Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,4

can hit me like I’m just another random guy who’s pissed him off but fuck me like I’m just another one of the girls that comes the instant that he texts, is a mindfuck that I am too hungover and distraught to deal with like a “sensible” person.

Not that I’m usually a sensible person.

I admit I love a good flare of the dramatic.

In makeup, clothes, shoes, music, and, of course, a performance.

And, since life is just one giant stage we’re constantly on, why not add a good dose of glitz and glam and glitter to it?

Another ache thrums on my tan cheekbone from where I was struck a few minutes ago.

Fuck. Me. That shit hurts.

Never ever does it seem to hurt less over time like it’s easy to think it would.

And, being hit in the face doesn’t hurt any less than being punched in the ribs or chest or back as you’re trying to walk away from an irritating situation.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have looked over at his fucking phone.

But maybe he shouldn’t have been texting some bowlegged bitch in her knock off designer lingerie to come over for a fuck while he was still in bed with me.

Maybe his ass should’ve made sure I was actually passed out instead of just lying there with an untouched semi I was wishing would go the fuck to sleep.

And…yeah…maybe I shouldn’t have told him his dick was small – toddler small was the exact comparison I made – or that his cum smelled like spoiled goat’s milk.

And, maybe…there’s a small chance…I shouldn’t have kept yelling about how pathetic he is in the sheets.

And, maybe…just fucking maybe…I should’ve simply taken the usual beating, gone to my apartment to cry my gray eyes out, and accepted the dozen roses or chocolate or jewelry he’ll send as an apology like I always have, continuing the clearly toxic cycle we stumbled into one night after a victory party here in The Village – the huge stretch of private property that houses luxury apartments for Vlasta athletes only.

And, maybe that would’ve been a possibility if something inside my mind hadn’t finally clicked to tell me enough is enough.

Okay, so, I’m not entirely sure if it’s actually my brain or just the faint traces of the six Alabama Slammers I downed during multiple Tina Turner performances.

Doesn’t matter though.

What matters is that I’m finished with Jevin Wells, and he’s put his goddamn hands on me for the last fucking time.

I carelessly discard the empty vegetable oil jug to his kitchen floor and grab the long-handled lighter from where it’s waiting on the counter. Making sure to keep a good distance – not wanting to lose my perfect black eyebrows – I aim the tip near one of the shoelaces to his lucky kicks and click the button. The flame that appears is exciting while the fire that occurs in his kitchen sink is gratifying. It burns brighter and brighter, growing bigger and bigger, and I allow myself a brief moment to drink in the fitting ending to our situation. On a villainous smirk, I exit his apartment to the sound of the smoke alarm blaring and what I’m pretty sure is faint swearing.

Instead of fleeing to the nearest curb and texting Betty – my best female friend – to come rescue me, I veer to the right knowing one building over is where I can grab a soothing remedy to the pounding in my head.

And, if I were totally up front about my shit – rather than sipping on the cocktail of denial – I’d admit it’s also the one place where my emotional wounds are always lovingly licked without any type of reluctance.

I’m lucky to have that shit.

I don’t know anyone else who does.

I take the elevator, despite the fact I only need to get to the second floor, and rapidly knock on the door that’s at the opposite end of the hall.

“’Cause you don’t fucking live here,” my favorite voice in the entire world grumps from the other side of the barricade. “That’s why.”

At the same time, the door opens, the other male voice says, “Yeah, but it’s probably just Mo.”

“Did you mean a mo’ because that’s unnecessarily offensive this fucking early in the day and rude.”

My sassiness swiftly shoves a wide-mouth smile onto the typically stone-cold face of Vlasta’s favorite hockey defenseman, Hugo Rhinehart.

Most of the world views him as this big, burly, beast to bow to or carefully bypass as to not piss him off,