Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,50
crook of his neck where I inhale strong scents of sex and lingering ones of papaya. I drag my nose lovingly along the side of his nape and into the edge of his hair. Crash leans back into the embrace on a happy hum, most likely grateful for the extra support and pleased to have post sex affection, something that was a rarity before me.
Eventually, we dispose of the condom, actually scrub off, and agree to enjoy breakfast in our towels together.
About three steps into my bedroom, Crash loudly cat calls, “Damn, Boo. And I thought I had an ass that refused to give the audience a final season.”
I lightly chortle regardless of the redness the compliment brings to my cheeks.
“How many pliés does a guy gotta do to get his shit in that shape?”
His words follow me out of the room as does his body.
“God, seeing that ass being stuck under that poor towel is like looking at Big Foot trying to squeeze into the biggest Louboutin they make.”
At that, I turn on my heels to face him, but keep moving backwards down the hall towards the kitchen. “I don’t know if that shit is supposed to be a compliment or an insult.”
“Compliment.” Crash lets the corners of his lips kick upward. “The only insult around here is you hiding that twin pair of delicious honey-baked hams instead of letting me enjoy them for breakfast.”
“I prefer bacon,” Gillette’s voice unexpectedly interjects forcing me to swing back around.
“Me, too,” Mo snickers from where’s she’s wrapped around him, piggyback style.
“And, what happened to the no guests in towels rule?” Gillette gripes during his girlfriend’s descent to the floor.
“Still stands.” I enter the kitchen to begin what will now be my second favorite morning routine. “Your guests need to have on clothes when they’re in my apartment.”
Despite the fact Mo’s expression looks unaffected, Gillette states, “I can expl-”
“No yeah, don’t care.” She hops onto the stool at the bar top. “Details not necessary.”
“Since we’re on the subject of details,” Crash says while dropping onto the couch, which is much too far away for my liking, “can we just take a minute to acknowledge the a-fucking-mazing sneakers you have on right now?”
She shoots a smile over her shoulder at him. “Really? You don’t think they’re too…chicky?”
“Because they’re neon pink and purple?”
Mo instantly gags at the words eliciting laughs out of all of us.
“They add a pop of fun to your grunge chic workout attire,” my best friend warmly informs. “You work that look like a full-time job, beautiful, but there’s nothing wrong with adding a bit of color into your life every now and again.”
Gillette plops down in the seat beside his girlfriend. “I like ‘em.”
“You fucking bought ‘em.”
“And, apparently, according to the Queen of Shoes over there, it was money well spent.”
“Is that a real thing?” Crash jovially asks. “How do we make it a real thing?”
I stop midmotion of plugging in the blender to look up and ask Mo, “What bet did you lose?”
“Ugh,” she shifts her stare to me, “a stupid fucking one. I bet G I could fit more marshmallows in my mouth than he could.”
My other best friend – the one I’m not fucking – beams brightly in pride. “Easiest. Win. Ever.”
Her shoulders sag in continued defeat. “His mouth is fucking huge.”
“Literally and figuratively.”
Mo and Crash snicker at my snark while Gillette twitches a glare.
“Now that we’re talking about shit that’s fucking huge,” Gillette childishly waggles his brow at me, “how badass is it that all of today’s games are completely sold out?”
I tilt my head in surprise.
“We’re talking sold. The. Fuck. Out!” His excitement is accompanied by a needless drumroll on the counter. “Like, if the shit were a blockbuster movie, all tickets to all showings for opening day would be gone.”
The movie references he’s always made are now getting a little more frequent.
I don’t mind them.
I never have.
I just don’t know if he realizes that his love for something other than hockey is now constantly showing.
Like I said, it doesn’t bother me.
I’ve also got his fucking back if someone has the nerve to say it bothers them.
“I don’t know if it’s the high from our 2nd Championship win or what, but according to Stratton’s calculator with tits, tix to your game sold at a sixty-seven percent faster rate than all the others,” Gillette gleefully announces.
“Be more respectful, Scooby,” Mo swiftly chastises. “That’s his chick. She’s his Sway.”
Gillette cringes, nods, and quietly apologizes, “Sorry.”
Completely clueless about what