Paint The Ice

Chapter 1

RILEY

THE HERMAN ARENA IS JAM PACKED TONIGHT.

Rightfully so, this game has been one of the most anticipated games of the season. It's all anyone would talk about for the past few weeks. In the restrooms, in class, at the coffee houses, parties— everywhere. Hockey was fundamental at Taft. And no matter what you do, you won't hate it because it sucks you in and keeps you entertained for the sake of finding out what happens next like an addictive series.

I don't have to be on ice to feel the determination of the players. It radiates through the entire room of about ten thousand seats.

The arena was built in 1933 and earned its name from Herman Schmidt, the graduate who used his own money to start a home for the hockey team, known as Thunderbirds. It's since been renovated with luxurious architecture. High bay lights scatter across the ceiling like stars. Marble floors and a golden pristine lobby sets a standard and a reminder of the reason why graduations and weddings were sometimes held here. The seats in the student section are cushioned which I personally think is a horrible decision for the sake of collecting dirt and spills but my ass begs to differ when underneath me feels like fluffy cumulus clouds. A form of relaxation in this pit of chaos.

The smell of popcorn and pretzels linger around the seats. People tend to stick to snacks ever since alcohol was banned. The 'oh's' and ardent cheers echoes throughout the arena whenever something exciting happens.

Tonight, we're playing our rivals. The guys on Pendleton look scary, despite the name of their university sounding like a children show. They came for blood and they're far from little. They're frighteningly buff and alert.

And honestly, Pendleton's giving Taft a difficult time this year because they're playing like complete savages.

Hockey can be vicious and exciting, still, this is the last place I wanted to be on a Friday night. If it was up to me, I'd be in the art studio. The reason why is obvious. To paint. Scribble lines and blend colors together, getting my hands dirty. In my element with cigarettes and wine. Instead, I'm here for my brother. Like he needs me to be. Always since our Mom won't.

Cole and I have been through everything together. We're twins and that was a blessing since it's the only good thing our parents have ever done. Sometimes we don't see eye to eye, I guess that's every sibling relationship anyway. We scream at each other and fight over food and repeat that kinda jazz. I love him though and would never trade him for anything. 

I feel like he just wants to know that a family member is in the crowd supporting him. We grew up with our mother and she is... interesting. Not in a good way. She's on her third husband. Third time's a charm I guess. We (her own children) were never her priority, her boyfriends and husbands were. So, she never shows up to Cole's games. Mom only calls when she needs something from us or when she wants to gush over her new boyfriend turned husband. And by that, I mean she invited us to dinner but Cole had hockey practice so I went.

Let me just say, there's a high chance the marriage won't last just like all her marriages. Fernando married Mom for her assets. Her money. It was obvious to everyone else but my mother. Fernando doesn't have a job, he stays home all day and he doesn't do anything. Mom cooks for him, brings the food as if he can't move a leg or a muscle. She probably gives him baths too at this rate. The man is basically a log. But Mom swears they're soulmates because they both have roots from Spain. When I voiced my concerns after I met him on Labor Day, Mom threw me out of the house and threatened to cut me off financially.