Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,15

along to my mom’s bowling league and being taught by professionals on proper form.

However, no matter how many times I try, I am not anywhere near graceful when it comes to any type of dancing.

I don’t even fucking try anymore.

Everyone, aside from Crash, knows not to even bother asking me to.

He knows better.

He just doesn’t fucking care.

My best friend takes my silence as an opportunity to demonstrate the move he’s comparing his intoxication to. “See?”

His thin, toned legs that are covered by a pair of skintight black jeans flawlessly showcase the position I’m well acquainted with seeing him in. This causes me to reconnect our gazes and somewhat concede, “Fine. Maybe you’re not as drunk as I think you are-”

“You mean worry.”

I do worry.

I fucking constantly worry.

I can never seem to turn off that defenseman reflex to worry about a vulnerable teammate.

“Maybe you’re not as drunk as I think you are,” I firmly repeat prior to my voice increasing in volume to emphasize my seriousness, “but,” the change in tone makes him gag, “the high heat of the tub will increase your body temperature, which can result in extreme dehydration, exhaustion, nausea, dizziness, and even unconsciousness. The latter exponentially increases your chances of drowning.”

“Eh,” Crash carelessly brushes off, “you’d give me mouth to mouth.”

“You-betcha.”

The lack of reluctance in my retort shifts an arrogant smirk onto his face and a shameful shade of red onto mine.

Fuck. Me.

Maybe I should just go to bed.

Save myself the hours of potential embarrassment ahead.

I clear my throat in hopes that my stutter won’t make an impromptu appearance and state, “The pool would be better. It’ll keep your core temperature down and decrease the chance of me having to explain over breakfast how you nearly drowned to death in the hot tub while they were all drowning in hot screams.”

“Fine, fine, you convinced me,” Crash sighs on a spin. “We can go skinny dipping in the pool.”

The words immediately widen my gaze. “W-w-we?”

He swings the door open and struts outside to the patio without providing clarification.

What did he mean by we?

Who’s we?

Did he invite someone else for a moonlight fucking swim and forget to inform me?

Am I about to have to watch him shamelessly flirt with some other asshole before dismissing myself for them to fuck in private?

I quickly follow after him, making sure to shut the door behind me once I’m outside. “W-w-we? Wh-wh-who’s we?”

“As in you,” Crash’s unbuttoned floral print shirt hits the stairs he’s joyfully descending, “and me.” When he reaches the bottom, he turns back around so we’re face to face, revealing an impish grin I have a love/hate relationship with.

Fuck, how do I say no to that shit?

How have I not learned how to say no to it after all these years?

Crash’s stare holds mine while his fingers nimbly work to free him from his remaining clothes. Every muscle inside of me fights against the instinctive nature to let my gaze drop to where he’s lowering his zipper. To watch his lower half wiggle from side to side during the discarding of his bottoms and to steal a glance of a sight I’ve spent more nights jerking off to than is clinically healthy according to a recent article I read in one of my dad’s medical journals. I keep my eyes locked on his like they’re in the penalty box on some trumped-up charge. It isn’t until he turns around again that I open the visual door and grant them their freedom. They eagerly skate across every exposed inch of skin, igniting gratitude for the glimpse of his delightfully round peach butt I’d sacrifice my lucky 3Ps to have a bite of, but spread envy among my other senses for not being able to touch or taste or get a better smell of whatever tropical fruit product is seeping from his hair today.

I like when it’s papaya.

I love when it’s mango.

Guilt over glancing causes me to cast my glare to the ground in front of me the second his lower half disappears into the water.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t have looked.

I know I shouldn’t have looked.

Nothing healthy can come from looking.

It’s like sneaking a naughty snack on the second day of your new diet.

It can only end in disaster.

“Get in,” Crash commands, sending my stare to where he’s wading near the waterfall.

I don’t trust my voice not to sell me out regarding my unstableness, so I simply shake my head during my extremely slow stroll down the steps.

“Please?”

I shake my head again, although this