Page 1 of Brutal Game

1

Aviva

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tovah, my best friend, partner in crime, and guide to the madness in front of us, asked. We stood, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the big, ivy-covered colonial that housed the star players of Reina University’s hockey team.

Music blasted from the windows and the open front door, where students—excited about the start of the school year—spilled out, half naked, drunk, and laughing. They were squeezing out the last bit of summer. I envied them for a moment, the easy joy in their lives. They were happy to be at the hockey house. And why shouldn’t they be? They didn’t know about the darker side of the sport it represented.

I, however, did.

If I got my way, they’d know about its darker side sooner rather than later. And I was determined to get my way.

“We can call Plan B off. Plan A, too. Go back to ourapartment and take off this fucking makeup and put on sweats and watchTed Lasso,” Tovah suggested.

And yeah, it sounded tempting to abandon my mission. But I owed it to my brother, Asher, to see this through. To get him justice. And that meant checking out my competition—and making inroads with the hockey players who might be allies.

I rubbed at the scar on my chest as I considered. The scar, hidden under a sleeveless crop top turtleneck, was a reminder of everything I’d lost, and why I was here.

For Asher.

“And you love Ted Lasso,” she added hopefully.

I tugged up my black skirt to cover my round stomach and tugged down my bike shorts, flipped back my curly brown hair, and squared my shoulders. I was what people politely referred to as “curvy,” “mid-size,” or “a bigger girl,” and I was mostly happy with it. Mostly comfortable in the size and shape of my body, with its rolls and curves and dimples and stretch marks. Mostly okay with having to wear bike shorts under skirts and dresses to avoid thigh chafe. Mostly invulnerable to the way fatphobic people judged my body—and me. Because fuck them.

Again,mostly. Sometimes it got to me. But not tonight. I had more important things to worry about, like my mission.

Spying on the hockey team to figure out who my “in” might be was risky. But I loved my brother. Hated how he’d retreated into himself, how he’d ripped the Wayne Gretsky poster off his bedroom wall. How he’d stopped caring if I brought home no-pulp orange juice by mistake. I’d risk anything to bring that crooked smile back to his face.

“We’re doing this,” I told her.

She sighed, linking arms with me. “You’re lucky I’m agood investigative journalist—and that I love you. Let’s do this.”

Together, we entered the house.

The party was in full swing: to the left, a group of girls were dancing on tables. To the right, a group of four students sat on the spiral stairs, passing a joint between them and laughing hysterically.

“Let’s go find the Core Four.” Tovah tugged me forward.

“The Core Four?” I asked, bemused.

“The four best hockey players at Reina. I don’t remember who nicknamed them that, but it stuck. And you’re about to see why.”

She led me through a sea of strangers my age who eyed me with a mix of curiosity and distrust. I didn’t blame them. I was new—a transfer student to Reina U as a senior—and therefore a complete unknown, when most of them had known each other for years. Moreover, they were right not to trust me.

As the saying went, I wasn’t here to make friends.

I was here to get justice for my brother.

Period.

We entered the kitchen, where four guys were holding court.

The Core Four.

I immediately picked up on why. Even surrounded by people, the four guys were intimidating, aloof. They towered over everyone else, and not just physically. I could feel their presence, even from the doorway.

Did any of them know about what had really happened to my brother? Did they care? Had they been hurt in the same way?

Tovah cleared her throat, bringing my attention back to her.

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