Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,31

pussy-whipped jokes.”

Instantly, the air in the room lightens, and Stratton points out, “Fuck, man, dontcha know, you so fucking are.”

“He here who hath committed no whipped sins of love, especially when the shit first started, can have a free fucking pass to hit me in the face.”

Rutledge, Stratton, and Gillette dart their gazes Peck’s direction, who is too busy sucking back his drink to have heard the offer. Once everyone’s eyes are on him, he lowers his cup, and innocently questions, “What?”

We shake our heads through our laughter, and I finish adding the last of the ingredients to make another pitcher.

Our eventual exit of the kitchen is accompanied by their complaints regarding my irresponsibleness for not making bigger batches of booze for them to drink and my casual reminder of how awful it’s going to feel flying hungover since they’re not giving their bodies any time to properly metabolize the liquor.

The scientific explanation receives rounds of boos which prompts Tatum into asking, “Why do you all sound like a bunch of drunk ghosts?”

“Or exploding owls,” Mo ponders from where she’s lining up her aim at the pool table.

“I know I shouldn’t be…,” Poppy begins while adjusting herself on the game room kitchen countertop, “but I’m slightly offended.”

“That’s because the owls have become your people, Hootie,” Rutledge teases upon his approaching her. “They’re like your pups with wings.”

She narrows her stare to a spiteful one, big round glasses amplifying her expression.

“What took so long?” Crash asks as he turns down the music. “You guys left to make another pitcher like thirty minutes ago.”

I start the refill session with Poppy’s cup. “Which I made.”

“Did you have to pick this set of limes by hand or some shit?” Mo investigates seconds prior to taking her shot.

“Oh, we’re so listening to that song,” Crash mutters, although I’m not sure anyone else, besides me, actually hears him.

It’s an absurd idea to believe that my senses always unconsciously shift to him when he’s around.

To hear him.

To see him.

Smell.

Feel.

Tasting is new, but, fuck me, it is by far my favorite.

My body is trained to respond to his whenever it’s in proximity. It’s really no different than when I skate in the rink and am prepared before that puck ever drops to defend whoever needs defending. I have my body attuned to that of my team on the ice for maximum protection and performance. I have my body attuned to him off it for maximum protection and optimal dependability in our friendship.

Okay.

I admit that maybe it is a little different since I’m not in love with any of them.

I guess that does make a significant difference in my actions.

“They drank the original batch,” I announce between topping off Tatum’s drink and replenishing Mo’s completely empty one. “They also drank the next one.” Arriving at Crash’s cup on the coffee table, I add, “However, they couldn’t stop this one from making it up here.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Stratton whines somewhere in the background.

“No yeah, we tried like a virgin on prom night determined to get laid,” Gillette unnecessarily describes.

“We were fucking thwarted,” Rutledge dramatically huffs.

Chuckles fill the room as I empty the last of the pitcher into my best friend’s cup, giving him a little extra than everyone else.

We will call that a privilege of being with me.

Crash is with me now, even if we haven’t given the shit an official label.

Or slept together yet.

To echo Stratton, not for lack of trying. I thought after the movies last night that’s where everything was headed. I made it very clear, verbally and physically, that I was more than alright with going there with him, knowing the importance of communication and consent – byproduct of having a sex/relationship therapist for a father – but Crash seemed averse to sex, so I didn’t push.

I’m incapable of pushing when it comes to him.

I am, in fact, a pushover.

I’m…admittedly…a fucking doormat.

It’s an embarrassing contrast to the rest of my existence, yet, over all our years together, I never quite strengthened my voice whenever it concerned him. I let him have everything his way. I don’t know if it’s fear of disappointing the one person it would destroy me to disappoint, or fear of losing a little of his love if I wasn’t so agreeable to his wants, and I am too much of a chicken shit to figure it out, especially now that I have him in a sense I can hardly comprehend.

Fuck, I had an easier time grasping the meanings in the