Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,12
my face and causes me to cockily lean against the banister.
Stratton is the first to vocally express his displeasure. “Sonofabitch!”
“Brilliant bastard!” Gillette shouts from his still unmoved status.
“Huh,” Poppy drunkenly grunts, head tilted all the way to one side.
“But…” Rutledge’s eyes narrow at me in perplexity. “How?”
“Helps to be one of the most sober people in the room.”
Peck instantly nods in agreement at the same time everyone else boos like a shitty moment in a sitcom special.
“But you have been drinking?” Tatum questions after a hiccup, body flopping back down on the window seat she barely made it more than three feet away from.
“Have you ever been drunk?” Mo politely interrogates as she hops down to finally help her boyfriend out of his situation.
“I’ve never fucking seen him drunk,” Gillette instantly retorts. “Fucking never.”
“I have!” Crash gleefully sings and sits straight up on the stool he’s occupying.
My eyes swiftly swing to his smirking face, loving the sight of his smile despite the fact I should be hating that it’s one of my shameful moments that’s causing it.
Feelings of unrequited love aside, we don’t have a shit ton of secrets between us.
He’s really open with me.
I’m really open with him.
He knows shit like I sometimes cry when I read Shel Silverstein poems.
I know shit like he sometimes cries when singing “Somebody to Love” and “I Want to Break Free” by Queen.
We know the bigger shit, too, like how we both lost our virginities to older people, him at ballet camp when he was fourteen to one of his instructors that was ten years older than him and me at sixteen to one of my mom’s colleague’s daughters on a random Tuesday night after dinner while they sipped pinot downstairs.
I can count the number of things I’ve kept from him on one hand and still have fingers left over.
The ugly side of the night he’s about to bring up is one of them.
“You have to tell us about that shit,” Stratton drunkenly demands. “Right now.” He dramatically points to the space in front of him almost falling over in the process. “Right. Fucking. Now.”
“Manners, pretty boy,” Crash playfully tisks.
I try to ignore the pang of jealousy that comes from the offhanded compliment.
“You are so pretty,” Mo echoes. “Almost like too pretty.”
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Hollywood smile.
Yes.
Adrian Stratton is almost painfully pretty. He looks like an actor pretending to be a hockey player instead of actually being one.
“Whoa whoa whoa, you think he’s pretty, but Janelle Monáe is just dog shit?” Gillette immediately gripes.
“Ohmygod, she’s so pretty!” Poppy joyfully interjects making Mo sneer.
“For Cripes Sake, there’s nothing wrong with having a flawless skin game brought to you by a strict regime,” Stratton swiftly defends himself.
“Regimen,” Rutledge corrects in route to Poppy.
“Amen. I absolutely swear by mine,” Crash swiftly states and frames his face with a wave of the hand. “That and, of course, the basic principle to never let anyone dull your sparkle – figuratively and literally.”
The corner of my lip kicks all the way upward.
Just another one of those things I adore about him.
He rarely ever stops shining.
It’s beautiful to see him happy and glowing, although it’s heartbreaking when it isn’t genuine.
There is a vast difference, even if the rest of the world fails to spot it.
“Now, back to the one time I’ve ever seen Hugo drunk…”
“Ha, Hugo,” Gillette childishly chuckles at my name.
I thoughtlessly roll my eyes rather than taking a stab back his direction, which would be ridiculously effortless considering how much he loathes his first name.
“It was also the only time I’ve ever had to drive him home…” Crash’s tone turns to teasing and the glare he tosses me matches. “Which, I’m sure you all know, he hates not being the one to drive.”
He’s given an innocent shrug. “I prefer control.”
“Same,” my teammates echo in unison.
“It’s why we don’t ever couple carpool,” Poppy informs my best friend.
Tatum happily follows it up with, “However, the financial percentage you boys could all benefit from doing that is-”
“Tater-tot,” Stratton immediately interrupts, “no, thank you.”
“To the math or the savings?”
“Yup.” He frantically nods prior to tossing his chin at Crash. “Continue.”
Crash giggles, shakes his head, and resumes talking, “It was our senior year in high school. We somehow ended up at the same afterparty for homecoming.”
I planned it that way.
“I don’t know what the fuck happened to the little redheaded ho’ that was wearing an orange Alex Perry dress that made her look like an anorexic sunset. I don’t know if she just