Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,13

got her good dick from Hugo and bounced or what…”

I like to believe the tone I’m hearing has a hint of jealousy.

“But, whatever. She was nowhere to be found, which meant she wasn’t there to help, which meant I had to pry myself from the closet where I was making out with Morgan Greenwood – who I distinctly recall had on too much cologne and not enough deodorant – to go rescue him from the kitchen where like a chunk of the lacrosse team was trying to jump him for drunkenly beating the shit out of one of their players. I was barely able to pull him out of there before shit got even worse. And, even bloodier. And, of course, before my caramel velvet suit jacket got any more fucking stains on it.”

There are random cringing sounds from the crowd proceeded by Mo callously asking, “So, you’re an angry drunk?”

“And, violent…” Peck cautiously comments.

“How’s that different than his day-to-day shit?” Gillette jokes.

“He’s not normally a violent person,” Tatum verbally stands up for me while simultaneously doing it physically.

“Um…he’s a defenseman,” Stratton swiftly reminds the room. “They’re fucking bruisers, Tater-Tot. Their whole fucking job is to be violent.”

She winces at his words. “Right…”

That’s not my only responsibility on that ice, just like me drunkenly beating the shit out of that asshole isn’t the whole story.

Yes, I was drinking.

Yes, I beat the shit out of Mathew Moss.

However, me being drunk is what saved his fucking life.

My response reflexes were slower, and despite the repetitive action of pounding his face into the table, I still took longer stretches between strikes, unsure if my point was felt and understood.

Some of the senior lacrosse players had been talking shit about Crash.

This wasn’t new.

This wasn’t surprising.

And, in spite of the fact at least three of them had had their dicks sucked by him – something I doubt they knew I knew – they still insisted on treating my best friend like being openly gay and, at times, fervidly feminine was a sickness that could only be cured by humiliation.

I wandered into the kitchen alone – Faye, the redhead who was my date to the dance actually never made it to the party due to her parents’ strict curfew rules – to get something stronger than the weak shit in the keg when Mathew was laughing about their plan to lure Crash into the locker room post practice on Monday afternoon to shove a lacrosse stick where it was clear he didn’t mind having cock. The combination of hearing them discuss the pictures they were going to post and hearing them use hateful words caused me to snap.

Every defensive instinct I had kicked into gear.

It was either save Crash or spare them.

I used the same basic principle I face every time I touch the ice.

Protect my team at all fucking costs.

It just so happens that Crash Donovan is my original teammate.

Long before hockey was my sport of choice and these glazed-eyed assholes became my brothers in skates, he was already suited up on my side.

I’d break my neck, my back, and all the bones in my body to save their asses, 3Ps on or off, any day of the week.

But for Crash?

I’d sacrifice anything.

Everything.

I actually almost did.

Thankfully, instead of assault charges for my attack, I was given anger management classes and a restraining order. I didn’t lie to my parents about what I did or why I did it. Neither felt I deserved to be punished for doing what I believed was right. For defending a friend. Someone I think of as family. Dad did insist violence not leave the ice again unless absolutely necessary, and Mom took a moment to remind me of the proper pressure points to maximize pain for future encounters.

I kept the reasons why Mathew Moss had to have facial reconstructive surgery to myself and simply let my best friend believe I can’t handle my booze.

It’s for the best.

Like he said.

Nothing should ever dull his sparkle.

And, I’m more than willing to do whatever is necessary to guard that fucking shine.

“Come on, Rhinehart’s not an angry person,” Poppy sweetly attempts to advocate on behalf of me. “He’s just…a…um…” Her finger twirls around one of her springy curls in thought. “Um…non…verbally…friendly…person.”

“Reserved, Hootie,” Rutledge as usual comes to the word rescue. “He’s reserved.”

“Who needs a reservation?!” Stratton enthusiastically questions.

“I’ve got a reservation somewhere,” Gillette juvenilely states and tosses his girlfriend a mischievous look. “Right between the thighs of u moan.”

“It’s I moan, Scooby.”

“No yeah, you