Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,21

the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.”

“Brilliant writer,” Rutledge offhandedly informs us.

Stratton stops his rubbing to question, “Anthony Hopkins is a writer?”

“Anthony Hopkins didn’t say that in the movie,” Mo immediately corrects. “It was Buffalo Bill.”

“Thomas Harris wrote the book The Silence of The Lambs,” Rutledge replies, ceasing his sunscreen assistance as well. “Which, like so many many fucking movies, was a book first.”

“Why do you know that?” Stratton loudly ponders.

Rutledge’s snap back is swift. “Why do you know that lotion is better?”

“Because on average – math my stunning Tater-Tot actually did prior to me buying this shit – you tend to get a more significant amount and better coverage from lotion rather than spray,” Stratton states matter-of-factly causing his blushing girlfriend to grin brighter.

It’s surprising to me that guys like that ended up with the girls that they have.

Based on reputations alone, the proclaimed Hockey Gods are collectively the most arrogant, self-centered assholes on campus. Per the way the legend is told, the more time you spend ruling over puny mortals, the more untouchable you become on Mount Olympus. But, what’s fascinating as fuck is the five dudes I’ve spent the last day and a half with…are far from the portrait they’ve been painted to be. From intelligence to graciousness to treating me like a person instead of some sort of stereotypical joke here for their jock amusement, these guys have been pleasantly shocking. Add in the fact three of them are dating beauties with brains and you’ve basically maxed out the Stunned Stupid meter.

I cannot get enough of people who aren’t afraid to be themselves.

Probably because a tiny part of me still fears that rejection that comes whenever I expose all of who I am to the world.

These girls don’t bother hiding who they are or caring if the outside world rejects them.

Wonder if it’s because the people who matter most in the world would never treat them that way?

I talk a good game about acceptance to other people yet still struggle with it when it comes to myself.

“It’s more imperative to understand the SPF you’re placing on your skin and to stay vigilant about properly reapplying rather than relying on the false sense of security that once is enough,” Hugo unexpectedly announces from where he’s sitting at my side.

His other friends stare on in astonishment while I simply switch to rubbing lotion across the other set of dance tattoos on my opposite ribcage.

Now, that I find stranger than the chicks they’ve fallen for.

How do they not know how brilliant he is, especially when it has anything to do with the human body?

Is it wrong to hope that they’re completely clueless about how he puts that knowledge to use sexually?

God, just watching him brush his teeth this morning had me jerking off in the shower like he hadn’t spent the whole fucking night already doing that for me.

His cock and his mouth should both be considered concealed weapons.

That’s all I’m saying.

I’ve barely finished rubbing the lotion in when he transfers the bottle from my grip to his to do my back.

Unasked.

That’s probably the thing I love most about him.

There’s never really a need to ask him to take care of me.

He just does it.

Always.

Without missing a beat, without caring if we haven’t seen each other in hours or days, he just swoops in and tends to whatever it is he knows needs tending to. Like last night and letting me use him to forget about Jevin.

Speaking of, my face definitely needs a bit of sun to help what remains of the bruise that asshole gave me. Hugo was sweet enough to assist in applying the eye cream when I finally got out of the shower but pissy that I still deem the details regarding its origin unimportant.

They are unimportant.

It doesn’t matter how or where the damn thing came from.

What matters is that I don’t let myself get any more.

TLC said “No More Scrubs”.

I’m saying no more duds.

Which includes but is not limited to talking about them or their previous presence in my life.

Hugo’s large palms unhurriedly spread the cream along my shoulders. It’s obvious he’s stretching out the time he’s being given to touch my skin by the unnecessarily long rubs and occasional kneading of the random stress knots he stumbles upon. Like some sort of a finger magician, he not only makes the tiny spots disappear in what feels like the blink of an eye, he gets me hard and panting and