Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,17
that I’d call it miracle shit.
Relationships require work.
Whether it’s one with another person or the one you have with yourself, you gotta be willing to put the time in.
I’ve been taught that since I was born.
My parents, despite their demanding careers, agree on that consensus.
Was it always my favorite when it meant I had to stop reenacting something at the age of four that I saw in Jurassic Park, so we could go on a picnic for lunch?
No.
Did I later grow up to understand that they set goals and expectations on themselves as parents and us as a family?
Yes.
It taught me to always work at whatever I deemed worthy of having in my life.
Family.
Hockey.
Health.
It’s probably how Crash and I differ the most.
I’m all about sticking with something until it gets better.
I’m all about working at something until I get it right.
He’s always possessed more of a fleeting policy to everything outside of dance, and even then, I think the only reason he didn’t give up on it so to speak, is because there are so many variations he can enjoy in any given mood.
“They’re so fucking lucky,” he bitterly gripes, attention slightly off in the distance, head shaking. “Wish I was…”
“Hey,” I promptly collect his stare, “you’re pretty lucky yourself. People trip all the time, all over themselves to be with you.”
“To fuck me, not love. Big difference, boo.”
My eyes roll of their own volition. “You know I hate when you call me that.”
“And, you know it’s from a song.”
“The one you performed in the 5th grade talent show.”
“One of the few times I actually sang and danced.”
“You should’ve just danced.”
Crash’s jaw cracks in surprise over my seemingly callous statement.
I give him the smallest shrug and sweetly smile. “Your dancing was better.”
“It always is.”
“I know. I’ve been to a shit ton of your shows. Seen everything from your ballet performances to that Beast mode B-Boy competition you fucking destroyed no matter what that bloated Shrek looking bitch said. Your moves were tighter than Ramos’s. Cleaner. And, far more fucking creative. That shit that was basically an upside-down pirouette should’ve put your ass in first place. Not second.”
Crash creeps a little closer, voice caked in awe. “Not sure if I should be more flattered that you were there or that you know what a pirouette is.”
My head falls sarcastically to the side. “Over a decade of dance shit with you and you’re surprised I know basic ballet terms? You really think I’m that dense?”
“I really think you should get in,” Crash quickly deflects. “Get in, or I’ll start singing right now.”
His threat receives a skeptical stare. “You won’t.”
“I will.”
In a very dramatic nature, he clears his throat, taps it twice with the tips of his fingers, and starts open mouth humming like he’s searching for a note.
“Crash…”
“You know ‘My Boo' is one of my mom’s favorite songs of all time,” he explains while puffing up his chest as though he’s getting ready to belt it out. “And, you know how adorably awkward it is to hear her singing through her thick-ass Filipino accent.”
“Crash…”
“And, you know when I get drunk, my own very faint one comes out a little stronger.”
It does.
It’s also a context clue to how wasted he is in a situation.
“Let’s see how drunk I really am,” Crash proclaims at the same time he reaches the bottom stair.
“Let’s not.”
He starts humming a little louder prior to belting out the opening line.
“Cra-”
His name is cut off by him continuing, adding dramatic hand movements to match the words.
“Cr-”
The volume of his singing increases two more levels while he shuts his eyes, completely devoted to crooning his best Usher impression. When he hits the line Alicia Keys sings, his pitch gets higher, and much more impossible to ignore. I watch him ball a fist like he’s clutching an invisible microphone and sway his body to the lyrics informing me I will be caving to his demands to cease the singing or to cease him getting closer and revealing the one body part I’m doing my fucking damndest not to view.
“Fuck, you win!” I practically bark at the top of my lungs.
His gray gaze flies open to connect to my brown. The corners of his lips curl into a wicked smirk. “Then get naked.”
Why does just hearing him say the word make me feel like I already am?
I calmly command, “T-t-turn around.”
Crash shoots me a sarcastic scowl.
“I didn’t look when you dropped your shit.”
“I didn’t tell you not to.”
His snarky comeback implies something I’m