Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,38

music.

And…I have never stuck out more at a concert.

“I’ve got some specialty craft beer Mo gave me for my birthday,” Leif cheerfully informs. “We could pop the tops…Chill on a blanket…Order in?” He continues trolling despite the lack of interest on my face. “We could do Thai? Do you like Thai? We could share some Tom Yum and Som Tum and sneak some of the candy for dessert?”

“What a lovely Hobo-inspired date you have planned,” Crash unsuspectingly interrupts as he slides into the empty seat beside me.

Leif offers him a warm smile. “You mean Bo-Ho.”

The expression on my best friend’s face grows as snarky as his tone, “Do I?”

Uncertainty crosses Leif’s face, and I swiftly intervene, my attention angled his direction, “I’ll text you.”

“About what time you’ll be over? Because you should know that I believe time to be an unnecessary construct outside of academic institutions.”

“You can’t just say class?” Crash scoffs, building irritation tempting me to smirk again.

“Class doesn’t necessarily incorporate everything I need it to, like practice.”

“Perhaps you should go now and practice whatever it is that you need to practice for.”

“Nah, cheer practice – or more appropriately training – was this morning,” Leif brushes off the statement and sends his stare back to me. “Now that we’re on the subject, Mo said she got a killer wake up shot from you today. It had bee pollen in it or some shit?”

It did.

It’s a unique blend I haven’t quite perfected, but that’s one of the things I like most about Gillette’s girlfriend.

Her balls are as big as his.

They’re occasionally even bigger.

She’s up for testing any mixture I create, and she also isn’t afraid to tell me it tastes like dog shit.

Verbatim.

I had skepticism regarding kiwi and raisins prior to blending them together.

I should’ve gone with it.

Curiosity blooms in Leif’s expression. “Did you really use bee pollen or were you fucking with her?”

“I did.”

“Oh shit, I didn’t even know we could be one with the bees like that,” he happily sighs. “Maybe we could talk more about that and what other uses they have when you come over?”

The faintest pout sound pops out of Crash, and I have to swallow the newest urge to smile.

I’ve honestly never seen him behave like this over something that didn’t go on his feet.

When I still don’t confirm or deny my project partner’s offer, he finally takes the hint to get going. “We can talk about whatever you like. Whenever you like.” He slides the sketchpad he had brought back into his shoulder bag. “I’m free as a butterfly all weekend, so…yeah. Just text me.”

“Which he already fucking said he would,” Crash bites harder than before.

“I know,” Leif counters at the same time he rises to his feet. “Just wanted Rhinehart to be aware I heard his message.” Our eyes meet one last time. “The one spoken and the one sensed.”

Huh.

I’m not a fan of the one with the Earth style he’s clearly living, but I appreciate someone who listens even when the other person isn’t speaking.

Crash barely waits until Leif has left the room to snip, “You know, when I imagined you ditching me for someone pretty and blond, I was envisioning Jessica Rothe, not an uglier Dylan Sprouse.”

His snark has me shifting my stare and body to face him.

“I didn’t think you were into the pretty and dumb type, Hugo.”

My eyebrow quirks upward.

“I always thought you had higher standards.”

Receiving no response prompts him to unravel faster.

“The strong, silent, sexy types are supposed to be into people who possess substance and value and can hold a conversation about more meaningful shit than bees.” Crash gives the side of his makeup-free cheek a small, annoyed scratch. “Who the fuck gives a shit about bees? Or butterflies? Everyone knows the only important butterfly is Madame Butterfly, which is, in case you didn’t know it, one of the most beautiful ballets my mother has ever taken me to see.”

I resist the urge to remind him Madame Butterfly is also an opera.

I resist the urge to remind him it was my bed he sprawled himself in the middle of and gushed about how incredible the dancers were, while I fumbled around with folding laundry to stop myself from crawling in beside him.

“And, talk about whatever you like, whenever you like?” Crash grunts his obvious disgust. “Who the fuck does he think he is? T.I.?”

My expression remains emotionless despite my desire to laugh at his pettiness. “You sound jealous.”

“Jealous?!” Crash’s gray eyes widen and sparkle with the