Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,29
television shows and documentaries exposing how the system works is making them more clever about the shit.” Gillette’s face transposes to one of pure horror. “Who the fuck wants to hear that shit while it’s still dark outside? When it’s just you and your fucking girl? Your girl whose dad is a fucking cop and could easily help her cover that shit up!”
“Wasn’t there a show about that shit?” Peck curiously questions.
“Dexter,” Rutledge replies, “but I only watched like an episode. Those books – like most things – were better.”
Gillette immediately sneers his nose. “Sometimes the movie is better.”
“Fucking. Rarely,” Rutledge bites.
“At least you both know what the fuck your girls are talking about,” Stratton pipes, eyes sporting the same glossy haze that the others are. “Tater-Tot got all sorts of turned on after reading a paper about some shit called the Boovean or Booteen or Boolean Pythagorean something. Absolutely no fucking clue what any of it meant, but by the end of it she was so fired up to fuck, we barely made it into the Venom bathroom.”
“How does math make someone horny?” Gillette mutters in sheer perplexity.
“Fuck, how do words make some people horny?” Stratton counters while playfully eyeballing Rutledge.
“You can go fuck yourself. You get wood watching shit like America’s Next Top Model for all the wrong reasons,” Rutledge pokes.
“What about Crash?” Peck surprisingly prods. “He ever say super weird shit around you?”
Having the question unexpectedly thrown my direction has me surrendering to their demands for refills to help divert my stare elsewhere.
“Fuck, he has to! He says so much weird shit around us,” Gillette warmly jokes as I pour more booze into his cup. “Last night, during the popcorn break before The Sandlot, he told me I had pointe feet.” He relocates the object completely into his possession. “What is that shit? It didn’t sound good, whatever the fuck it is.”
“Means you have fucked up feet,” I quietly chortle and move on to refilling Rutledge’s drink. “Pointe shoes can, and often do, damage a ballerina’s feet.” Once the liquid is near the top, my efforts switch to Stratton’s cup next. “He basically told you in dance terms, he thinks your feet are ugly as fuck.”
“What the fuck?!” Gillette squawks in outrage, yet the rest of us laugh.
“Great analogy,” Rutledge snickers on a snip.
“Analyze these nuts,” Gillette grunts and grabs his crotch.
“Two minutes away from being stomped by me,” Rutledge says on another laugh.
Stratton shifts his recently-filled beverage towards his lips at the same time Peck nonchalantly lowers his to get topped off. “Gonna put pointe feet in the weird shit category.”
I can’t stop the smile from touching my lips or the words that seem to freely fall after it. “It’s not that weird. He’s a dancer. He lives and breathes for that shit, the way we live and breathe for hockey. Hearing him ramble off dance terms or about his bucket list desire to see and, if possible, perform with Fricska, a Hungarian Folk Dancing group, is pretty much just another fucking Tuesday to me.”
After I put the empty blender back down on its base, I’m stunned and slightly uncomfortable by the expressions staring back at me. Each of my friends looks amused – the same as they always do when we talk shit about one another – but also happy. Happy as though me being happy is something they’ve always wanted me to be yet believed I’ve never been. Just because my happiness doesn’t manifest as theirs does, doesn’t mean I’m miserable. It doesn’t mean I live a bitter existence. My happiness is just simpler. It’s achieved by making sure their asses are covered on and off the ice, making sure Crash is protected as often as possible, blending shit that makes people healthier or better at what they love to do, and at the end of most days, a good fucking poem.
“I, Too” by Langston Hughes, is one of my defaults, especially when I’m doubting my self-worth.
Just because I wasn’t the intended demographic for the piece of art doesn’t mean it can’t resonate with me.
E.E. Cummings is another favorite I reach for, although that’s usually when I’m in the mood for sexier shit.
Poem porn is something I enjoy almost as much as people porn.
“How long you two been a thing?” Stratton eventually asks.
Are we a thing?
Are we building towards a thing?
Are we building towards the thing we were always meant to be yet never had the opportunity until now to become?
The uncertainty of how