Page 1 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
1
HOPE YOU HAVE INSURANCE
CALISTA
I’m late. This week’s goal was to work on punctuality, but the universe is conspiring against me.
My dance class went over time, so I had to cram a twenty-minute drive into a measly eight minutes. I’m surprised my car even covered that much distance within such a small time span since it’s on its last wheels.
I promised my little brother, Teague, that I’d be on time today. Another broken promise to a little kid who deserves so much more. With my father out of the picture and my mother bedridden, Teague is my responsibility. An eight-year-old, adorable, bad-mouthed ball of responsibility. But I wouldn’t trade that responsibility for anything in the world.
When I pull into the massive parking lot, somehow every spot in the vicinity is occupied. Sure, Riverside is a big hockey city, and if you arrive at the arena after three o’clock, you’re guaranteed to endure some traffic, but this is preposterous. And my brother is inside that teeming sardine can, where a simple “I’m here” text won’t be enough to compel him out of the door.
If I’m going to get my brother home, cook him dinner, and get back to the studio for my final dance class of the night, I’llneed to run in and get him. Right now, that’s looking like the equivalent of voluntarily running into crossfire. But I have no choice.
Whipping my head around, I try to search for the nearest “parking space” that won’t get me a ticket or my car towed. I can’t park against the sidewalk because thereisno fucking sidewalk, and I can’t park in front of the rink with my hazards on because I’d be blocking the mouth of the parking lot entrance. I’m panicking. It’s a mild panic, but panic, nonetheless.
And then, breaking through my figurative haze—and a literal foggy one—is a single spot calling to me from the hockey team’s reserved parking spaces. Home to the Riverside Reapers. One of the best professional hockey teams in the league. And Riverside’s pride and joy. We got close to the playoffs last season, and now everyone and their mother thinks we’re going to win this season.
Look, I’m not blind, I know what the signage says—RESERVED PARKING. But I’ll be out in less than five minutes. I highly doubt a team member is going to arrive in the next five minutes, find that I’m inhisdesignated parking spot, and get me towed. Plus, this is the closest spot to the arena.
Kiss my ass, time management class I should probably be attending! I’m in control, and I’ve got this.
I pull haphazardly between the white-painted lines, kill the engine, and jump out of the car quicker than I think I’ve ever moved in my twenty-two years of life.
My threadbare shoes squelch in puddles of murky rainwater, and crushed autumn leaves disintegrate into muted hues of fiery crimson against the soaked pavement. The sky is the color of dragon’s breath, with nebulous clouds shrouding the parking lot in a disquieting darkness—one that makes the rink look a lot more foreboding than usual. Cold licks up my spine, raisinggoose bumps on the exposed flesh of my arms as I try to circulate some warmth with my palms.
I push through the double, weatherproofed doors and into the arena. My eyes start to tear up, and my nose stings from the acreage of subzero ice in front of me. To say that the rink is packed would be an understatement. Hundreds of skates and little legs. A cacophony of shouts that ricochet off the tall, hollowed walls. Pucks zinging around like miniature missiles.
I bear the chill of the atmosphere, wishing I’d had a chance to slip on a jacket before entering the goddamn arctic. Dance attire wasn’t made for a hockey rink. All I have on is a black bralette and booty shorts, and despite them covering all the necessary areas, I still feel like I’m going to contract hypothermia.
“Teague!” I shout from behind the plexiglass, waving my arms overhead like a lunatic.
My brother glances in my direction and says goodbye to his friends before skating over to me. The messily illustrated fire symbol on his helmet sticks out in a snowscape of white, and he steps off the ice with his hockey stick gripped tightly in his gloved hand.
“You’re late,” he says, jutting his lower lip out.
“I know. I’m sorry, Squirt.” I sit him down on a nearby bench and start to untie the laces of his skates, all while he glowers at me with sharp eyes. “I ran over time. It won’t happen again.”
Teague sheds his gloves, then removes his helmet, unveiling a mess of sweat-slicked spikes on the top of his head. “You always say that. And it always happens.”
My fingers falter in the polyester strings. I feel terrible. I do always say that, and nothing ever changes. I’m trying to juggle so much at one time. Teague is my main priority, but so is keeping a roof over his head and food on the table.
With some expert detangling and tugging, I manage to yankhis skates off, mentally chastising myself for being the worst sister on the planet. With a feathery exhale, I rise to a stance, gripping a fistful of laces. “I know you’re mad, T, but we really have to go,” I tell him, unable to ignore the disappointment seeping into his expression.
He doesn’t argue with me. He doesn’t say much of anything, actually—which is unlike him. My brother’s usually a bundle of untold stories waiting for an ear to listen. But I don’t push him to talk to me, and the silence that follows is deafening.
I burst out of the rink, fumbling for my keys as he slogs behind me, when I’m accosted by the blinding sight of a bright red Jaguar sitting horizontally behind my car, boxing my little Honda in.
No, no, no.
A scream thunders from my throat, loud enough to garner shocked looks from families milling about the parking lot. “Fuck!”
Okay, think, Cali. Just…just go inside and ask the owner to move his car. And also pretend like you didn’t drop the F-bomb in front of your eight-year-old brother.
I set Teague’s skates down before grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him to look at me. “I’m going to be right back, okay? Please, please stay here. This will only take a minute.”
“Why can’t I come with you?” he whines.
