Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Boston’s defense boasts some heavy-hitting, two-way talent, but nothing some strong forechecking won’t sort out. We let Boston spend too much time in our zone and we’re in trouble.

  After the meeting, and dinner, we load onto the bus and head out to the arena. The dense Boston skyline stretches golden below the indigo sky as we drive along the Charles River. It’s ten minutes to Agganis Arena, and we’re pulling into the parking lot a few minutes ahead of time.

  The familiar sensation of pregame jitters bubbles in my gut, and I hold onto the feeling to carry me through to the game. Nerves, as long as they’re the good kind, always go in my favor. I want to win tonight. My family’s made the drive out here, so that’s an extra push for me to skate hard and stay on my game. Boston are good, but we can be better. It just depends who wants it more when it comes down to the crunch.

  We file off the bus in our suits and head inside. In the visitors’ locker room, where our equipment was unloaded earlier today, we change into our Under Armour. I retape my sticks and then head out to the drafty east side of the arena with West, Kempy, Bowers, and Banksy. We kick a soccer ball around to loosen our muscles and fire up coordination, and then we grab a few street hockey balls, pucks, and our sticks from the locker room for some off-ice stickhandling that turns into a showing-off competition.

  I whip off my long-sleeved thermal shirt and swipe my face with it, then stuff it to hang out the waistband at the back of my shorts. We set up a long, tight lane along the center of the walkway with cones and plastic bottles, using it to weave the hockey ball between the obstacles and shoot at the net we’ve set up at the end.

  “Let’s go, boys!” Assistant coach, Marcel, strolls into sight, turning back up the hallway where the locker rooms are once he’s got our attention.

  West chucks the cones and bottles into a gym bag, and I dump in the pucks and balls.

  There’s a text on my phone from Aunt Steph telling me she’s here already, and I shoot back a quick reply telling her I’ll meet her after, then I put my phone away and get rid of the distractions.

  Rather than easing up, now we’re at the arena and we’re dressed for the game and the on-ice warm-up, my jitters pick up strength, absorbing the charged energy around me.

  I shake out my legs and roll my shoulders, then leave the locker room with everyone else and walk to the rink. As nerves settle, I find my zone and train my mind to lock it down.

  At ice level, I step through the door behind West and skate through the faceoff circle. The stands aren’t full yet, and we circle our half of the ice, scooping up pucks as red and white jerseys filter out to their end of the ice, Terriers fans, and their band, coming to life now the home team’s out.

  Noisy Warrior fans have taken over a large section in the stands, since Boston’s not too far of a drive. Northvale students, mainly ones with family around or near here, usually make a weekend of it, so this has always been one of our bigger crowds when we’re on the road.

  Adrenaline surges once warm-ups are completed, and we line up at the tunnel. Strobe lights rove over the blackened stands, and the Terriers are called to the ice by individual player. The fans go nuts for every name called, and my adrenaline spikes.

  We skate out next, to less of an ovation, but that doesn’t affect how I’ll play one way or the other. Most guys have been quiet, not as rowdy, but we need everyone’s focus for this one. We all know it’s going to be a tough game for taking points, apart from the freshmen and lower-line underclassmen, who are about to find out.

  We bump fists with our starting goalie, Philip Husk. That might be the only superstition I’ll own up to, but then so does every other hockey player, so I don’t count it. It’s something you do and don’t even think about.

  The strobe light follows me as I glide across the ice. West falls into line beside me on the blue paint. The Terriers do the same on their side for the National Anthem.

  I drop my head and hide my mouth with my glove over the butt of my stick when the blond girl with the mic belts out a note that goes embarrassingly off key, and West blows out laughter like the immature douche he is. He mimics her soprano, pitching his tone up and down in a broken falsetto like his balls just dropped, and the asshole sets everyone else off, dragging us all down with him.

  My shoulders shake underneath my jersey. With any luck, the cameras won’t pick up my ignorance. I don’t know who the hell this chick is, or where the Terriers picked her up, but she’s got my deepest sympathies.

  “Fucking hell,” Kempy grumbles, his mouth hitched in a one-sided smirk when I glance sideways at him. “Must be a shortage on talent around here.”

  The girl in the Boston jersey underneath the spotlight, displayed on the jumbotron and destroying every speaker in the arena, butchers the rest of the Star-Spangled Banner, and it’s a relief—for us—when she screams the final line. Either because they’re relieved it’s over or because they actually enjoyed it, the fans shout and applaud, thankfully drowning her out.

  “Was that your sister?” West circles in front of me and asks Kempy, dragging his stick blade across the ice. “Sounded like it.”

  Kempy’s brows knit together. “What the fuck are you on about?”

  “Kempy.” I tip off my glove, freeing up my hand to scratch the side of my neck. “You were in concert yesterday from nine in the morning until two in the afternoon.”

  “Dude.” He shrugs, looking miffed but not sorry. “I like to sing.”

  West hangs his head, shaking it, as we skate toward our net for the pre-game huddle. “I wish you could fucking sing.”

  Positioned at the hash marks to square off, Madden places his stick, and I’m thrown out of the faceoff. I swear under my breath and skate out of the circle, replaced by West.

  The linesman drops the puck, sticks clash, and West wins the draw. He scrapes it back to me, and I scan the ice, holding the puck on my stick. I move quick, crossover from the Boston winger who makes a run at me, and skate backward over the line into neutral ice, finding space and options. I sling it to Kempy up on my left, and he gets it down low to West as we move onto Boston’s net. The defense swoops in, and West chips it off the boards and around the back of the net, chasing after it.

  Kempy hustles for it against the wall, one of the D-men crashing into him from behind and shoving him into the glass. The puck’s loose, and Leonard gets to it first. He drags it onto his blade, speeding out of the zone with it.

  “Up! Up!” West shouts.

  I race back to our net, through the middle. I yell out to the D and dig in my blades, catching up to Leonard. From the inside, I reach out and get my stick on his, cutting off his passing lane to the net as I skate in front of him and knock the puck off his stick. I glance down and kick the puck forward to myself to gain control, then quickly get rid of it. Ems, our D, tucks the puck onto his blade and skates with it to center, the play rushing back up ice.

  When the puck crosses the blue paint, I make a dash with the rest of my line for the bench. I shake the sweat out of my eyes and hoist myself over the boards.

  “Nice, strong backchecking, King. Good work. All of you.” Coach strides anxiously along the bench, arms folded over his chest. He wears the same tense, stony expression whether we’re winning or losing. “Keep playing like that and we’ll be on the board before the end of the period. That first goal’s the most important one. We don’t wanna make it easy for them. Head up!” he bellows at Banksy as he wheels the puck up the boards and back into the offensive zone.

  I pick up a bottle and squirt water into my mouth. West and Kempy sit on the bench beside me, watching the game from Boston’s end of the ice.

  “Fuck.” West tips his head back and groans when the ref’s arm goes up, but the puck’s on number 17, Boston’s D-man’s blade. Breezy keeps after it, gets possession of it on the wing, and the whistle blows, the ref signaling for a holding call.

  Breezy knocks the puck away and pushes forward. He glances up at the jumbotron and skate
s slowly to the box.

  I’m pissed I’m not killing off the penalty. Can barely sit still when Leonard steps onto the ice for the faceoff at neutral. They’re 5-on-4, and the puck drops. Six seconds later, Leonard’s high slot, and he snaps a shot off the crossbar. It drops in, Husky no fucking clue how to stop it. The puck bounces over the paint and into the back of the net.

  “There’s still tomorrow,” I say to my team in the locker room. The game’s done, and we’ve all slumped into shit moods over the 3-4 scoreboard. A one-goal difference that came in the final thirty seconds of the third, right off the faceoff in the defensive zone. Could have been worse, right? No. It fucking couldn’t. We gave up the chance of OT when it counted the most. Moral’s grim, such a close game making it even harder to accept the L and move on. But that’s what we have to do. Learn from it, forget it, and fucking bring it tomorrow.

  I shuck my navy suit jacket up over my shoulders, straighten out the slim collar, and run my fingers through my still-damp hair. Aunt Steph and Uncle Paul are outside this locker room somewhere, and I can’t go out there looking like someone just strangled my cat then ate the last brownie.

  I’m one of the last to head out. Hudson Remy holds the door for me with two fingers while he’s on a video call with his brother, a forward for Providence who’s just been made an injured scratch.

  “Thanks,” I say, ducking out into the hallway after him. I toss my bag over my shoulder, making it halfway out to the main concourse when Aunt Steph comes charging toward me, heeled boots clipping against the floor in rapid succession, echoing off the red and white walls.

  She throws her arms around my neck, and I drop my bag, so I can put both arms around her. She’s small. 5’4 small, but the boots give her a three-inch boost. I still have to lean down to reach her without pulling a muscle in my back.

  “You were working extra hard tonight,” she says against my ear. She squeezes me, her groan mixing with a sigh as she eventually lets me go. Her palm slides to my face, and she cups my cheek. “You’re so exciting to watch. I’m proud of you, Ro. Always.”

  My mouth pulls up in a lax smile. “I know you are. I wouldn’t be where I am now without you and Uncle P.”

  Steph looks into my eyes, regret and sadness tarnishing her weak smile. I low-key hate when she looks at me like that. I can read every shadowy thought like they were my own. That shade is always there, hanging over us. It pulls back occasionally to let in rare pools of sunlight, but the sky doesn’t clear. The times it does clear, even for a second, the clouds gather and erupt into a storm. Repercussions for having the audacity to let my mind slip and forget.

  “Hey, there he is. Superstar.” Uncle Paul cuts through the somberness with his jokes. He calls me that because I can’t stand it. So now he does it all the time just to draw a reaction from me.

  He pats me on the back in a half hug. Then we start for the exit, my teammates scattered around the hallway, a smattering of Boston players sprinkled in. I catch Leonard’s eye. He tips his chin down in acknowledgement, and I do the same.

  “Too bad about the loss,” Paul says, squeezing the back of my neck. “We’ve got tickets for tomorrow’s puck drop, though, so we’ll be here to watch you clean up.”

  Repositioning my bag over my shoulder, I nod at his words, my eyes on the floor as he talks. I look up when he starts in on the unstoppable force that’s Travis Leonard, and what a beast he was out there, what a beast he’s always been, and my open line of sight reduces to the girl with her back against the wall, my younger cousins flanking her on each side. They’re all standing together like they know each other, and Kimberly completes the odd picture.

  “Brooke?” I say, as I get closer to her. I smile through a frown.

  She offers me an unhelpful look, like she’s got no more answers than what I have. I lower my gaze to the Warriors jersey she’s wearing over black skinny jeans, a white hoodie underneath. The number 14’s on the sleeves—my number. That plants an unusual feeling in my gut. I’m more concerned over how I’d have felt if it was someone else’s number she was wearing.

  Kimberly disperses the weird moment, shoving herself between me and Brooke and reaching an arm around to my back. She puts one over my stomach, tilting her head to look up at me. Then she grimaces. “I’ll be praying for you tonight. Praying for all the team.”

  “That’s enough, Kimberly.” Steph coaxes her off me, guiding her to carry on walking. At least they’re talking to each other after all the delinquent crap Kimberly’s pulled. No one’s said why Kimberly left Steph and Paul’s house, or if there’s a big reason for it, and I’m too wary to ask.

  “What’s goin’ on, Jace?” I bump fists with my sixteen-year-old cousin. I bump Anna’s, too, Jace’s sister. She’s thirteen, and she gets stupidly shy the rare times she’s around me and my team, so I don’t show her too much attention. Wouldn’t want her ghostly pale complexion catching fire.

  “Can’t say I was expecting to see you here,” I say to Brooke.

  “My idea.” Kimberly twirls her fingers in the air. “The jersey, too.” She puts her hands on Brooke’s shoulders, forcing her to turn around. Gathering her straight, mint hair to one side, Kimberly displays ‘KING’ printed across the top of Brooke’s back. “She’s wearing my name. How freaking cool, huh?”

  I ease Kimberly a look. “My name, you mean.”

  Brooke releases her hair and attempts some semblance of a smile. “I hope it’s okay that I came.”

  We walk beside each other. “You took me by surprise.”

  Brooke messes with the teal-trim cuffs of her jersey. “Kimberly asked me. She can be extremely argumentative.”

  “Guess I owe her a thank you, then.”

  Brooke’s eyes fly up to meet mine. “You don’t feel ambushed?”

  I laugh. “You came to one of my games. Unless that’s just a cover, and you’re really here to propose?”

  That gets me a smack in the arm.

  “I had so much fun, though. That was my first hockey game in around seven years, if you can believe that.”

  “Really? You get tickets for Saturday?” I could have fixed that for her. If I hadn’t taken back my invitation as soon as I’d put it out there. I blank right over the part where I called it a stupid idea.

  “No. I’m driving back to Maine in the morning. I’ve got the afternoon shift at work, and you know, one game’s supportive. Two games…” Brooke turns her mouth down. “That’s a stalker.”

  “Roman,” Aunt Steph interrupts, “we’ll see you at the restaurant? I want to get there ahead of all you guys, so I can save us seats together.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you there.” Steph gives me another hug, and then I say to Brooke, “You taking your own car?”

  “And Kimberly. You’re on the bus?”

  “Uh-huh.” Wish I wasn’t, though. I’m not even attempting to explore that one. I’ve suffered enough in one night. I’m not about to self-inflict more work for myself.

  Brooke nods, and then smiles. Suddenly, dinner with the team and their families sounds like hell, and I’d rather go somewhere else. With Brooke. Just Brooke.

  There’s that self-infliction.

  Kimberly holds her glass in frozen suspension of bemused disgust. “Brooke,” she says, “tell me you didn’t. Tell me he’s lying so we can continue being friends.”

  Between all of us, we’ve taken over most of the restaurant. I’m sitting at the end of one of the long tables between the bar and the window, partially separated from my family, who have attached themselves to Coach Gachet and Monty’s mom and dad.

  Brooke puts her hands on the table, lifting the corner of her napkin over her plate. It looks half empty, but all she’s done is push the vegetables around and cut up the chicken into smaller pieces. Think I saw her fork go to her mouth a grand total of three times. She played with her dinner the rest of the time. Not sure what’s going on there.

  “He dared me to.” Brooke’s gaze rises to me across the table. She sm
iles once we’re looking at each other, wheedling a smile from me.

  West finishes his steak fajita and leans back in his chair to lovingly rub his stomach over his shirt. His eyes fall to Bobby Breeze’s plate, and what he didn’t finish scraped to the side of it. Greedy fuck just ate a meal big enough for two people and he’s hunting for scraps before his stomach realizes there’s food on the way.

  Without asking, West straightens and leans over the table, reaching for the falafel and shoving it in his mouth.

  For a second, Breezy just stares at West with a creeping wide-eyed look. Then he presses his lips into a thin line, blowing his cheeks out. His mouth opens, and laughter rips out of him, turning heads around us. “I spat that out,” he says. “I didn’t know what the fuck it was.”

  West stares at him, his jaw locking mid-munch. He springs from his chair and spits the chewed-up food back onto Breezy’s plate. The table loses it, and Brooke’s wiping tears from her eyes off laughing so hard. West sists there scowling as he wipes his mouth with a napkin, then downs a glass of water I’m pretty sure isn’t his either.

  “Oh, man.” Breezy drags a hand over his face. “That was fucking hilarious.”

  Kimberly scoffs. “Sick, you mean.”

  Brooke fans herself, her laughter rising every time she looks at West. “You guys are something else.”

  From beside her, Kempy gets her attention by nudging her with his elbow. “Would you eat that for fifty bucks?”

  “That?” Brooke points to the falafel on Breezy’s plate that was just in West’s mouth, after it’d been in Breezy’s. Reformed with his germs and spit.

  Kempy grins. “Yeah.”

  “Not for fifty bucks.”

  “Two-hundred?” Kempy raises the stakes.

  Brooke looks as amused as she does disturbed, a facial expression for everything. She leans over Breezy’s plate, inspecting the falafel. Her eyes narrow, her mouth twisting into a smile that’s slightly horrified. “No. I don’t think so.” She turns back to Kempy. “Would you?”