Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,60

been coming here since we were kids – hosting parties or going to them. There isn’t one machine in the building we aren’t familiar with, nor one bartender who wasn’t willing to serve us drinks when we were underage, a total benefit of, basically, being untouchable in a hockey-obsessed city. To no surprise, liability for their actions never seemed to get served up; however, with Stiles as our coach and that being a rule we’re not allowed to break, the newer recruits haven’t gotten to indulge in it as we had.

I don’t, typically, include myself in that “we”.

I don’t mind alcohol on the occasion, but I don’t like what it does to the body.

That was a project Leif and I had fun making for class near the 4th of July.

It was one we were absolutely on the same “wave-length” for.

Gillette manages to arrive at the same time as me, which is almost an hour earlier than everyone else.

I know why I’m early.

My original plan was to go to my appointment, go to my apartment to properly fuck my boyfriend, and then bring us both here to hang out with the other people I like to be around.

Maybe whatever he had planned was shot to shit, too.

We cross from where we’re parked on opposite ends to meet in the middle to finish the walk to the door together.

He beats me to the question while tucking his keys into his gym shorts. “What the fuck are you doing here so early?”

I skip the detailed version to state, “I didn’t wanna waste gas driving back to the apartment.”

Gillette nods his understanding. “Same. My therapist office is like seven minutes from here.”

His choice to get help with the emotional hell he’s undergone recently actually surprised me. It’s helped tremendously in ways I know I probably never could. That thought doesn’t hurt me, but it’s damn sure not my favorite.

I aim to be the one people can count on.

I don’t like when they can’t.

Inside, we grab snacks and decide on a game of darts since it’s something we don’t get to do when the whole crew is here.

Between my teammates and their girlfriends, it equals too many people for this type of versus shit.

Our conversation is the same casual shit it always is at first. We bullshit about what we’ve been binge watching lately, talk about the volunteer league I’m in, and, inevitably, how amazing our next season will be. The first round of darts speeds by with him getting his ass handed to him, which prompts him to command we go again for a chance to redeem himself, despite the fact we both know he won’t.

Gillette attempts to line up his first shot in the new game while nonchalantly announcing, “I’m gonna ask Mo to marry me.”

The bag of Old Dutch Dill Pickle flavored potato chips I’m starting to open nearly pops out of my hands. “What?!”

“That was fucking megaphone level,” he chuckles and throws his next dart. “You don’t usually get that loud unless we’re being fucked over in a game.” Gillette pauses his final throw to meet my stare. “You okay?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A happy nod is proceeded by him returning to the game. “I’m like…really okay. Like I’m, ya know still dealing with shit…,” he strolls over to retrieve the objects from where they landed in the outer black ring, “but I like where I’m at. I like where I’m headed.” Once they’re in his possession, he turns around and adds, “I want Mo with me when I get there.”

I exchange the bag of opened but uneaten chips for my darts. “She’ll be there.”

“Yeah, but marrying her…,” his body flops down on the stool at our high table, “secures that idea.”

Instead of immediately replying, I let him sit in his ridiculous notion.

The first dart I’m going to throw is given the two-finger roll during my visual alignment. Deep calming breaths are swiftly followed by the motion of throwing without losing my hold. Finally, with my eyes focused on the bullseye, I release a sharp flick of the wrist. It hits the target as do the two that are thrown after it. Gillette childishly whines and makes jokes about my height and length of my arms giving me an unfair advantage. His typical banter isn’t met by my usual return of jovial promises of pounding until he’s puck-sized, nor do I smile to indicate I’m not upset by the poking of my physical difference.

Normally, I’m not, but today, I feel uncomfortable in