Bending the Rules (The Rules, #1)

Brenna

On Sunday, before Smith arrives, I hop in the shower. Last night's game went late. I was too tired to shower when I got home, and I reek of hockey equipment. It's a smell that reminds me of sweat and dirty socks. My shower is quick, as I have limited time before Smith arrives. When I'm finished, I tie my hair up in a wet bun and apply a thin layer of makeup. Enough makeup to cover the bags under my eyes. This past week has been rough. Every morning, I've been getting up at five A.M. for hockey practice or a morning spin class. After the gym or practice, I usually head to school, where I sit in class for almost eight hours (minus lunch break). Then, depending on the day, I either have to work or help my team win a hockey game. Or there's another hockey practice. It all depends on the day. 

Water drips down my back as I pull on a Nike sweater and a pair of pale skinny jeans. My bedroom is a disaster, so I take fifteen minutes to locate my French textbook, notes, pens and pencils, and the final outline I've printed for Smith. Last night, before I crashed, I highlighted the portions we could do. I think he's going to be okay with it. I've divided the work up evenly, and the workload isn't too much. But Smith and I will discuss before anything is completed.

With my arms full of our French project, I head downstairs to the kitchen and lay the items out on the island. It's a quarter after one, meaning Smith is fifteen minutes late. I'm worried he knocked while I was showering. He would've texted me though.

However...

I haven't checked my phone recently.

Sorting through the papers and pencils, I find it beneath Smith's copy of the outline. When I tap the home button, the lock screen pops up and shows me three unread text messages. The first one says he's here. Hey, I'm here. He directs the second at me, asking me where I am. Harrison, where are you?  His third text messages confuses me. I'll shoot some pucks, then.

As I'm heading to the front door, to make sure he hasn't left, I rub my chin. How are pucks related to French homework? Slipping my phone in my pocket, I step outside in my socks and walk down the pathway. When I come to the driveway, I hear a puck ring off of the post. My frown deepens when I see Smith taking shots. His bag is leaning against the tire of his car and his sling is draped over the hood. My first instinct is to tell him he's being stupid. If he continues to do this, he's going to worsen his injuries. Upon closer inspection, I see he's not overextending his injured shoulder. Smith is being careful with his actions. 

He takes a shot, trying to hit the old water bottle I left behind.

It misses. There's not enough strength in his shot, but the aim is also off. 

He loosens a muffled curse. When he turns around and makes eye contact with me, that same curse is expelled clear as day. The stick falls from his grip, clattering against the asphalt. He rests a hand against his chest. "Are you trying to kill me? he demands.