Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,35

needed it most.

Betty Zappa, my best female friend and, without question, my favorite dance partner, pokes me in the side to steal my attention. As soon as she has it, her expression becomes sassy and taunting – two things I love when they aren’t aimed at me. “Who broke your spotlight, twinkle toes?”

“What?”

“In every post this weekend your expression was basically ‘dream come true Dancing with the Rockettes’ and now, you look like someone sabotaged your audition with them while you were busy putting on your practice heels.” When I don’t respond to her comment, she pulls her long, black hair to the side of her face and sighs, “Bitchy, Crash. You look bitchy.”

“Yeah,” I snip on a sardonic smirk, “I got that.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you look like someone poured a bunch of bleach in your dance belt?”

My lips purse to one side of my face while my attention momentarily falls to my feet.

Could be because I was too fucking wasted last night to enjoy one more round with the biggest and best dick, I’ve ever had the pleasure of letting into my life.

Could be because Hugo barely said two fucking words to me on the plane ride home.

Or, it could be because I made the mistake of using the only healthy relationship I’ve ever had, outside of my parents, to forget about my latest and greatest failure who had no problem hearting every fucking picture I posted.

I motion my head for her to follow me over to the corner where the welcome to class music will prevent eavesdroppers from overhearing. “Under Pressure” by David Bowie and Queen acting like an unneeded soundtrack to my misery leads me to lazily leaning against the wall next to the speaker and shaking my head.

Why is it my music is mocking me?

It is supposed to fucking soothe my soul.

Not make it hurt worse.

Betty gives me a solid once over and makes a less than subtle teacup gesture.

“I think I fucked up,” I casually confess, arms folding across my chest. “I’m not entirely sure if it was some self-sabotage shit or some subconscious subversion shit Inceptioned into my brain by our once shared hookup.”

Her olive skin nose instantly scrunches in disgust.

Our friendship hasn’t always had the smoothest sailing. We met during Freshman orientation, became thick as a weave, and stayed that way until she found out I blew Jevin in the front seat of his Audi the same night she let him feel her up at a Victory party. She thought they really had something, and that idea alone nearly destroyed our friendship. About two days post our big fight, it came to light he had run the same lines on three other chicks the previous weekend, presenting a pattern of lying to get laid. Betty forgave me quite quickly after that but has maintained her solid stance of disgust regarding him. I mainly share the sentiment, but I have to admit I like the side of Jevin he occasionally lets slip out. The one that likes to eat Fruit Loops in bed while listening to classic Michael Jackson songs after sex. The one who would occasionally sit me on his couch, tell me I’m cute, give my hair a ruffle, and then kiss me. Don’t get me wrong. Jevin is definitely the arrogant ass-obsessed asshole he appears to be. He just has a little something else there that I liked getting to see.

Being with him was always like chasing that first high you get from doing something new.

The high you swear you’ll eventually experience again yet never do.

He’s, basically, the reason a person needs rehab.

And, somehow…being with Hugo for the weekend was more than just a recovery session.

It was like reconstruction.

Reconfiguration.

Restoration to that piece of me that’s never been good about believing I deserve more than a long string of rebounds or closeted rub and tugs.

“I wrote something off as a fling because, let’s face it, that’s, basically, all every guy I hook up with ever sees me as, and for the first time…probably fucking ever…I…,” my jaw wiggles back and forth in internal debate, “don’t think that’s what I should’ve done.”

Betty slowly nods. “Okay. What were his cues like? More along the lines of callbacks – positive consistent praise with promise – or courtesy thanks for auditioning but you’re not a good fit – I.E. distracted and disinterested?”

The former is definitely Hugo…and the latter undoubtedly Jevin.

It requires me to swallow more of my shame in order to answer. “He…He treated me like