Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Steph: Go Warriors! There’s the win you guys deserve. Mega congrats on your hat-trick. Big kisses for all of you *Mwah* Uncle Paul wants you to know way to go kiddo! Both so proud of you. Of all you boys. Safe flight home. Call me as soon as you land. Or have reception. Whichever comes first. xxxxx

  Jen: Great game Mr. King. I’m free all day tomorrow if you need someone to come make your Sunday pancakes :p xxx (wish I could have been there. Next time maybe…?)

  Kimberly: Congrats big bro. Number 15 for Duluth is sooo sexy btw. Do you kno him? I think his name’s Lewis? And don’t ignore this msg! Just cuz you’ve turned off your read notifications doesn’t mean I think you don’t see my texts. Love ya x

  I close out of my message app and load the web comic pages I’d downloaded last night. I only meant to read them online, but accidently clicked ‘Download to Device’ instead. Handy, or what?

  I scroll down from the title: Black Pearla. The first comic strip is of a pirate. A woman with a bigger than average bust and cinched waist in a buckled leather corset with feminine frills around her shoulders. Gold hoops in her ears and tattoos up her arms. She’s puffing on a cigar, sitting on top of a brown barrel marked with a skull and cross bones, the wind blowing through her silver/gray hair. She’s looking down, but right at me, her eyelids low, framed with long, curling lashes.

  Pretty hot for a 2D illustration.

  I keep scrolling, following the storyline bubbles as well as appreciating the detailed art.

  “What’s that?” West leans over my shoulder and asks. “You can read now?” He tips his head back, pouring a handful of salted nuts into his mouth straight out of the packet, his eyes positioned on my phone’s screen.

  “It’s nothing.” Either because I’ve been caught out, or I don’t feel like lying, I blacken the screen and lift my ass off the seat to squeeze the phone into my suit pants pocket. A fucking suit on a plane. I wish we were back in Skahlake already. I’m not exactly tired, my body and my brain’s too wired off the game, that post-win adrenaline still flowing.

  To induce sleep, or at least give the impression that’s what I’m trying to do, I turn off the overhead light and pull down the shade, even though it’s pitch-dark outside, and all I can see in the oval window is my own reflection.

  It’s after three in the morning when we deboard the plane at Portland International, half the team trekking through the deserted airport like zombies, the other half bouncing off each other like it’s not the dead of night. I’m somewhere in the middle. Awake, but not entirely focused on any one particular thing. More like I’m seeing, hearing, everything at once. I’m overtired. Past the point of being able to wind down or relax.

  After we’ve collected our hockey gear from the baggage carousel, we head out. No messing around. There’s a charter bus waiting to drop us off at the on-campus rink. The last stop between me and home.

  West crashes on the bus, snoring with his mouth open. Kempy leans over the back of West’s seat and stuffs an orange the size of a baseball past his lips. The entire bus cracks up.

  By the time I’m getting outta my truck, tiredness has set in. West and Kempy head straight to their rooms to pass out, and I do the same. I don’t go to sleep, though. I get into bed and unlock my phone, bypassing the Facebook and Twitter notifications and carrying on where I left off on Brooke’s comic. I’d message her to tell how good I think it is if I had her number. But she wouldn’t give me it, so looks like I need to step up my game off the ice and try harder to get it.

  A message drops down at the top of my screen. I’ve opened it before even thinking, outwardly groaning at the selfie Jen’s sent. Resting one foot on a low stool in her bedroom, with her back to the camera, she’s wearing a lacy red thong and suspenders. Her body’s half turned away from the camera, showing the curve of her full, round boob. The nipple’s stiff and pink, her blond hair hanging loose down her back, her lower lip pulled between her teeth for the pose.

  Jen’s attractive. Not gorgeous. Her body’s banging, especially without clothes. But her clinginess and availability are too smothering. And I’m not a huge fan of the tantrums when she doesn’t get her own way. The first time I turned her down, she wouldn’t speak to me for a week. I was fine with the silent treatment. I had a big fucking problem with the rumor she spread around her friends and then the campus that I’d been laying it on thick with Jen, talking about how much I liked her, wanted to sleep with her, then hooking up with other girls behind her back.

  She broke down in tears after the rumor reached me and I confronted her over it. Kinda manipulative when I think about it. But that’s Jen. All rainbows, butterflies, and plump-ass selfies at four-fifty in the morning, until she gets put in her place.

  It’s late enough—or early enough—to pretend like I haven’t seen the message yet. I don’t respond. I wouldn’t fucking know how to. I’m done with the comic, too.

  The girl with no face or purpose is finally starting to take shape and come to life in shades of color. My intermediate drawing class dragged more than I actually enjoyed it, but at least I achieved more today than blank confusion and mind-numbing frustration.

  I pack away my iPad, sketchbook and supplies and follow the rest of the class out into the hallway. Navigate the flow of traffic as I respond to a text message from Maddie telling me she’ll see me back at our apartment because her last class was cancelled.

  As though my body knows it’s home without prompt from my brain, my muscles go limp as soon as I step through the door of the apartment I share with Maddie. We’re a roommate down, since the last girl we shared with, Dee, transferred colleges right after the start of the fall semester. I’m sure that will change soon.

  “I’m in your bedroom!” Madison calls out, even though I never asked. And why’s she in my room anyway?

  Blowing out air like I can breathe life back into myself, I haul myself and my backpack through the living room and to the bedroom that’s mine.

  Madison’s rifling through my wardrobe, pulling clothes off the hangers and tossing them onto my bed without taking notice of the mess she’s making.

  “Uh… What the hell?” I drop my bag by my desk and start picking up the clothes. “What are you doing with all my stuff?”

  “We’re going out tomorrow night,” she says to my wardrobe. “We’re off work, so I’m preparing you now, so you don’t have time to invent reasons why you’re staying home and missing out on all the drinking.”

  “Colin going out tomorrow, by any chance?” I trail my hand down the seam of the cutoff shorts that if Maddie thinks I would wear must be out of her mind. I don’t know why I even bought these. Wishful thinking, probably. Sometimes, when the angle’s good in the store dressing room, or the lighting’s beyond flattering, I get sucked into the dream, believing I can pull off shorts and wear them as casually and effortlessly as other girls my age do.

  Yeah, I can’t. And the shorts are going back in my wardrobe where they belong. It’s not for lack of trying. I’ve studied myself in those shorts from every which way. In front, behind, from the side, sitting down. I was disappointed from every view. Maybe I’d wear them around the apartment, but that’s as far as I’d go. Maddie would never judge me, but it’s my own critical self creating the worst problems.

  “I have to finish my painting.” I start pulling out the excuses anyway. Well, it’s not an excuse. I really do have to finish it, but I suppose I have tonight and what’ll be left of Sunday to do that.

  Like she plucked the words right out of my head, Maddie says, “You’ve got all weekend. Do it tonight and get a running start.” She turns with a black dress in her hands and throws that down onto the bed too. “Brooke, you have so many nice clothes. Why don’t you wear any of them? If I were taller, I’d borrow most of this. Or just have it, since you’re letting this all go stale and dusty in here. Clothes are meant to be worn, you know.”

  “I’m not wearing this dress.” I squeeze in beside my best friend and ball the dress up, sli
ding it onto the wardrobe shelf, not even bothering with the hanger. “Where are we going?”

  “Champ’s. No need for fake IDs there.”

  “Okay.” I like the sound of that. No bar hopping. “What time?” I pull a white long-sleeve jersey top off the hanger, acting like I don’t see how Maddie rolls her eyes at my dowdy choice.

  Resigned to the fact she isn’t going to get me in anything other than jeans and a top, she leaves me to it, parking her butt on the chair at my desk. “I guess, whenever we’re ready? I thought we could invite over Claudia and Sienna and have a few drinks here first.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Let’s do that.”

  Maddie dances over to the speaker and turns up JoJo. We all belt out the lyrics to the song, tipsy from apple flavored vodka. The alcohol went to my head quicker than anyone else because that’s what skipping every meal but a thumb-sized mid-afternoon snack will do.

  My stomach aches, but that hollow feeling more than makes up for the hunger pangs I know won’t last all night. I’ll go past that phase, I always do.

  I’m flushed with heat from the vodka when we’re in the Uber on our way to the bar. I straightened my hair tonight, which was a huge mistake on my part. The humidity in the apartment, and the hot air blasting from the heater in the Uber is a fight I go hard against.

  Opening the rear window, I stick my head out into the cold air, the wind an icy slap in the face as I cool my skin and salvage my sleek hairstyle.

  “Oh my god, close that,” Sienna complains, throwing me an unhappy look as she rubs her hands over her arms. She’s wearing a thin-strapped white dress that barely touches her thighs.

  I press the button on the door, and the window slides up. “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

  “Are you on, like, a different continent? It’s freezing.” Goose bumps destroy Sienna’s smooth skin, and I smile, putting my arm around her shoulders to warm her in a tight hug. Maddie joins in from the other side, and then Sienna’s complaining for different reasons.

  “My makeup!” She wriggles in our embrace, trying to push us off, but the attempt’s weakened by her laughter.

  We get into the bar without a hiccup, the bouncer on the door waving us straight in. He knows how old we are, he just doesn’t care. And Champ’s is our bar. We’re a family. Preston not included.

  It only takes two drinks and I’m more than a little tipsy.

  “See?” Maddie links her arm with mine. We’re standing at the bar, just the two of us. “I knew you’d enjoy yourself once you were out. Want another drink?”

  “Sure. Get me the same as whatever you’re having. I just need to use the bathroom.” Unlinking my arm from Maddie’s, I drunkenly navigate my way through the insane Saturday-night crowd, every molecule of focus and concentration on successfully applying one foot in front of the other in my heels. The bar and the lights are a foggy, surreal blur, everything around me too fast and too slow as I use the bathroom and washup. Smooth my fingers through my hair in the mirror and reapply my rose-colored lipstick.

  I feel like a vacuum, sucked in from the inside. I was right. The hunger’s gone, and all I feel now is a deep emptiness. The potent, addictiveness that pulls me through and anchors me. Pushes me to keep bettering myself and not give in over the first, abdominal-clenching rumbles.

  Maddie isn’t where I left her. Isn’t anywhere along the central bar standing as its own little island. I turn slowly, taking in the clumps of people. Some dancing, others standing. A lot sitting. All the tables and booths are full.

  Someone’s waving me over from across the room, tucked into a dark corner against the wood-paneled walls. It’s Booker Jones. I don’t really want to go over there, I’d rather find Maddie and the others, but I can hardly ignore him when I’ve looked right at him. Besides, he might be able to tell me where she’s skipped off to. There’s a very slim chance he didn’t notice a trio of beautiful girls.

  I angle my way through the crowd. Various different sports games and highlight reels play on the overhead screens, but they’ve been muted, none important enough for commentary, and music vibrates through the bar, a fast-paced song I’m unfamiliar with.

  “What’s going on, Torre?” Booker shuffles along the booth seat an unhelpful couple inches as I slide in beside him, glad to get off my feet for a few minutes. These heels are something else. My mom doesn’t understand why I punish myself, telling me to choose practical over disfiguring my toes, but shoes are my weakness, and I give in every time. The higher, pointier, more uncomfortable, the better. It’s totally worth the ankle pain.

  Booker’s eyes travel from my face to my chest, openly treating himself to a good look at my cleavage in my V-cut top.

  “You’re giving me a semi, Torre.” His gaze lifts, and so do the corners of his mouth. A lazy, self-assured grin I know for a fact wins over plenty of girls.

  Three other football players for the Northvale Warriors are sitting at the booth, two of them laughing over a video playing on a cell phone. From my view at the other side of the table, I can see a cat and a sweeping broom on the screen, and for reasons beyond my comprehensible knowledge, the two football players find those combinations hilarious.

  “You working tonight?” Booker asks my breasts.

  “Night off,” I say. I’m not offended he finds my chest more interesting to look at, that’s just how he is. I’m used to him.

  “Then this one’s yours.” He grabs a bottle of Budweiser from the center of the table and slides it over to me.

  I take it. “Thanks.” The bottle’s full. I’ve been mixing my drinks all night, one more into the concoction won’t hurt.

  “There a reason my boy’s over there eye-fucking you?” Booker tips his beer to his lips, his gaze centered across the room, toward the VIP lounge—and we’re still using that term extremely loosely—and the mostly deserted dancefloor.

  I peer in the same direction Booker does, but don’t see anyone staring. It’s all a hazy blend of color and movement, and I’m already dreading the taxi ride home and the backseat nausea.

  “Cole at twelve o’clock.” Booker slants his eyes, his bottle tipping up. “Nah. Make that one o’clock. Do I need to take him outside?”

  “And do what?” I sip my beer. I can see him now. Spitball guy.

  “Why’s he looking over here? He make some sorta move on you without asking for my clearance first?”

  “Settle down, Booker.” I sit back against the cushioned, leather seat, letting my eyes close for a second. “I don’t know him.”

  “You’re drunk, Torre.” The bottle’s taken out of my hand, and Booker finishes it off, my mouth agape in disbelief as he does. Then I hear the familiar tinkle of Maddie’s voice, and I’m being pulled up from the booth and away from Booker and the cat videos.

  I lay off the alcohol after that, washing down the vertigo with diet lemonade and ice. I wouldn’t say I’ve sobered up, but I’m not getting any worse, and I won’t have to duck out from the festivities early.

  After talking with Lisa at the bar while she sipped on a Dr. Pepper during her break, I push through the expanding crowds, hunting down my friends.

  Bodies separate, and there’s space to actually see in front of me. Cute Spitball Guy’s standing with two other guys, and the strangest thing happens when I see him.

  I smile.

  The most natural muscle reflex, like my subconscious places him farther back than just a few weeks ago. Like we’ve spoken to each other, when in actuality, we’ve never shared a single word. We’re strangers, but it feels like I know him.

  He steps forward, away from the others, and walks toward me. He lifts his hand and slides it along the side of my neck, under my hair, then leans in, dipping his head. “I think you’re beautiful.” His voice slips into my eardrum as coarse as gravel and as smooth as satin.

  And then I don’t know what happens next, or how we move forward so quickly, but he raises his head slightly, levels his shadowed blue eyes on me, and then I’m ki
ssing him. No warning. No build-up. We just… kiss. That simple. That uncomplicated. It’s as though I’ve slipped out of my reality and into someone else’s.

  My hand wraps just below his wrist at my neck, and his other hand settles on my waist. His cologne invades my senses, and his lips are soft. The kiss seems to last forever, his tongue tangling with mine. Time slows and then shifts into a warped-rate speed I can’t keep up with, and my head’s spinning.

  God. How drunk am I?

  His friends groan, ribbing him for having the balls to just walk right up and take what he wants. I’m in a daze as I separate from him, and I don’t know what it is. Him. The kiss. The alcohol. It’s downright weird. I’m not being myself right now.

  He briefly touches his fingers to the corner of his mouth, his smile jut as disarming as it was before he swept me off my feet.

  Bizarrely, I back away, and carry on looking for everyone else.

  I don’t have to look for long.

  My friends are perched on stools around the metal railing that overlooks the dancefloor. Maddie’s mouth’s wide open, and she points a finger at me, then behind me.

  I wasn’t going to tell them about the kiss, but they’ve seen it for themselves, so I’m all out of options.

  “What the hell was that?” Maddie’s smiling’s worse than mine. “He just kissed you. I saw Luke Cole kiss you. Luke. Cole.”

  “You know him?” Claudia tugs on my fingers, pulling me closer to where she’s sitting. She looks equally as fascinated as Maddie.

  I shake my head. “Guess I do now, though.”

  A tidal wave of nausea piggybacking off the sudden dizziness washes over me, and I’m touching the ceiling for how long I can go without eating while pumping my gut full of vodka. “Can we get out of here and pick up some food?” I put a hand to my stomach. “I’m starving.”