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The hockey rink is essentially White Bros™ headquarters. As in, it’s jam packed with the army, which consists of Brett, his friends, and other future frat boys from other schools.
They cut through the rink, skates scraping the ice, hockey sticks fighting hungrily for the puck.
Nat used to play hockey before he quit, but he played long enough for me to recognize every play in the game, every bad move, every split second decision that should’ve been made.
“Do you have... any idea what’s happening right now?” Yasmine whispers from next to me as we all stand aligned by the stands, a little ways away from the parents.
“Strangely enough, yeah.” I whisper back to her before I lean forward, lips twitching at a backhand shot.
“Got that one in pretty well,” Laura hums at one of the plays made on the ice.
Emory shakes his head. “Maybe, or maybe the goalie’s just a sieve.”
“Isn’t Brett the goalie?” Yasmine asks, amusement curving onto her lips as pink from the cold tinges her cheeks.
“To be honest, I can’t tell. Don’t know what his number is.” Laura replies, turning to Emory.
“I’m pretty sure he’s number 6,” Emory replies, “And yeah, that’d make him the goalie.”
Laughter escapes our lips and the nearby parents send us wary glances, causing us to haltingly slow our laughter and bring our attention back to the scrimmage on the rink.
Soon, the coach calls all the players to the center, shouting out some pieces of feedback before telling them to get off the ice.
So, they do. They skate up to the stands, heavy skates clinking against the ground. Within the throng of boys, one of them removes a black helmet, letting light brown hair fall free. Then his eyes trace the entire area before they land on us.
He squints, nudging one of the lackeys next to him and laughing. Then he trudges over to us, standing just a few feet away from our little group.
“Do I need to file a restraining order, Johnson?” Brett asks, grin smug as ever as he turns his gaze to Laura, who straightens up, unwavering.
“No offense, but this is a delinquent-free zone,” The redhead next to him says. “We don’t need any trouble here.”
“Ironic,” Laura replies, utterly unfazed. “You’re talking about filing a restraining order on me when Emory here has every reason to report you.”
“Oh, you’re still hung up on that?” Brett rolls his neck, eyes glazing over in boredom.
“On you attempting to give me third-degree burns because you’re a sadist?” Emory asks with a cold laugh. “Because, yeah, a lil bit.”
“Oh, did we hurt you, princess?” Brett coos, jutting out his bottom lip as the surrounding hockey players watch eagerly.
“Nah,” Emory shrugs, “just irritated me.” He says, elbows resting on the stand as he leans backwards.
“Want us to kiss the burns better?” A freckle-faced one asks, holding a hand to his chest.
“That’ll be unnecessary,” Yasmine says, fingers entangled. “I think we’ll just go with reporting.”
“Yeah, you do that.” Brett says, letting out a smug gust of air. “You don’t have any proof whatsoever, but you do that, Abadi.”
“Really?” I ask, tucking a braid behind my ear as Laura hums.
Emory leans back against the stands, tilting his head to the side. “You realize you have a history right? Like you’ve skipped school, disrespected teachers, smoked on and off school grounds?”
“Dude, none of that is on my record,” Brett laughs, arms folded. “Again, there’s no evidence.”
“You actually got away with doing all that?” Laura asks, arms folded to match his, as she catches my eyes for a moment, giving me a nearly imperceptible nod.
Brett laughs. “Who do you think gets the vapes into school?” He gets a somewhat aggressive clap on the back from the guy next to him. “Missed an entire day to head over to the skate park.” A wink. “As far as Ms. Anderson knows, I was sick with the flu.” A pause. “I clean up my tracks,” He shrugs, “you could learn a thing or two about it, expellee.” His eyes cut into Laura as he says this.
“You don’t know anything about what happened,” She says, fists slowly clenching as Yasmine gently rubs a circle onto her shoulder.
“Great,” Brett shrugs, “Because, frankly, I don’t really care, but, listen.” He lowers his voice. “I can do whatever the hell I want around here. Emory had what was coming to him.” He shrugs, shooting daggers at Emory who returns the look with even more gusto. Brett winks. “It was fun, by the way.”
Laughs slide from their lips, frostier than the chilly air of the skating rink.
“Just get the hell out of here.” Brett laughs again. “Unless you’d like to be escorted out. In fact, we can do that for you personally, Emory.” His eyes scope the rest of us as Emory lets out something resembling a scoff at the comment.
Brett plows on. “That includes the rest of you.”
“We’re not obligated to leave just because you said so,” my voice comes out firm, eyes steady, stance solid.
“Okay,” Brett laughs, his followers laughing along with him. “Stay as long as you want, and, you know, you can say whatever you want for all I care. You know as well as we do that you’re just wasting your time.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Emory says lightly,
amusement dripping from his tone as he nods his head towards me before his eyes return to Brett. “Little bit smarter than we let on.”
I hold up my phone, video still playing and a grin tugging at my lips as the seconds go by.
“Footage is pretty solid evidence,” Laura tilts her head to the side. “You’ll be hard pressed trying to talk your way out of this one.” A sly grin curves onto her lips as she nods towards my phone.
Brett pales and the sight is almost comical.
“What?” He asks, taking a step forward, reaching from my phone. I step back from him, holding my phone out of reach.
“Don’t do that,” he says, eyes widened, lips parted.
“Why not?” Yasmine bats her eyelashes, “You’ve got the presidential elections in the bag, haven’t you?”
Brett bites his bottom lip, roughly, moving towards us as we step out of reach. “You better delete that crap.” His eyes cut into mine.
“No thanks,” I send him a honey sweet smile in response. “I’ll be keeping this footage.”
“You don’t need to worry about it,” Laura juts out her bottom lip. “No one’s going to believe us, you said so yourself.”
“Get rid of the damn video,” Brett says, face reddening.
“Nah, man.” Emory smirks, tilting his head to the side. “Best luck on the elections, though.” He whispers, tauntingly. “You’ll need it.”
“You’re not going to screw this up for me,” Brett says, voice dripping in venom.
“Don’t worry.” Laura says with a pout. “You already did that yourself.”
That’s all it takes for Brett to snap.
He lunges for me, and my heart palpitates as I jump out of his reach, causing him to stumble.
The rest of his troop jumps into action, movements clunky and restrained in their heavy skates, making it easy for us to weave around them.
Laura’s eyes sparkle at their pathetic attempts to grab us.
“Run!” I yell, and the rest of us exchange amused, adrenaline-filled glances before speeding out of the area.
Brett and his group start kicking off their skates onto the solid ground, some sliding sneakers onto their feet as we start zipping through the skating rink.
We push through the double doors, running out onto the pavement and sprinting down the sidewalk. Yasmine lets out a series of curses as the heavy padding of running shoes come from behind us. A glance back reveals Brett and four-or-so of his lackeys, all of them jogging after us.
Emory lets out a string of curses, looking back at the running boys to give them smug looks paired with indecent facial expressions and gestures.
“God, Emory,” Laura laughs, still running at my side, “stop triggering them.”
“A bit too late for that,” Yasmine huffs as we turn a corner, the boys yelling out obscenities from behind us.
“Where exactly are we supposed to go?” Laura pants, glancing back every few seconds as we jog to the end of the street and midway onto the next block.
This. I think while my breaths come out in quick gusts. This is why I hate track with a burning passion.
The adrenaline is dwindling, and they’re going to catch up with us at some point. Suddenly, a bulb flickers on in my mind.
“Guys,” I say, looking over at my acquaintances—friends—that are still breathing heavily, chests rising and falling. “I know where to go.”
“Thank God,” Yasmine says, and I gesture towards them to follow me.
I zip back in the direction we’re coming from, so we’re right across from Brett’s group.
Emory glances over at me, eyebrows raised as if to ask: this is your life-saving plan?
I take a sharp left, the group stumbling after me as I swing into a familiar restaurant, pushing through the doors and panting as the everyday customers gape at me.
Then shouts of exclamation break out of their voices, all in various languages, Ms. Cruz’s exclamation of shock cutting through the cacophony of dialects.
“Why are you running?” Mr. Asfour stares blankly at us, rounded glasses sliding onto the bridge of his nose. I can’t help but let out a painfully exhausted laugh.
“More importantly, who are you running from?” Miss Silva asks, hand running through her short curls as she takes us in.
Orion makes his way to the front, eyes traveling over our wind-blown and sweaty selves. He opens his mouth as if to ask something, but he’s cut off by a pounding on the door.
“He’s lost it,” Yasmine mutters, as Brett glares through the glass, his teammates a little ways away from him. Orion rolls his eyes, pushing past us and opening the door.
“What are you doing here?” He asks, boredly, the door shutting behind him and drowning out the rest of the conversation.
Our eyes stay on the glass as Brett tries to look over Orion’s shoulder, pointing at the doors. Orion shakes his head, causing Brett to step up to him as if to intimidate him. Although, once he takes in Orion’s 6’ 1’’, he takes a step back. Orion mouths something else and Brett’s eyes find us through the glass. I wiggle my fingers in a wave at him as Laura blows a taunting kiss.
His fingers clench before Orion says something else to him. Then, with one glance back at us, he spits onto the ground, shuffling off with the rest of his lackeys.
Orion brushes his apron, returning to the shop, shutting the door behind him.
“What did you say to him?” I ask, eyes trailing over to the empty sidewalk where Brett and the White Bros™ were standing just seconds before.
Orion waves a dismissive hand. “Just told him that he can’t come in without a reservation. Brought the police into the conversation when he wouldn’t leave.”
“You lied?” I ask, my lips twitching in amusement. Because the idea of Orion Henderson calling the police is absurd to me. He’d sooner jump off a moving train, I’m sure.
“Stretched the truth a little bit. You’re welcome.” Orion says, making his way down to the kitchen in his usual gait.
A half smile curves onto my lips. Although, I doubt Brett would be all that scared of a 911 call. I’m still betting it was Orion’s imposing build that caused them to get out of the place as fast as they did.
From behind me, Yasmine, Laura, and Emory utter a quick ‘thank you’, eyes finding Orion as he shrugs them off. The customers return to eating their dishes, attention drawn away from the four of us now that everything is seemingly resolved.
A few seconds pass before Orion comes to a halt at the door, spinning around so that he’s facing us.
“Well, get over here.” He says, beckoning towards us. “You’re all here, and we need more hands in the kitchen.”
With quick glances exchanged between the four of us, we rush towards him, elated laughter filling the air, because for the first time, it feels like we’ve won.
Really won, even if it’s only for a second.
