoid poke checks and confuse the D. It’s nowhere close to as easy as it sounds, and there’s laughter around the group when the puck’s overhandled, not pulled in, or shot nowhere near the net.

  Coach hollers for us to get a move on, lifting the game pace, and we rotate players.

  The whistle blows. “That’s it, boys.” Coach calls the end of practice.

  My stick slides through my bottom hand and I toe drag the puck, offering Wolfy a tiny sniff of it before I rip a shot on net and show these losers how it’s done.

  “What a fucking showboat,” West grumbles. He pulls off his helmet, sweat running down his hair over his temples. “You’re going to be that flexer in the NHL who’s bankrupt off his first eight-year contract. Complete fucking washout.”

  Wolfy laughs. “The crowning number-one slot for NHLers who peaked at NCAA level, but now you recognize his stubbly face from that five-minute commercial for your local family Nissan dealership.”

  I wipe my glove over my smile. “Fuck off.”

  “I’ll be like, hey, I used to know him.” Wolfy grins at me, the dick. “Then I’ll just cringe, turn the TV off, and go buy a Mercedes Benz.”

  “His senior and alumni pictures will be all over Steph’s house. Framed on the walls and sideboards, then when she gets visitors and people ask about him, she’ll just smile and flip the pictures upside down, burying the memories with her shame.” West cracks up over his own joke, bumping fists with Wolfy.

  “And at the Islanders’ post-game press conference, the media will be like, ‘what happened to first-round draft pick Roman King?’ And the nettled manager will be all, ‘Now ask me a fucking serious question.’”

  “He’ll be hella active douching around on TikTok—”

  “We fucking get it, West.” I shut down the shit show and skate to the door with my helmet under my arm. I tug off a glove, grab a water bottle and go to the locker room.

  I’ve got too much homework to start taking liberties and asking to see Brooke, so I do what I’m supposed to and knuckle down on the required research for the design and development writing portion for one of my practical assignments.

  Two hours in and a whole load of mathematical equations later, I decide that’s enough reading and note-taking for one night, and I go see what West and Kempy are up to.

  Obviously nothing. Both of them stationary on the couch, committed to the NHL game on the PlayStation, because that’s all anyone seems to play anymore, too fucking lazy to install a new game.

  Play goes on for another ten seconds before Kempy rage quits when Pastrnak for the Bruins lights the goal.

  “Fuck this.” He tosses the controller onto the couch and stands up. “Buttons are stuck.”

  West snorts, exiting out of the game. “Total bullshittery. You’re just garbage. Trash in life, trash on the ice.”

  Kempy slips West the finger. “Don’t you need to go and give yourself a blowjob or something?”

  “Not tonight. Your mom’s already taken care of it.” West cups his junk over his shorts, and I pick up the controller to take over from Kempy.

  Two games in, one win each, West drops, “Jen’s added me on WhatsApp, and she’s sent me, like, five messages about you.”

  “I hope you deleted them,” I reply, flicking a wrister at the net and into Tukka Rask’s blocker.

  “She asked about Brooke. I didn’t deny or lie.”

  I scramble for the puck. “Good.”

  “Fuck.” West takes his aggression out on the controls, turning the puck over on the blue line for me to swoop in and skate back up ice. “Do you even like her?” West asks.

  I flick him a hasty glance, refocusing on the game screen. “Who?”

  “Brooke. She’s in your bed last night, then hours later you’re stripping Jen out of her clothes. Aren’t you supposed to not have time for that?” West’s heavy on the sar
casm.

  “Jen stripped herself out of her clothes, and you were the one who let her into my room, asshole. That was the first I knew she was coming over here.”

  “So what the hell’s Brooke? Are you two fucking around or what? Because this has gone beyond a bet.”

  I regain possession of the puck. “Something like that.”

  “It’ll turn bad. I’m not saying I know Brooke well or anything, but what if this plays out and she’s exactly like Jen? How are you clawing your way out of that crap dumpster, oh-so-fucking wise one?”

  Kempe for the Kings is on the puck, carrying it coast to coast. He takes a hit at neutral by one of Andre’s players, and he twists up like a turkey on the ice, looking all double jointed. West screeches like a fucking bird, flicking the joystick for the instant replay. We both laugh, replaying the glitch over and over until I can hardly breathe. When West starts freaking out on the couch, doing an impression of Kempe, that’s it, I’m done.

  “You need help,” I tell him, catching my breath. My head aches from laughing so hard, and my face hurts. All the muscles in my stomach have tightened. “Why can’t you see something funny and just fucking laugh? Why do you need to reenact it?”

  “It’s a sickness.” Calming himself down, West pulls in air, inflating his chest. He reaches for the glass of water on the coffee table, guzzles it, then rolls his shoulders and un-pauses the game when he’s composed.

  “This stays between me and you, okay?” I say between playing.

  “No doubt. I keep all your secrets, King.” West flicks the puck at my goalie and scores. “Pure skill.”

  “First of all, I’ve got no secrets. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Fine.” West’s mouth peels into a smirk, and the final buzzer goes on the game. “Wanna hear some of Kempy’s then?”

  “As much as I want to catch syphilis.” I exit out of the game, power off the PS4 and then my controller.

  “Yeah, all right. What is it?” West takes my controller and puts them both on top of the console.