Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  “Tell me his name so I can Facebook stalk him,” Kimberly says from the passenger seat of my Fiat. I’ve got the heat on full blast, but this car’s so old-fashioned, the vents crank cold air for the first five minutes of me starting the engine. My windshield wipers battle against the sweeping snow, and I’m crawling along the road instead of driving, because I can hardly see asphalt beyond the yellow tips of my headlights.

  “Luke Cole,” I say to Kimberly, hunched over my steering wheel. “He’s on the football team, if that helps narrow your search.”

  Quietly, she scrolls through her phone, the tips of her nails tapping the screen. “God, he’s sensational.”

  I slide her a cynical look, but then line my gaze back up with the road. “He knows it, too.”

  “And that’s bad? If he’s as confident as he looks in these pictures, then you know he’s confident in bed.”

  It’s so strange hearing Kimberly talk that way; so open about sex when I’ve never even had it. I mentally check her age, reminding myself she’s only recently turned seventeen, because she acts older. Not a forced act. Her maturity’s as natural as it comes, and I can for sure picture her keeping her family permanently on their toes.

  It takes me longer than it should to get to the arena, and then it takes me another ten minutes to find a parking spot and squeeze into it. The weather’s worsening by the minute, and we’re in a white-out when we get out of the car and run to the main arena doors. Kimberly slips her arm through mine, her beautiful boots soaking up the snow and turning them not so beautiful.

  She groans at her feet, and we hurry through the front entrance.

  Catcalls start the moment we’re under the fluorescent lighting, my concentration reduced to not slipping and cracking our skulls open on the wet floor.

  Kimberly waves to the group of guys responsible like a megastar addressing her adoring fans, and I laugh at how one of the guys’ cheeks rosy because Kimberly looked at him.

  Wow. And I thought Maddie was powerful. Kimberly could be her apprentice. Together they could stop traffic.

  After we’ve handed in our tickets, we follow the signs for the correct stand in the student section. I’m surprised at how many people have showed up considering we’re still on break, and classes don’t start again until Monday. These fans are either super loyal or super bored.

  I can see the ice as we emerge from the tunnel, and I pause for a second while Kimberly walks up the steps to our seats. My heart feels so light it could float up out of my chest and I wouldn’t notice. My blood’s rushing, an all-over tingly sensation I’ve been turning a blind eye to since I pulled up to the arena. I’m hollowed-out, my guts and organs removed and stuffed instead with clouds and other silly stuff that makes people act in stupid, unexplainable ways. I would never in a million years admit it to anyone, but those feel like butterflies swirling and clashing in my belly.

  We aren’t as late as I thought we would be, and I stroll unhurriedly to the glass. The two teams are warming-up at their respective ends of the ice. Cheesy music plays from the speakers, and Warriors fans, young and old, are up in the stands dancing, the band enthusiastically playing along to the early 2000’s track.

  I spot Roman easily. His name and the number 14 on the back of his jersey. I press my thumbnail between my teeth to cover my smile while I watch him skating with the puck. He takes a shot on net, the puck hits the crossbar over the goalie’s shoulder, and bounces in.

  Energy hums under my skin, and I can’t remember ever feeling like this. It’s ridiculous. I’ve had crushes, but this feels like waiting in line for the highest, scariest rollercoaster at the park and dreading it as much as you can’t wait to ride it.

  The feeling’s too big. Uncontainable.

  Roman’s head comes up as I’m tearing myself away from the glass, and he’s seen me. I can’t read much of his expression through his helmet cage, but he’s skating over here, and my initial reaction is to turn around and run back down the tunnel, then pretend after the game I was never there and that must have been an imposter who looked exactly like me.

  Roman comes to a slow stop on the other side of the glass. Our gazes lock, and wearing his glove, he tugs at air over his shoulder.

  Frowning in confusion, I put my hand on my shoulder, trying to figure out what he’s trying to tell me. My fingers land in my hair, the loose curls damp on my coat from the snow. “Oh,” I say, my eyes rounding in understanding. I smile, and Roman copies with his own.

  This morning, I had an appointment at the hairdressers to strip the mint from my hair. I’ve gone back to my natural warm brown, brightening it with pastel pink and lilac balayage. I’m in love with the style and color. I’ll get bored with it soon enough and go for a new, daring shade, but for now, I’m happy.

  I don’t know if Roman likes it, or he’s merely pointing out the change, but I’m more concerned over me wanting him to like it, even though I did this for myself and no one else.

  Roman tosses me another careless, playful smile, unaware of what he’s doing to my insides. I’m reminded I’m standing in an arena packed with others when Roman turns and skates back to the rest of his team, and I’ve gotten carried away with myself to Fantasy Land.

  Kimberly drags her keen gaze over me as I find her in the stands and flip down the gray seat to sit on. Clutching the top of my wool hat, I tug it off and thrust my fingers into my hair, forcing volume and life back into my roots now I’m out of the snow. Hat head’s never been a promising look for me.

  “Can you explain to me what’s going on with my brother?” Kimberly shows me the flat palm of her hand before I can say a word. “Yes, you lost a bet to him. I understand that part, even if it is fucking stupid. But it looks like you actually like each other. For real and not over a lost game of pool.”

  Weighing up my options, I briefly ponder telling Kimberly how my feelings are drastically changing. But I can’t risk it getting back to Roman and ending up with egg on my face when he fires me as his buffer and forgets me as fast as he met me. I can’t let myself be that girl and show that much vulnerability. Roman wasn’t specific about what we would and wouldn’t tell people about us, so I keep quiet for now, and stick as close to the truth as my bullshit allows.

  “We’re just friends.”

  Eh. It’s close enough.

  “Hey, Brooke? I’m really glad I met you. And not through Roman or anything, but on my own.”

  I bump Kimberly’s shoulder with mine. “Me, too.”

  Both teams skate off the ice as the warm-up ends, and the bright lights temporarily dim. White and teal strobe lights zip across the arena, illuminating unsuspecting faces in the crowd for the jumbotron.

  “Does Madison know?” Kimberly asks.

  I stiffen in my seat, not looking at Kimberly as I say, “Nobody knows. Not even you.”

  “Right,” she says earnestly. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, Kimberly?” I say, after a long minute of comfortable silence. “You know you need to go back home, right? Before you miss any more school.”

  Kimberly’s dramatic scoff pulls a smile to my lips. “Could you sound any more like Roman? That’s not cute, by the way, turning into each other.”

  “He’s on your back so much because he cares about you. Is it so awful he wants to see you graduate?” And I’m with Roman on this one. If Kimberly was my little sister, I would be on her every day until she was back where she was meant to be.

  Kimberly doesn’t display a morsel of compassion. One knee crossed over the other, her foot swings back and forth, arms tangled over her stomach as her hard gaze falls to the ice. “He isn’t my dad. I don’t have to do what he says.”

  Okay. That’s a fair point. I approach the subject from a new, softer angle. “Have you thought about which colleges you’re applying to, or whether you’re going at all?”

  “Not really. Steph’s constantly harping on about it, but I’d rather just get a job and get out. Find my own place far away from New Hampshire.”
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  Kimberly’s got answers for everything. Pussyfooting around her going home could go on for weeks.

  “Kimberly, you have to go back to school. I love having you staying with us, and I absolutely adore you, but I would be a shitty friend if I didn’t tell you you’re ruining your life by not going home. And Roman, he’s got a full schedule and he’s captain of his team. Trust me, if he couldn’t worry about you on top of all his responsibilities, he wouldn’t. He would leave you alone and have faith you could make the right decisions for yourself. But he has to do all that and he’s got you here, missing school, fighting with your aunt. Don’t you want what’s best for him?”

  Kimberly lifts her eyes, sullenly staring into the space in front of her. Her foot’s still crazily shaking.

  I put my arm around her and pull her into a side hug.

  “I’ll always be at the other end of the phone, and we can visit each other during school breaks and holidays. We’ll talk every day.”

  From against the side of my head, Kimberly says quietly, “If you mean that, then how about Christmas?”

  I pull back. “Huh?”

  “Christmas. Visit your parents, or whoever, and then visit me.”

  “At your house? With your family?”

  Kimberly’s mouth pinches. “No. At the farm. With the horses. Yes, with my family.”

  “Won’t that be weird for Roman?”

  “Who cares? Even if you visit for one day, at least I’d get to see you. I hate Christmas. Everyone gets stinking drunk and then someone always cries.” Kimberly’s eyes shutter, and she shakes her head like she’s loosening the memories she’s conjured. “Roman fucks off to play hockey the whole time he’s there, so you coming to see me wouldn’t bother him in the slightest. He’ll be too busy with his dumbass friends.”

  “Or you could come stay with me for a few days?” I suggest, steering Kimberly away from her own idea. I haven’t made any plans for Christmas. By now, my mom’s usually got my entire break planned out right down to what I should wear on the big day. This year, she’s been kind of evasive about it, and I should probably mention it next time she calls me.

  Kimberly stiffens like she’s on the cusp of a seizure. “Aunt Steph would freak. She likes to have everyone together over the holidays so she can issue orders and micro-control in one place, with the family under one roof.”

  “That sounds really awesome,” I say wistfully. Kimberly grins and punches my arm. “As long as my mom and dad are cool with me ditching them for a day, then I’m there.”

  “When Roman takes me home, will you come with us?”

  My expression paves over at the honest question, and I’m giving it more thought than necessary as Kimberly looks at me with that glimmer of sadness she’s perfected.

  “Sure, I will,” I say, eventually finding my voice. “If you want me to.”

  “Thanks.” I accept Kimberly’s small smile over nothing. “Guess I’ll leave tomorrow then to go to school on Monday.”

  “Could you not say it like that? I feel like the worst person in the world right now.”

  Kimberly’s side glance echoes her agreement. “Until I forgive you for switching sides on me, you kind of are.”

  Our seats are behind the benches, giving us a near-on bird’s eye view of Roman every time he skates off the ice for a line change. He barely sits between shifts, favoring standing at the boards to observe the tense periods.

  Kimberly’s as loyal as sisters come, hurling inappropriate insults that have nothing to do with the game for every touch of the puck Quinnipiac’s players receive.

  Quinnipiac’s netminder is a force to be seen, and so far, pushing fifty minutes in, Northvale have posted one point. A narrow lead they’re fighting, but struggling, to hold onto. The game’s getting messier as the seconds on the clock reduce, and there’s desperation on both sides. The Warriors to hold on and net another goal, and Quinnipiac to get on the scoreboard.

  No sooner have I observed this and a forward for Quinnipiac glides between the Warriors’ defense and shoots the puck into the top of the net. The lamp goes red, and Kimberly lashes out with more of her colorful swearing.

  Roman tips his face to the rafters, skating away from the other team’s celebration. I can’t fault his game or style of play at all, but other than the one goal he’s scored, he’s struggled finding the back of the net, and if anyone deserves a Star of the Game after this, it’s Quinnipiac’s netminder who’s doing most of the work. He’s been blocking shots up, down, left, and right all night. That might seem like it’s what he should be doing, and what a novice observation to make, but Quinnipiac haven’t had nearly as many chances in the offensive zone, and apart from that one goal the Warriors’ goalie just let in, he’s had himself an uneventful two periods.

  A chant starts up in the stands for the Warriors, building in ferocity as more people join in, and Kimberly shoots out of her seat and screams, “Come on, Warriors! Kick their tired asses!”

  Kimberly remains on her feet as the two lines gather around the faceoff circle waiting for the puck to drop. She won’t say so, but she’s feeling Roman’s frustrations, and I’m feeling hers. She’s got her hands clasped under her chin, fingers steepled over her pursed lips. The ref says something to Roman, and then after a short pause, he drops the puck.

  Other than a penalty on the Warriors and two icing calls, the game shows little improvement. Even on the powerplay Quinnipiac can’t convert the one-man advantage into a goal, peppering shots that get blocked and mistiming passes that put the Warriors back in possession of the puck. It’s a third-liner who drags the Warriors out of the stubborn tie they’re stuck in, his wrist shot deflecting off the stick of Quinnipiac’s defenseman and nuzzling its way into the net, more determined luck than skill.

  It stays 2-1, a far cry from yesterday’s game, and morale looks low on both benches.

  I’d made no plans after the game to go out. It’s not like there’s anything to be happy about after how many shots and passes I didn’t get off to see out the weekend in spectacularly vapid fashion. But Brooke’s talked me into allowing Kimberly a final night of freedom before she renounces her short-lived spontaneity for life with adult guardians and legal parental responsibility.

  Honestly, I’m just relieved she listened to Brooke at all. I’ll give Kimberly anything she wants at this point just to see her go.

  A night with Brooke beats a night at the apartment alone, and I head out to meet them after I’ve been home and changed clothes. I drive to the bar with West, no intensions of drinking anything other than water. Kempy’s been MIA since we left the arena, one guess for where he’s disappeared to.

  “She’s thirty-six,” West tells me from the passenger seat of my truck as I drive along the highway, heading into town. He’s on the woman’s Facebook page, verifying for himself whether what Kempy’s been feeding us is pure exaggeration or undulating shit. “Got pictures of her kid all over her profile.”

  “Boy or girl?” I ask.

  “Boy. Looks about sixteen. Got hair like a girl, though.”

  “Someone for Kempy to play with while he’s round at her place, then.”

  “Wonder how this kid feels about his mom fucking a nineteen-year-old college snapperhead.”

  I glance at West with an amused frown. “You think he’s slept with her already?”

  West looks back at me with a much harsher frown. “You don’t? What the fuck else could he be doing?”

  Any number of things, but none of them are as likely as what’s probably going on. Kempy’s God-fearing mom would batter him with the Holy Bible if she found out her youngest son was getting down and dirty with a divorced cougar sixteen years his senior.

  “Bet she’s kinky as fuck,” West says, poking his nose in her photo albums. “Dressing up and tying him to the bedposts with her sensible pantyhose while little Timothy’s in bed reading Star Wars with his torch light.”

  I frown at the road. “That’s his name?”

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nbsp; “Who the hell cares?”

  Brooke and everyone else have already moved on from the bar they were at when I’d texted her from the apartment, and now they’re in Champ’s: the safest place for Kimberly’s underage ass. They’re light on the carding, preferring to look the other way for the sake of a profit. I carry a fake around with me but can’t remember the last time any establishment around here asked to see it.

  I’ve become so used to the icy mint shade of Brooke’s hair, my gaze sweeps over her standing at the bar twice before my brain acknowledges who she is. Pastel pink and lilac curls spilling down her back, infused with the caramel tone from the first time I met her. Her natural color, I’m assuming. Brooke could dye her hair yellow and I’d probably still love it. Everything Brooke’s got going on underneath her appearance is everything I’m into and everything I’ve deprived myself of. However she makes up her face or styles her hair couldn’t sway how I want to fill too many minutes of my downtime with her.

  She isn’t toned or athletic. She’s soft, womanly. I love all those former attributes, but I’m realizing I like this version as well. One size no longer fits all, but Brooke’s starting to fit me.

  Sidling up behind her at the bar, I test run our latest agreement, focusing on Brooke and ignoring the looks I’m attracting from others around us.

  Her tense shoulders loosen as she glances over her shoulder and her gaze rises to rest on my face, a gradual smile forming on her lips.

  She’s pleased to see me. Good. Because I’m fuckin thrilled to see her. I caught her after the game for a couple minutes, but I haven’t touched her in days, and I’m rectifying that now.

  “Oh, big brother’s here.”

  And I’m cockblocked by my own sister. I should have seen that coming. Kimberly’s presence is ten times bigger than she is, and she lets everyone know it.

  Brooke turns in my arms, and I take a small step back and give her some space. Blocking Kimberly out, I drop my hand to Brooke’s waist and then follow with the other.