Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,11

outrage. “Dick!”

“Nice,” Gillette promptly praises.

She tosses him a scathing look. “Oh, shut up, Oscar the Slouch.”

“That makes you Grundgetta,” Stratton speaks up despite the pain he’s in.

All of our attention soars to him over the statement.

“What! Like you fuckers didn’t watch that shit growing up?”

“Rowlf the dog was my favorite,” Poppy enthusiastically coos.

The paw print tank top that she’s wearing makes her announcement beyond unnecessary.

I’m not a huge dog fan but respect the chick for knowing who the fuck she is.

I also respect her for showing Rutledge it’s alright to be whoever it is you really are.

I may not have that level of courage, but it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.

It doesn’t mean that one day I don’t hope to achieve it.

I like to believe that one day I’ll be able to allow my hockey crew to see that I like poetry, David Bowie, and mango parfaits without it completely shifting their view of me. They – for the most part – believe me to be the big, strong, silent, aggressive type. I don’t say or do anything to counter it because that’s what I need them to remember when I’m protecting their asses out on that ice. The other side of me is irrelevant in comparison to that. It would be counterproductive to have them concerned I can’t keep two very distinct parts of my life separate when needed.

Maybe after our last season together I’ll grant permission to the other side of myself to be shown the way my teammates have begun to let the other sides of them.

Maybe.

“Rowlf? Really? I figured Hoots would’ve been your favorite,” Rutledge deviously chuckles. “I mean you have so much in fucking common.”

“Keep that shit up and see if you’ll be hearing me hoot tonight.”

Her sassy response receives laughs from all of us and red cheeks from her.

Sex stuff still makes her blush but significantly less than it used to.

Which is good, considering how often we end up on the subject.

By we, of course, I mean her boyfriend, Stratton, Gillette, and Mo, who is basically like having an extra dude teammate around most of the time.

“Good idea!” Tatum unexpectedly croaks calling everyone’s attention over to where she’s studying Peck’s movements. “Ingenuity!”

Peck merely smirks and moves the pillow from underneath his arm to make the next part of his bridge. The alternating usage of the object will allow him to cross the space at a slow but safe pace. Sadly, his method could not be more a testament to his personality if he tried.

I mean I’m right there with him when it comes to being sensible, but I prefer to work smarter not harder.

“Boat, bitches!” Crash enthusiastically proclaims, scooting himself across the living room space by using his foot to propel him the direction he needs to go by pushing off the nearest sturdy object.

“Oh!” Rutledge yells as an idea clearly hits him. “Roll over here, Hootie! I’ll get in the chair, put you in my lap, and we can scoot across to the stairs!”

“That just sounds like you want me to hump you in a chair.”

“We can use the chairs to build a bridge, Tater-Tot,” Stratton says, spinning around on the surface to face her. “It’ll go faster than Peck’s plan.”

She looks at him, looks at Peck’s pillows, and looks unconvincedly back at him. “Mmm…will it?”

Stratton uses the nearest chair to swing one of Peck’s pillows out of reach.

“What the hell!?”

“Now, it will,” Stratton assures on a devious smirk.

“Bet I could reach that pillow if I just got a little…” Mo begins to scoot across the counter space, something made infinitely more difficult by the booze in her way, “closer.”

“No-huh,” Rutledge discourages and tosses an empty plastic cup at her feet.

She manages to catch it on her foot, impressively enough, and chuck it back at him.

His effortless blocking reflex that he maintains even when drunk proves why he’s our starting goalie and should always be.

Squabbling continues around the room, everyone getting unconsciously louder in volume. Trash talk bounces between friends and couples alike. For most of the idiotic game, I merely do what I always do in large social situations.

I warily watch.

Observe.

I keep a vigilant stare on all the moving parts to ensure everyone’s safety remains intact.

Eventually, I put my beer down, grab two of the nearby plastic bags we brought the groceries in with earlier, tie them on my feet like makeshift socks, and casually stroll out of the kitchen over to the staircase.

The shockwave of silence pushes a smirk onto