Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,58

back on the table.

Me: We would get to go together that way.

“You listenin’?” Leif unnecessarily questions causing me to shift my stare to him. “I’m not feeling like we’re vibing during this sesh.”

I also hate the needless abbreviation of so many words.

I’m with Rutledge on that one.

It is killing the beautiful literary lexicon in this world.

It’d be easy to kick him the fuck out of my apartment for annoying me more in my already annoyed state, but it’s not his fault he’s strangely more in tune to my state of frustration than the guy I’m dating is.

“I’m listening.” My announcement is, unfortunately, proceeded by my phone vibrating again, which results in me dropping my attention back to it. “I just don’t agree with you.”

Crash: Gotta be there before it starts

Me: Why?

“Helllooooo,” Leif calls out in a shitty British accent, once more, collecting my gaze, “care to elaborate?”

“I-” The vibrating in my hand prompts me to pause again to see his response.

Crash: You know I know how to set a mood.

And, fucking ruin one, too.

“Rhinehart,” Leif’s clipped inflection of my name wins out.

“The point of the assignment is to demonstrate the effects of having a positive relationship with your health as you age. This implies we should be using something that doesn’t deteriorate as fast when properly cared for over a period of time. A banana turned into banana chips would work if we were, perhaps, trying to portray negative effects, but you chose positive-”

“Because I’m a positive person.”

“Well, your positivity is harder to fucking project in the physical form of food.”

“Have you considered that maybe it’s your negative mood that’s hindering our progress?”

I try not to twitch a glare.

My negative mood is a problem.

It’s just not this problem.

“Let’s think on it another day,” Leif casually states as he stands up out of the barstool seat. “Maybe once you’re back in a better headspace you can be more constructive in the creation process rather than just destructive of all the roads I am trying to keep open between us.”

I don’t honestly know what pisses me off more.

The fact that he said the hippie shit he just said or the fact that he’s right about it.

I give a head nod to indicate I’ll do that and watch him stroll out of my apartment.

Once I’m alone, I hastily return to replying to my boyfriend, only to be cut off by another text from him.

Crash: + on 2

Crash: EVERYONE is coming to this shit!

A small pain appears in my chest.

Everyone, huh?

How is it I’m not included in everyone?

How is it his boyfriend – a title I fought to fucking have – isn’t included in his roundup of everyone?

I irritatedly drop my phone on the table and watch more texts flood the screen.

Crash: I’m on my way to get new shit to wear now.

Crash: And making the playlist.

Crash: And teasing my followers about the coming soon!

Frustration has me planting my elbows on the bar countertop, pressing my hands firmly together, resting my forehead against them, and shutting my eyes.

Fucking fantastic.

My incredible, fucking hot boyfriend is on his way to get something new to wear, something that will, most likely, not only show off his perfect fucking ass, but his abs and his V and all of his tattoos. He’s picking out the perfect mix of shit to dance to in it for some crowd of people that, probably, will include one, if not multiple, exes of his since they hang out in the same circle of people. And, the maraschino cherry on top of the suck sundae is he’s going to stream the shit for others to watch.

This will give other people something to fantasize about.

This will have people leaving him comments and DMs that instill so much rage I can barely get it all out of me on the ice.

I’ve watched this shit unfold for most of our life.

I know how hard guys come sniffing around him and don’t like to back down until they’ve got him.

I know it, and I’ve hated it.

I still hate it.

I hate even fucking more that I feel I can’t say anything about it without ruining the relationship I work so hard to keep.

I hate that me caring about it and wanting to guard what I worked so hard to get could, potentially, destroy me having it at all.

This hands-tied bullshit is worse than being in any sort of penalty box.

The penalty box comes with a ticking clock.

It comes with the acknowledgement that, at some point, your time being