Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,33

diagram of life?

That song ends and “Muwop” by Mulatto takes its place. Collectively, the excitement is amplified and jokes regarding this being the best drunk playlist to ever exist are plentiful.

I happily sit back and soberly watch chaos rip across the room to a mixed genre soundtrack. Poppy gets a little carried away in her headbanging and nearly bashes her brains in on the pool table. I make sure to instruct her to move her unstable frame away from all hard objects to the corner where she can use the entire space to be her safe dance area. Stratton strips out of his shorts to challenge Mo to a splits competition prompting a reminder – to them both about being cautious of tearing important muscles – to callously come from me. At the same time their challenge ensues, Gillette and Rutledge relocate to the bottom of the stairs to turn the pool sticks into shitty javelins, an activity that puts me a little on edge and requires slightly more of my attention than the others’ actions. Tatum gracefully dances around the room drinking remains from random cups – something I know her sober brain would never allow her to do – yet only stops when she stumbles upon Peck who has completely passed out on the couch.

He’s still breathing.

His head’s elevated.

I’m keeping a watchful eye on him.

I don’t think Coach would appreciate it if we let our captain choke to death on his own vomit.

“Honeydew, if you want more to drink, you can just ask Hugo to make another batch,” Crash calls her out, lowering his cup to his lap. “You don’t have to tip-toe around vulturing up everyone else’s shit.”

Nodding my agreement is instant.

“They’re just so good,” she coos while wiggling Peck’s cup out of his possession to have whatever’s left. “Cheeseandfuckingrice these are the best fucking thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

“Don’t let Stratton hear you say that,” my best friend swiftly teases.

Her heated face cringes at the comment despite her giggling. “Come on, Rhinehart! The truth shall set you free!”

Unsure what to make of the statement, I remain silent.

“What is the secret to these perfect fucking margaritas?!”

“Proper ratios.”

Her brown eyes widen in excitement during her descent onto the couch seat near Peck’s feet.

“And, fresh ingredients.”

My grocery bill is comparable to what Stratton spends on clothes, G on hats, Peck on gear, and Rutledge on books.

Crash rises to his feet installing a sense of loss I don’t approve of. “Why don’t we go use what’s left of those fresh ingredients to make another pitcher or two?” His gray stare lands in my brown. “Just us.”

I can hardly swallow the groan the statement creates.

I’ve just made it up onto my feet when Gillette and Rutledge return to the room to retrieve their sticks again and spot our slumbering captain. Gillette excitedly croaks, “Is that motherfucker asleep?!”

“That motherfucker’s asleep!” Rutledge enthusiastically echoes.

“I Moan!” Gillette calls to his girlfriend who is making her ass bounce during her split, taunting Stratton who is still struggling to get lower. “I Moan! Get a marker!”

“What am I, your fucking secretary?”

Her snip pulls out a snicker from the rest of us.

“We’re gonna draw on Peck’s face,” he gleefully informs. “Probably a dick. Might even take mine out to be my muse.”

“No,” Rutledge refuses as they get closer to their victim, and we slip by.

Gillette’s disappointment is evident, “No, dick?”

“Yes, dick,” Rutledge slightly slurs. “Just keep yours in your fucking shorts.”

“No yeah. Deal.”

“We should use Tater-Tot’s liquid eyeliner!” Stratton shouts, abandoning his previous adventure. “The shit is long lasting!”

“That shit’s expensive, Adrian,” Crash and I hear her whine during our beginning descent of the stairs.

“Eh, I’ll replace it when we get home.”

Using their occupied nature to my advantage, I help Crash up onto one of the island barstools the instant we’re in the kitchen, pin him between my arms, and capture his lips like they’re prisoners of war that will see no mercy. My mouth devours his in destructive desperation, tongue swiftly sweeping the territory, determined to damage and dismantle any defiance it comes across. He faintly whimpers in request for air, but I refuse to stop the lashing. I don’t know long we have here, alone, unwatched by curious eyes and goofy grins. I don’t know how many more long stretches I can take of not having his quivering frame pressed to mine, moaning, and groaning and cursing. The urge to hear him doing those things and the need to feel his toned body