Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,53
job accordingly, the results are worthy of the praise or penalty.
The puck continues skirting around the Panthers’ goal never quite getting knocked in, and unfortunately, increasing the likeliness of it flying the other direction. Our wingmen do their best with their sloppy passes, which are better than expected for a team that only gets together twice a week, yet still can’t manage to get through the defense assisting the goalie. My eyes swiftly scour the situation, searching for that opening, searching for that one weak spot I can apply just the right amount of pressure to. I watch the people not the puck. It’s unlikely to come to me, and my job isn’t about insisting that it does.
This shit is about protection and support.
Two things I’m fucking great at.
We all swarm around the goal. Players are bumped. Sticks are smashed. Grunts are barked. The puck continuously catches itself between pairs of opposing skates, pissing people off. This easily adds to the boiling animosity and endless aggression. Finally, the moment arrives where the goalie is turned completely one direction exposing an opening at his back. Three players congregate together to try to steal the illusive object. They devote all of their focus on preventing me from scoring that they don’t realize it’s too late.
They don’t immediately conclude they wasted their efforts on the wrong opponent.
That they chose the wrong mountain to try to climb.
My size, once more, works to my benefit by making me hard to get around and to block, especially if you have no previous practice at it, and the constant fumbling in the pursuit of figuring it out is what costs them their chance at stopping our first goal of the game from happening.
The buzzer sounds thanks to Jolie using his undefended position to his advantage.
Panthers gripe on their way past me, while my team gathers to one side for the traditional victory hug.
Hoots and hollers ignite in the crowd and the other guys on the ice lift their sticks to encourage more praise. I simply grin on and shoot a glance the direction I know my crew is sitting. Despite the inability to actually see them, I imagine their excited reactions are similar to everyone else’s.
I picture them being proud I assisted.
I picture them being proud I did my part.
I also picture my hockey crew bragging about the times we’ve pulled similar moves and my parents wishing people wouldn’t be so distracted by my larger-than-average size.
But, what I picture that successfully puts a smile on my face is Crash’s excitement that I swear I can physically feel.
The thrill of him seeing how strong I truly am, becomes the electricity needed to maintain my focus for the next two periods.
Knowing he can physically see how strong I’ll always be for someone who needs me is a victory in itself.
It’s also really the only victory I need.
Chapter 10
Hugo’s voice drops to a much lower volume. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Sure, sure?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely sure?”
Irritation blooms in my gray gaze. “Yes.”
“Like-”
“Like knowing if a Jimmy Choo or Zanotti is real type of sure, Boo.”
A faint smile touches his lips as it always does when I bring up shoes.
Dude would never wear a pair of heels but loves to see me in mine.
He also never complains when I wanna wear them in public, which is a total surprise since most the guys I’ve gone out with – in public – insist I should wear shit they believe will bring less attention to us. Not more.
I fold my arms firmly across my white shirt and black overalls-covered chest. “Why are you so fucking worried about this?”
Hugo, initially, hesitates to answer yet, eventually, confesses, “You’ve never cooked for me before.”
“Which is why I am now.”
“Right, but I’ve never actually seen you make anything to eat other than what you have the nerve to call a salad.”
“It is a salad.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Not really.”
“It is! It’s got lettuce. It’s got dressing. It’s a goddamn salad.”
Hugo tilts his head in a challenging nature. “That’s like saying because it’s got dancers and they’ve got on shoes, it’s a ballet.”
The gasp that escapes me causes him to chortle.
“Exactly, baby. Not. The. Same.”
Whether it’s hearing him call me baby where, literally, anyone passing by us at the farmer’s market could hear or the fact I can see his point that causes my body to sag in surrender, I’m not entirely sure. My hands fly and flail during the takedown. “Fuck. Fine. That round goes to you.”
“As it should.”
“But, just because you’ve