Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,28

although rarely based with actual milk because of the amount of dairy you put back during your poutine sessions – while the margarita you’re chugging during this conversation rather than savoring is an alcoholic Slurpee. It’s blended fine enough you can suck it down with a straw instead of possessing thicker chunks which would require a spoon, therefore, qualifying it to be a slushy.”

My explanation is proceeded by me casually pushing the button on the blender.

They continue to gawk in shock like witnessing Big Foot’s presence for the first time.

I’m much more intelligent than people tend to give me credit for.

I simply choose to lean into my brawns over my brains when around them.

It’s my role.

The guardian. The protector. The defenseman.

They don’t need me to look or sound smart.

They need me to be built like a brick shit house and watch their backs.

So, I am.

So, I do.

We each have our unique positions on the ice that, in certain ways, is reflected in the real world. I typically lean into this, too, without resistance. I don’t mind nudging them the direction they need or shielding them from something that could potentially harm them. Everything about us works so well because we each fulfill our function. Our crew over the years has basically formed into one giant breathing and skating organism. We work so well because we handle the shit we’re entrusted to handle. We’re no different than the human body, from having the brains of the operation – Coach – to a constant heartbeat – Peck. We know when we step onto the ice the five of us are gonna do what it is we’ve come to expect one another to do. And, when we step off it? Well, we still expect each other to do what it is we do, but in a real-world setting.

It’s also not often that there are chances to show them that there’s more to me than my ability to knock someone the fuck out.

I imagine they would all be knocked stupid, too if they knew I not only know who invented the Slurpee – Omar Knedlik – but what year it was created – 1958 – and that it was created on accident.

Huh.

I could say my unexpected creation with Crash is also a delightfully tasty treat, but I’ll keep that sexual innuendo to myself.

The second the sound of the blender cuts off Stratton snaps, “How much science shit do you know?”

A small silent laugh shakes my chest.

“How many more margaritas can we have?” Gillette question as he pushes his empty cup closer.

I grip the handle of the container and give him a look of disapproval. “This pitcher is for the girls and Crash.”

“But, the next pitcher can be for them,” Stratton slyly says, his nearly empty beverage being inched closer.

“They really won’t know the difference,” Rutledge concurs while moving his within pouring range.

“They will when you all go in there smelling like a tequila factory,” Peck points out between sips, cup, surprisingly, half empty.

I’m stunned he’s had that much.

It’s probably the most he’s drank all weekend.

Drinking isn’t exactly on the list of things he enjoys.

He’s the only member of the crew whose drinking I haven’t had to intervene on.

I once had to stop Stratton from stripping on a poker table.

Not stop him from playing strip poker.

No.

I had to physically put myself between him and the table to cease his insistence on performing a tribute to the Magic Mike cast when the song “Pony” came on.

It was a long fucking Thanksgiving weekend.

“Why aren’t there more action scenes in tequila factories? Can you imagine how epic those explosion scenes would be?” Gillette grows a thoughtful grin. “Probably inaccurate as fuck from a scientific standpoint – you know like most Hollywood shit – but as an avid fan of shit blowing up, I’d give my left nut to get to be the one to do something like that.”

Stratton cocks his head slightly to one side. “Yet, I’m the one of the crew who says, ‘weird shit’?”

“We all say weird shit,” Rutledge shrugs, stare a little glazed over. “Last week Hootie spent forty-five minutes lecturing me about canine distemper fatality rates based on breed. Needless to say, I lost my appetite during that fucking lunch break.”

“You think that’s bad? Monday, on our way back from doing wind sprints at the crack of fucking dawn, I Moan decided to tell me about the rising number of unidentified serial killers across the country and how some sources believe the number of