Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Twirling the short black straw in her pink lemonade vodka, Maddie says to Kimberly from across the table, “How old are you really?”

  Yeah, my bullshit detector’s going off, too. I’m now just hoping the girl’s already had her thirteenth birthday.

  Kimberly looks up from her drink, stalling on answering. “Seventeen,” she says, deflating. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t want you guys to leave me, and I knew that’s what you’d do if I told you my real age.”

  “It’s your birthday tomorrow though, right?” Maddie reaches for salvation.

  “Sure. If by tomorrow you mean next year.”

  Maddie groans, stomping her foot on mine under the table. “Preston will fire us.”

  I drag my foot out from under hers. “He will not.” He so totally will.

  Kimberly sips her drink. “Who’s Preston?”

  “Our boss,” I tell her. “A four-foot asshole with a twenty-foot ego.”

  “I won’t do anything to draw attention to you guys. We can sit in this dingy corner all night for all I care. I’m a well behaved drunk.” Kimberly grins. “Pinky swear.”

  Turns out, that’s only half a lie. Kimberly is well behaved, and so much fun, Maddie and I both feel robbed of only just meeting her now, having gone all this time without knowing her. But the attention arrives in the form of half the football team, lumbering into Champ’s high off a win earlier tonight and in search of any girl who’ll fall at their feet and worship over their victory. Claiming the booth behind us, lewd, derogatory comments are flung out at interval, and aren’t we just so lucky? because they’re all for us.

  I know the team won because the game was televised on the local sports network, and Champ’s showed it to a full crowd. Nothing draws in the customers like a Warriors game day. The football game against the University of Rhode Island is one of the reasons my shift was switched. And in case you’re wondering, battling a rowdy football crowd to serve them food and drink is as stressful as it sounds.

  In my departure, the crowds have only grown. Our hockey team’s on the road at Connecticut, and their game’s on the flatscreens now. It’s the third period, and the Warriors are leading by one goal. Black, white, and teal hockey jerseys are scattered throughout the bar, Warrior hats on heads.

  I would never usually give the game—any college game—a second look. Whether that’s football, hockey, soccer, basketball—you see where I’m going with this—but meeting Roman’s changed that, and I’ve had to check myself on multiple occasions for slipping out of the conversation in favor of watching the TV screen hanging over the bar.

  “What happened to your arm? Looks like it hurt.” Maddie runs the tip of her finger over a dark bruise at the top of Kimberly’s left arm, on the inside, as she reaches for her glass.

  Kimberly glances down at the angry mark and the bumpy scar. “Oh that. It’s nothing. My contraceptive implant. I only got it in last week, and the nurse who put it there was absolutely brutal with me.”

  “You need the contraceptive implant?” I don’t know why I ask that or the reason it flies out of my mouth so freely. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound how it did.”

  “You mean all judgey?” Maddie says with a side smile.

  “My aunt pretty much marched me down to the clinic when she saw a text message on my phone from someone that she wasn’t supposed to see.”

  Maddie cringes. “Oops. Boyfriend?”

  “It never got that far after Steph made me message him back and tell him I couldn’t see him anymore.” Kimberly’s displeasure over what she’s telling us leaks into her voice, her eyes glossing over.

  Maddie and I are equally stunned a family member, one who isn’t a parent, would step in like that. “That’s harsh. And totally overstepping,” Maddie says. “Why did she do it?”

  Pressing her lips together, Kimberly separates the lemon slice from the rim of her glass and starts picking out the seeds. “He was older than me.”

  “How much older?” I ask.

  I miss whatever it is she mumbles.

  “What did you say?” Maddie leans on her arms across the table, dark hair sliding over her tan, shimmery shoulder.

  “I was sleeping with a guy who was thirty-five. That’s why my aunt made me get the implant.”

  I am literally speechless, and so is Maddie.

  “Okay, now you’re judging me,” Kimberly says. “And I don’t like it.”

  “Not judging,” I’m quick to respond. “Just shocked. I mean, you’re only seventeen.”

  “That’s…” Maddie makes soft noises, her gaze stooping lower as she runs something over in her head. She looks up, a frown hovering above her eyes. “An eighteen-year age gap,” she finishes. “You were having sex with a man who’s, like, twice your age. Wow. No wonder your aunt flipped on you. My mom would chain me to my bed and never let me out of my room.” Maddie straightens, tipping her head back and releasing an audible breath. “And my dad… I wouldn’t even be able to conjure all the different ways he would punish me. It isn’t worth thinking about.”

  Kimberly pulls her fingers through her high ponytail. “Aunt Steph would chain me to the bed if she thought she could get away with it.” She holds out her arm straight across the tabletop. “What’s the point in this thing if I’m not allowed to see the person she forced me to have it put in for? It’s technically useless.”

  There’s no answer for that, at least none Maddie and I can come up with.

  “Torre!”

  Blunt force hits me in the back of my head.

  I turn around, one hand braced against the booth seat.

  Booker Jones grins back at me, one arm resting along the top of the pine green leather vinyl. His wide body stretches out every thread of his varsity jacket, a strip of blue T-shirt showing between the open zip.

  “I have a first name, Booker. And what the heck did you just hit me with?” I bring my hand to my crown, expecting to find a dent in my skull.

  He shrugs. “Just my hand. I barely touched you.”

  I roll out a droll look. “I have concussion now.”

  His mouth parts to a wide smile. “Come sit with us, Torre.” His gaze cruises from Kimberly, who’s sitting beside me, to Maddie.

  I suck in air through my teeth. “Can’t, sorry.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I’m being executed by a firing squad in ten minutes.”

  “That your sick way of saying you’d rather have holes blown through you than sit with me?”

  Now I’m the one shrugging. “Whichever way you want to put it works for me.”

  Kimberly stands up, grabbing her drink. “I’ll sit with you,” she says to Booker. She’s at his booth before I can tell her why that is so not a good idea.

  Maddie gives me a flat look. “We can’t leave her alone with them. They’re your stupid friends, Brooke.”

  Yeah, they aren’t, but Maddie’s right, and Kimberly’s a floating guppy in a shark tank. “Guess not.”

  It hadn’t crossed my mind Luke would be here until I notice he isn’t. It makes switching tables easier, and Booker pulls up a mismatch of low, upholstered stools to the booth because the dumbass made us give up ours in exchange for somewhere without enough room for extra people.

  Our group doubles and then trebles, and soon everyone’s talking over each other. Girls gather around us, crowding me from behind to join in and voice their opinion on how the football game went today, and who’s going to the next game and where they’re sitting.

  I look down when fingers slide between mine, and Booker’s reaching for my hand. He goes from gentle to pulling me off the stool, and I put one hand on the corner of the table to stop myself from toppling onto it. Vodka spills over the side of my glass when he tugs me onto his thigh, the one that isn’t hidden under the table.

  One of the girls jumps into my grave, claiming my stool for herself and dragging it closer to the other side of the booth, angling her body nearer to one of the football pla
yers.

  “Thanks,” I say sarcastically to Booker. “There goes my seat. Second one tonight, believe it or not.”

  Booker bobs his leg, and I bounce on his thigh, spilling more vodka onto myself. “I’m your seat now.” He surveys his surroundings, then puts his mouth to my ear. “What’s the 411 on your girl?”

  I ease him a downward look. “Who?”

  “Madison,” he says, his gaze seeking her out. She’s mid-sip on one of the stools, nodding as Kimberly chats away beside her.

  “What do you wanna know?”

  “She taken?”

  Seriously, I’m going to start charging Maddie for my services.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “She’s hot.” Booker looks right at her, but she hasn’t noticed the sudden attention coming from our direction. “You think she would go for it?”

  I hold back my laughter. “I don’t know. Ask her yourself.”

  Booker scoffs. Picks up his beer and gulps it down. “Are you fucking serious? Girl’s frostier than the North Pole.”

  “Maddie?” That makes no sense. “She is not. And how would you know?” I turn my body on his thigh, so I can read his face as well as listen to him.

  “It’s like this.” He pauses. “Don’t go running your mouth off, Torre.”

  “Hey, I won’t. Now tell me why you think that about her.” Maddie is the nicest person. Apart from this misguided idiot, I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t agree with me.

  “She’s self-obsessed,” Booker throws out there with a casual shrug. “The type of girl you fuck, but you don’t wife her.”

  “And you came to that conclusion how?”

  “Torre, I’ve seen more personality in a tube of toothpaste.”

  “That’s because you don’t know her. And I can’t believe you’re saying this.” I glance at my best friend, worried she might’ve overheard Booker’s horrible, chauvinistic comments. “So, you’d sleep with her, but that’s it? That’s all she’s good for?”

  “I’m just saying what every guy I know is thinking.” His palm wanders higher up my thigh. The alcohol does a stellar job of dulling down my personal hang-ups, and I don’t flinch when his hand brushes my stomach. “You’re wifey material.”

  I almost spit my drink out. “Yeah? And what qualifies you to say that?”

  Booker’s eyes smolder. The boy can just turn it on and off when it suits. “You’re pretty easy on the eyes, Torre. Hassle-free. Got jokes, too.”

  Hassle-free? In other words, I’m the right amount of bland and entertaining. Not special enough to upset the delicate balance of male insecurities because I’m too freaking average. But any prettier and I’d be an actual threat. Figures. And Maddie’s too pretty, therefore she must be an emptyheaded vessel who does nothing but look at herself in the mirror all day.

  Booker sighs, a slight smirk curving his mouth. “It is what it is, Torre. Maddie would get it. I mean, fucking look at her.” I do look at her. She’s beautiful. And pretty. And fun. And kind. She would do anything for anyone. She’s the sweetest person I know. “She’s a trophy I wouldn’t mind mounting on my shelf. A one of a kind. A rare gem.”

  He means bragging rights, he’s just being a flamboyant douche about it.

  “But once that trophy’s mounted…” Booker’s eyebrow inches higher.

  “And on that note… I’m going to the bathroom.” I peel his hands off me, promptly lifting myself off his lap. I always thought Booker had pig tendencies, but after that little confession, I can’t begin to choose which animal would best describe him. The animals did nothing wrong, why drag them into this? And I’m almost certain he just indirectly insulted me. If I was to look any deeper into that bewilderment doctoring Booker’s expression, maybe I’d believe he genuinely has no clue what he’s just said or done.

  Booker dives out from the booth, racing after me. He snatches me by my shoulder, and I roll it forward, shrugging him off. His hand stays put, so I tear at his fingers with mine, his grip not loosening.

  He swings in front of me, pushing me back two steps, and into the person standing behind me at the bar. “Are you offended?”

  I’m offended on behalf of women everywhere, but I can’t say Booker doesn’t look contrite. He also looks baffled. An expression I’ve seen him wear often.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just leave it alone, I’m fine.”

  “Torre.” Booker holds up his hands, his brown eyes softening. “I’m sorry, okay? Maddie’s your girl, I can respect that. I overstepped and said shit I shouldn’t have. You and me are straight… right?”

  That should help lessen the blow. A popular, good-looking guy like Booker, so eager not to trample on the budding little friendship we’ve built that’s grown over time into something I didn’t realize until now I valued so much.

  It doesn’t. But I appreciate him more now. All he did was give my demons their own voice. About me, not Maddie. That part was bullshit. Any guy who says he only wants Maddie for one night probably knows it’s because he couldn’t have her for longer, and that includes Booker.

  I nod weakly at him, my smile surfacing slowly. “I guess so. But next time keep what’s in your head to yourself.”

  Relief washes over his face, and he circles me in his big arms, turning me and walking me back to the booth with too many people.

  The headache that burst into my skull on the bus ride back to Maine from Connecticut is now everywhere. Behind my eyes, my neck—in my goddamn ears.

  When the bus pulls into the campus arena parking lot three hours and something later, I can’t even motivate myself to get off and walk to my truck. Think I’d rather hunker down on the floor.

  “Oh, man, are we home already?” West’s eyelids peel open, his mouth stretching in a gaping yawn he’s got no problem blowing all over my face. “I’m fucked. No gym for me in the morning.”

  I stand up, ducking my head so I don’t hit it off the roof. “You say that now.” West makes no attempt to let me out. “Are you getting off any time tonight?” Technically, it’s early hours, but we’ve made longer, more brutal journeys than this one. Energy’s low, but that’s because we fought for two days straight, clawing our way back from defeat to a double victory.

  I’ve got the bruises to prove it. Crushed into the boards so hard on a twisted angle, I caught a face full of Plexiglas while my left shoulder felt like it was being ripped from its socket. It took a minute for my vision to return, and the stars to clear, but I made up for the hit by scoring on the 5-on-4 powerplay seconds later.

  My torso’s a colorful memorial to the wealth of checks I took tonight, but the insane amount of penalty minutes pulled, and our forechecking, makes the pain worth it. My bones ache like fuck. Sitting on the bus so long didn’t help either.

  One of the freshman wingers stands by the bus hold, lugging forward the equipment and stick bags. Two more freshmen maneuver the skate sharpener, hoisting it and lugging it to the arena.

  I grab my bag and carry it into the locker room, making a conscious effort not to make any abrupt movements involving my upper body.

  At home, I guzzle two Advil and a glass of water.

  After taking a leak and brushing his teeth, West strips down to his boxers in the living room, leaving his game-day suit in a heap on the floor.

  He stretches out on the couch and pulls the scrawny, Christmas fleece blankets up to his chest. All thanks to Kimberly, of course.

  I turn on the faucet and refill my glass, pocketing the Advil to take to my room for later. “I’ll talk to her,” I say to West. “You can’t sleep out here every night. Coach will have plenty to say about it if you roll up to games and practices sleep deprived with spinal cord damage.”

  I put the anti-inflams and the glass of water on the coffee table. “Have my room. I probably won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

  West slides me a look. “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure, or I wouldn’t have said it.”

  He
gives me another look, this one fishier. “You haven’t been jacking off in there, have you? ‘Cause that’s a hard limit for me. Lines I just won’t cross.”

  Kempy strolls into the living room with a messy heap of laundry in his hands. “That’s what you’ve been doing on the couch every night, jacking off? To what…” He glances at me with a dry smirk. “Him?”

  “Don’t sound so fucking jealous about it, Kempy. There’s more than enough room for you over here if you’re feeling left out.” West slaps the leather couch, and Kempy obliges, walking over there and dropping his dirty duds on West’s face.

  A washed-out, sweaty sock’s slung at my head, nearly poking my fucking eye out. I tag West by his ankles and yank him out from under his Christmas ensemble. His body slides off the couch in inches, his feet kicking out at me. My shoulder to my hip screams in protest, but I power through the tight burn, yanking him until he’s half on the floor, digging his fingers into the couch to stay on. The back cushion almost rips off from the frame, and I give one final pull, West’s ass thumping to the wood floor.

  Howling, Kempy grabs a pair of his boxers, stretching them over West’s face, so he gets a mouth and nose full of Kempy’s soggy crotch.

  Somehow, and I’ve got no idea how, West overpowers Kempy, and they roll into the coffee table, sending the legs screeching across the floor.

  “Get the fuck off me!” Kempy rams the palm of his hand against West’s mouth, then shoves two fingers up his nostrils.

  I crack up, and I think I crack a rib at the same time.

  West gives up, staggering off Kempy and pounding into the kitchen to rinse off his face and blow snot into a paper towel.

  Pity Kimberly didn’t see any of this. She might have finally gone home to Berlin.

  Kempy and West go to their respective rooms, and I unbutton my shirt, gingerly easing out of it and laying it across the coffee table that’s now sitting askew. I undo the top button on my dress pants, but I leave them on for now.

  Sitting on the couch, I lean my head against the cushions and close my eyes. Now the upheaval’s calmed, my headache starts to beat its own pulse again, rocketing to my forehead. No match for what’s going on with my shoulder, though. That shit’s got a pulse.