Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  The thing’s pointing at me like a weapon, and my heart gallops into my ribs when Luke restarts the kiss, working the button on my jeans at the same time.

  “Can we go a little slower?” I murmur against his lips, his mouth on mine crushingly urgent. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Uh-huh,” he murmurs back too quickly for him to have heard me, because he doesn’t slow down, doesn’t change anything.

  With my jeans out of the way and around my ankles, Luke pushes me onto the bed, and he’s moving so fast I can’t keep up with him or process what’s happening, what’s going to happen, and how quickly I want it all just to end.

  I don’t know what the hell Luke’s taken, but he’s unleashed himself on me like a wild animal, and he can’t get inside me quick enough. The muscles in my thighs tense as he pulls my thong to the side, my body’s way of restricting entry and safeguarding itself from him, and I know I shouldn’t be here. Not with him. My first time can’t be like this. It’s every horror story I’ve ever heard and shuddered over.

  Luke pushes into me, and before he can slide in deep enough and seal my fate, I put my hand on his naked chest, tear my mouth from his, and push him off.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shuffling to the edge of the bed to pull my jeans up my legs. There’s no stretch in the unforgiving denim, and I’m conscious Luke’s got a full view of my ass, even though I was roughly around seven inches from having sex with him. “I can’t. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time, but I need to go home.”

  An entire fleet of emotions sails across Luke’s face, but I’m already out in the hallway before he can voice a single one of them. My hands shake on the banister as I push myself down the stairs and to the front door.

  I fumble with the lock and deadbolt for an infuriating amount of time, and then I yank the door open, pulling it closed behind me and half-running down an unfamiliar sidewalk in an area that’s completely new to me. I have no idea which way I’m going, or if it’s the right way home, I just keep on moving.

  On the corner of Willow and Bridge Street, outside a convenience store that’s shuttered closed for the night, I give up the ghost and order an Uber, typing out a short text to Maddie after to let her know I’m coming home.

  A cold sweat licks my skin, my heartrate settling into a relaxed rhythm now I’m no longer in that house.

  While I wait for my Uber, I sit on the curb with my feet in the road and my purse on my knees. Opening it to put my phone inside and give myself something to do other than worry over how Luke might act next time I see him, or what he’ll tell other people about the crazy way I behaved tonight, my knuckles brush against what feels like greasy rubber.

  Leaning forward, I peer inside my purse. Angling it toward the panel of light from the overhead lamppost, I put my hand back inside and nip the foreign object between two fingers.

  I lift it up, dangling it in the air in front of my face. My eyes widen, and then my brows crimp hard when I realize what it is I’m looking at.

  It’s the fucking condom. Dumped in my purse.

  When did Luke find the time to do this?

  Like my brain’s only just made sense of what I’m holding, I bend my knee inward, searching the roadside for a storm drain to dispose of it. There are no trash cans around or nearby, and I drop the condom back into my purse and fasten the clip, so I don’t have to look at it any longer.

  Coach Gachet slumps his arms over his chest, tucks his chin into his shoulders, and paces the visitors’ locker room.

  I slant West a surreptitious glance before Coach freezes in front of the door, rights his shoulders, and pushes his hands into the pockets of his black suit pants.

  “What’s happening to you boys out there?” he asks in quiet confusion. Not the ass-reaming I’d been waiting for. “King, you blew two scoring opportunities. Wherever your head is,” he says, his hawk-eyed look narrowed down to me, “it’s not on that ice. I’m relying on you every game to pull this team together. I don’t see that tonight.”

  I’d argue that as utter garbage, and I always bring one hundred percent—for every game—but I’m missing shots I could make with my eyes closed, and my timing’s slower than this painful game feels.

  Last night’s win came late, in overtime, and it was by the skin of our teeth and no thanks to me. Vermont scored twice tonight in the first period, and I’ve contributed to the penalty minutes for tripping because I no longer know how to use my fucking stick.

  I’m frustrated with myself. And Brooke. But she’s done enough damage tonight, and now I’m trying to forget I know who she is for the next two periods.

  When Coach comes to the infuriated end of his inspirational speech, and he looks like he’s at a loss for words short of cussing us out, West looks at me from his stall and says, “King.” Brows drawn low over his eyes, he shrugs. “What the fuck?”

  That’s how I’d sum it up.

  I smooth my fingers over my eyebrow and shake my head. “I’ll turn it around.”

  West doesn’t look one bit like he believes that.

  I don’t turn it around in the second. It isn’t until the third period, after Vermont net their third unanswered goal, that I snap out of it and shake off the Brooke shadow clinging to my back.

  I speed up the boards, slip between the D and the winger in the offensive zone, and cutback with the puck. Streaking up the right wing, West’s a second behind me. I shift my body and throw out my arm to block the D and keep him off the puck. Slinging it to West on the opposite wing, my eyes follow the puck as he shoots it high from the circle and it cushions the top left corner of Vermont’s net, too quick for the goalie to stop.

  Our second goal surfaces off a sloppy turnover in neutral. The loose puck bounces off the wall and I’m the first one to it. I skate with it all the way to the crease, my speed putting me on a narrow breakaway. I fake a shot on my backhand, the goalie freezes, and I shoot through the five-hole.

  It’s not enough for the win, though, and the buzzer shrills, the game ending 3-2 to Vermont.

  My huge efforts in fueling the loss make the defeat that much harder to come back from, and I’m in a mood the size of Mount Everest as our charter bus pulls onto the interstate and we leave Burlington.

  The drive to Maine is subdued and long, our loss affecting everyone in their own quiet way. I watch game footage on an iPad with my headphones on, torturing myself for every turned over, mistimed, or just badly passed puck that misses the tape and ruins another opportunity. The game only changes when I decide I’m playing it, and by then it barely makes a difference, and I’ve single handedly paved the way for UVM to secure their one-goal lead.

  Every reason I talked myself and Brooke out of anything remotely serious starting between us hounded me all weekend, and I couldn’t focus through it. My counterattack to distraction turned into the very thing putting me off.

  Pausing the game a second after my first shot on goal dings off the crossbar and away from the net, I pull off my headphones and drop them onto the iPad’s screen, slumping back in my seat and exhaling a noisy breath through my mouth. I can’t even fucking watch it.

  “Want me to say it for you?” West side-eyes me from his seat along the aisle, removing his face from the farming game on his phone. “Blow the lid clean off this boiling pot?”

  “Do it and see what happens,” I say with my eyes closed.

  “You got what you asked for,” West runs his mouth anyway. “Be fucking happy about it or tell her what it is you really want.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  I’m still telling myself that deep into Sunday morning, the mantra repeating in my head like a theme tune as I lift free weights at the gym and sweat my way through core conditioning. I do more than I should right after a game and more than I need to, but it’s either burn myself into the ground or roll up to Brooke’s apartment with my tail between my legs asking for something I’m not convinced is right for either of us.

  Mid-week, after even
ing practice, I blow off a night of studying at the apartment for a few hours alone in the library, where there’s more chance of doing work and not getting sidetracked by the PlayStation, or West shoving meme compilations on YouTube down my throat every ten seconds.

  At a row of tables in a section stuffed between the bookstacks along the wall, I drop my bag on the floor, pull off my hat and peel out of my Warriors jacket. I drape it over the back of the chair that’s on the outside, deterring anyone else from sitting in it. I take the chair next to the wall, power up my laptop and stuff in my earbuds.

  This late, the library’s usually starting to empty out for the night, but this close to finals there’s no downtime.

  When some dude approaches the table, hovering next to the empty seat I’ve thrown my jacket over, I casually, without taking my eyes off the screen of my laptop, lie my arm across the top of the wooden seatback, reinforcing the hint for whoever’s loitering to get lost and find somewhere else to work.

  Yes, I’m being an asshole No, I don’t give a fuck.

  My mind and my eyes are wandering by the time I hit the ninety-minute mark. An email alert pops up at the bottom corner of my screen, and I open the small box, my student inbox expanding and filling the screen.

  Brooke Torre:

  Cc/Bcc:

  Subject:

  That’s it. No message, just the sender.

  Straightening from where I’m uncomfortably slouched in my seat, I hit reply.

  To: Brooke Torre

  Cc/Bcc:

  Subject: Re:

  Shouting blanks?

  Her reply comes seconds later.

  To: Roman King

  Cc/Bcc:

  Subject: Re: Re:

  Sorry. Accident.

  Accident my ass. To ‘accidently’ send a blank email she would have had to search for and find my name first. I don’t doubt she changed her mind at the last minute, but she was still thinking about me. And I’ve been trying not to think about her, so I call that even ground we’ve reached.

  I close out of my online drawings and worksheets and shut down my laptop.

  Going off a hunch, I shove everything in my bag, stand up and start a lap of the three-story library, browsing the stacks as I browse faces of concentration, avoiding looking like a creep who got lost while searching for the women’s bathroom. Slapping a hand on the wooden banister, I jog up the stairs and take inventory on the second, more cramped level. Glass lamps light the long mahogany tables, wall sconces dotted along the beige walls between stacks.

  At the very back of the library, my gaze glances off the closed door to one of the computer rooms, my eye catching on the back of a head through the square glass panel. Turning to burst in there, I stop with my fingertips inches from the handle and back away from the door, angling my body to the side with my shoulder against the wood so I can look through the glass without being noticed.

  I tip my head forward, smiling as Brooke brings up her foot to rest on the seat of the chair she’s sitting on. She’s wearing black Ugg boots, black leggings, and an oversized hoodie the same pale pink as her hair color. Using the foot that’s on the gray carpeted floor, Brooke slowly spins the roller chair, the tip of her thumbnail between her teeth as she stares at the computer screen. She’s got shit spread out all around her on the wall-to-wall connecting desks. Pens, pencils, different colored pieces of A4 paper, and her backpack’s open beside her, colorful, messy crap spilling out of that, too.

  It’s a lot of art supplies for someone who’s fixated on her email inbox.

  Brooke drops her forehead to the knee bent in front of her, and I open the door, the snick of the handle raising Brooke’s head. She looks over her shoulder in total surprise.

  “Roman.” My name rushes out of her mouth in panicked fashion.

  “Brooke,” I say, more calmly.

  There are three computers in this room, and the only one being used is by Brooke. There’s no one else here.

  I sit at the empty chair on her left, enough space between us to fit two people, and hike my bag higher up my shoulder.

  This is the first time I’ve spoken to her since she went home with Luke Cole, and even though she looks the same, sounds the same, and not a thing about her has changed, something inside me has. And I’m forced to confront that change now I’ve got her in front of me.

  I grapple with the idea of honesty, rather than bullshitting my way out of the hole I’ve dug myself into, then decide no way am I sitting here spilling my guts that I’m jealous over Brooke doing what I asked her to. Because while her lack of clingy works perfectly for me and what I’m trying to do out here in Maine, I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was for her being with someone else. I like it and hate it at the same time.

  Brooke looks at me with the same confusion in her brown eyes I’m feeling myself. The air’s foggy, and there’s no avoiding we need to talk about Wednesday night and how I threw my weight around, telling Brooke whose house she could and couldn’t be in, but I shift my eyes from Brooke to the black computer screen on the table instead, wimping out. Because what am I going to say? I’m sorry? I’m not fucking sorry. I’m still pissed she went and done it, and I couldn’t come up with a good enough reason for her to say no.

  Brooke gets out of her chair and half-sits on the edge of the table, next to the computer in front of me. The cuff of her hoodie covers most of her hand, the clear polish on her nails reflecting the ceiling light panels as she reaches out and wipes something off the strap of my backpack with the pad of her thumb.

  I grab her hand in mine as she pulls it away, and roll the chair forward, trapping one of her legs between mine.

  “I know what you’re going to say, but you don’t have to.” Her expression’s guarded.

  “Okay. Then would you be up for going out tomorrow night with West and some girl he’s moving in on?”

  “A date?” she asks, quirking a skeptical eyebrow.

  “More like wingmen, but I wouldn’t take anyone else if you say no.” And isn’t that the sad truth. It’s Brooke or no one.

  “How can a girl say no to that?” Brooke mocks, but at least it’s with a smile. “Sure. Why not? I can spare three or four hours for West.”

  “Really?” I break into a smile. “For West?”

  Brooke laughs. “For West.”

  “And what about tonight? Any spare time there, or are you all booked-up?”

  “Depends who’s asking,” she teases.

  Brooke’s leg stays locked between mine as I stand up. I untangle my fingers from hers to nudge them under the hem of her hoodie. Her skin’s warm to touch, and her stomach muscles tense from the contact.

  She can flinch as much as she likes, it won’t keep me away from her.

  “Anyone could walk in,” she says softly. It’s a weak strike back, no conviction behind it.

  I look into her eyes. “So?”

  Brooke lifts her arms and loops them around my neck. I lean in, the narrow space between us deteriorating. I push my hand higher up her stomach, her muscles relaxing as my other arm slides around to her back, pulling her closer by the waistband of her leggings so our hips are touching.

  Testing the waters after a frosty week of absence, I brush my lips over Brooke’s, barely getting a taste. Her body arches into mine, her fingers running over the back of my neck and into my hair. Now I’m with her again, I don’t appreciate having to leave her. I’ve crashed head-first into what West accused me of, and I’m messing Brooke around. Maybe not intentionally, but it’s all the same outcome whether I mean to act like an emotionally void douche or not.

  I don’t want anyone else to have her and I can’t bring myself to commit. It’s the worst of both worlds I’ve moved into.

  “Hey.” Brooke bounces her brown-eyed gaze over my face. “What’s wrong?”

  She’s what’s wrong.

  I’m what’s wrong.

  What am I acting so pussy about? Maybe I’d know what to do or say if I actually knew what I want
ed.

  I lower my forehead to Brooke’s. “Nothing,” I say. “Tired. It’s been a long weekend.”

  Brooke drops my gaze, her fingers tightening around mine. “Yeah, I saw.”

  “It happens,” I lie.

  Her head moves against mine in a noncommittal nod. I flatten our palms and curl my fingers between hers. Brooke leans her head back, blinking slow as we fall into a soft, unrushed kiss, and this time I do get a taste. The lingering hit of spearmint gum washes over my tongue, and it would be for the best if someone did come in here and interrupt, because I want more than kissing, and I’m not above doing whatever I have to to get it.

  Brooke: I’m running late, still catching up on an art project. Can I meet you there? X

  ‘No’ gallops through my mind, but that’s unreasonable, so I text back:

  No problem. What time? Or you’ll text me when you get there and I’ll come meet you?

  Brooke: Bout thirty-forty minutes late. I’ll call you x

  I pocket my cell phone without replying to that last message. A full forty minutes third-wheeling sounds like riding a fire wave straight to hell, but I can always download that stupid game West’s addicted to if it gets really bad.

  “Am I picking this girl up or is she driving herself?” I ask West when he emerges from his bedroom, stalked by an invisible cloud of cologne. I thought I was dressed down in a white T-shirt and black jeans, but West’s wearing pale gray Nike sweatpants and matching hooded jacket. His sneakers might be nice and white and fresh out of the box, but whichever way he tries to swing it, he’s wearing a tracksuit for his first date with a girl he’s been actively chasing. He’s going all out on not hedging his bets and roping this girl in prematurely.

  “I said we’d meet her at the bar. Could get awkward in a confined space if we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

  “Have you spent any time with her at all?” West’s told me he likes her, but he hasn’t done anything else to back up his claims.