Page 3 of Forbidden Hockey

He wipes his hand over his face; a million things playing out in his mind. He shakes his head.

“No. No way. Dash’s dad’s not funding you.”

“Then I’ll get a job.”

“Not happening.”

“For fucksakes, Hunter.”

“No, you’re not doing that either. Talking to me like that. Go to your fucking room.Now.”

I hate that my lip trembles. Hunter is the only person who can do that to me. I suck in a breath so I don’t start crying like an idiot. He’s bein’ so unfair. And he’s so strict. None of the other kids in the neighborhood have as many rules as I do.

Before he can see any tears fall, I storm to my room, slamming the door, which he won’t love, but fuck him. My lungs heave as if they’re collapsing. I brace my hand against my chest and take slow breaths and then open the fucking window wide. It’s not my first rodeo with a panic attack. I pull in a slow lungful of crisp night air and convince my brain that I’m not actually suffocating.

The thought of living like this forever feels that way, though, and that’s what’s gonna happen if I can’t play hockey. I’ll end up like Hunter and Mom—who have shit jobs, the only kind you can get without more than a high school diploma—and I’ll be stuck grinding, wasting my life away.

Closing my eyes, I let the breeze hit my face until I calm down. I have half a mind to slip out the window and just run. But I won’t leave Dash, and as much as my brother can be an overbearing dick, I know it’s just because he wants better for me.

But it’s his version of better, not mine. How do I make him see that?

It’s been a week, and I haven’t talked to Hunter much beyond “I’m going here” and “yes, I’ll be home before dark”. It’s not hard because he’s been working a lot. That doesn’t mean I get out of following the rules. He calls the house to make sure I’m home when I’m supposed to be. At least I’ve convinced Dash to stay with us this week. No one’s looked for him. Not even Robin. I can tell it bothers him. Even his smiles have lingering sadness haunting them.

“Why don’t you live with your dad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Mom and Robin say it wouldn’t be good for me. He’s a rough guy. Been to prison and stuff. Used to be in a biker gang or somethin’.”

I don’t know if any of that’s true. Even if it is, he was willing to give Dash money for hockey—his fucking dream—in a heartbeat. And whatever his dad is has to be better than his mom and Robin.

The front door thrusts open. Mom strides in. She’s thin, so thin—skin and bones. Fine lines crease her face, even though they shouldn’t yet at her age—lack of sleep will do that to you—and her hair’s tied in a messy bun with strands flying all over the place. I wouldn’t say that Mom has a drinking problem, but she usually stays after work for drinks with her friends. Her sloppy movements say that’s exactly where she was today.

My heart buoys. Such a damn little kid response to seeing Mom. I barely know Mom. But it’s not the only reaction my body has. There’s also the prickle of hairs like spiders walking over my skin. Dash feels something, too, sitting up tall from his place on the couch. Kids like me and Dash can sense the knife-edge of danger in the air.

The warmth I long for isn’t there; the corners of her lips tilt into a frown, and my stomach plunges into icy coldness. “Just the guy I wanted to talk to,” she says. She fixes the sweater that’s fallen off her shoulder as she hangs her purse on the hook by the door and slips her shoes off.

Shit.I know I’m in shit for something, I just don’t know what I’ve done. A flight of electricity sizzles through my bones.

“Are you giving your brother shit?” she asks.

Oh. That. What a dick. Hetoldon me? “I wasn’t giving anyone shit. Can we do this later?”

I gesture toward Dash, in case she hasn’t seen him, but I’m pretty sure she has and doesn’t give a fuck.

“This is my house. If your friend doesn’t want to see what happens here, he can leave.”

Dash shakes his head. He’s not leaving. It’s unspoken solidarity. And I appreciate it, but my cheeks still heat. No one wants to get reamed out by a parent in front of their friend, even if that friend is Dash, who’s seen it all.

“Hunter and I figured it out,” I tell Mom. At least I thought we had. Yeah, we haven’t talked, but it’s not like I went behind his back and took Dash’s dad’s money. I did what he fucking said, I just wasn’t gracious about it.

“You’re a lippy little shit, and that changes today. New rules. New privileges. You’re gonna start doing more around here so that you can appreciate what we do for you.”

This is way overboard. Was it because I haven’t talked to him? I think I deserve a little “feel sorry for myself” time. And it’s a real piss off that Mom only bothers to make time for me when it’s to tell me off.

“I do plenty around here. Maybe if you were home, you’d fucking see that.”

A hot sting blooms on my face. There was real force behind that smack. I’ve had way worse from guys on the ice, but this is different. This burrows into the core of me, deep, past skin and bone, straight into my chest. It breaks something inside.

Forever.