Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal

Chapter 1

“You’re honestly the last person I expected to see in my office, Rhinehart,” Coach Joseph Stiles says, voice caked in confusion, body language echoing it by the way he folds his dark cocoa brown arms across his Vlasta University polo-covered chest.

That fucking makes two of us.

No means no.

That’s what we call verbal rejection.

It’s the one Remington Ronald Rutledge the 3rd, our top goalie, and one of my hockey crew members always takes.

However, unlike our very vocal cynic, I – more often than not – chose the nonverbal approach.

Silence.

Silence accompanied by a dismissing glare.

Silence isn’t consent.

Silence has never meant consent.

I don’t know how many more fucking documentaries or blog posts need to be done about that shit for the world to really let it sink the fuck in, but I wouldn’t fucking be here right now if it, obviously, had for the general population by this point.

Because I didn’t say yes.

My lack of saying yes in no way shape or form should’ve fucking translated into my agreement.

This lesson will be a very painful one for a certain fashion-loving forward to have literally knocked into him today on the ice by this very irritated six foot four, two hundred and twenty-five-pound defenseman.

That motherfucker better pray all his padding is perfectly in fucking place.

I’m gonna test the shit out of it.

Perhaps even fucking break it.

Today, I will not be defending him, but reminding him why he should be grateful he’s actually on my team, rather than an opposing one, by demonstrating a fraction of the damage I’m capable of.

This won’t be the first time I let my frustrations out on the ice.

I have deemed it a healthy way to unleash unhappiness.

I try not to think about how I might be fucked at the end of next season when I graduate and no longer have a guaranteed outlet for my pent-up emotions. My dad insists I start building a plan of action now – a plan he is more than willing to help me create – promising me it’ll be better for my psyche in the long run, while my mother seems more worried about the effect an abrupt end to such a long hockey career is going to take on me physically, prior to using whatever object is in her hands to model the areas that have undergone the most strain and will, most likely, need additional attention in the future.

Their logical concerns spoken clinically actually provide me with more reasons to lace up; however, their parental fears expressed emotionally have me reaching for my favorite pen and the little leather book I keep wedged underneath my mattress.

Unlike in hockey, where my skills easily speak for themselves, my poetry writing ones still need practice.

A lot of practice.

Continuously reading the greats like Sylvia Path and Robert Hayden feels in a way like I’m being coached by the best, yet every time I pick up my pen to try to practice what I feel I’ve been taught, I fall flat on my face.

I’m not sure if I should rhyme or just use Blank verse that includes rhythmic rules but no actual rhyming.

I’m not sure if I’m just supposed to share my grievances or tell the story of how they came about.

I’m not sure which “team” I belong on when it comes to writing poetry since I love all its various forms and positions.

Hockey, on the other hand, only has one role I fit in.

And I fit into it very fucking well.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Coach Stiles cautiously questions at the same time he leans against the edge of his desk. “You don’t exactly strike me as the camera-hungry type.”

This is because I’m not.

That would be Adrian Stratton, the social media-obsessed forward I’m going to body check into next semester for tricking me into this shit.

“Hell, do you even smile outside of the rink? I swear the only time I see you maybe smirk is on your way to the penalty box when you’ve knocked the shit out of someone on the other team.”

The corner of my lip thoughtlessly twitches in response.

I do love that feeling, although I hate leaving my team unprotected, even for the briefest fucking moment.

Part of me feels like that’s how I let Stratton trick my ass into walking in here instead of the locker room.

Logic clearly indicated to go there, yet instinct dictated here.

So, here I am.

About to do something I have no desire to do.

Still not receiving words from me pushes him to soldier on, “Okay then. Photoshoot