Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,75
for a “safer” place until I can take over payments. He has never had a problem coughing up money for me to build my dream career, which is also how I can afford so much of the shit I know I shouldn’t be able to. And Hugo…
God.
Hugo.
How am I supposed to just leave him behind if I get this shit?
Do we do what we all know is pretty impossible and try the long-distance shit ‘til he graduates?
Have terrible video chat sex and swear we’ll stop missing each other’s calls, which we both know will be lies between all things Hockey and me making moves in the new leg of my career?
Do I ask him to come with me?
How would I even ask him to, essentially, drop his entire life to come wait around while I live mine?
How would I even say, “please drop everything else you love and come let your life revolve around my unpredictable dance schedule”?
Dread sinks to the pit of my empty stomach, yet again, encouraging me to get out of my car and go enjoy something deliciously apple flavored whipped up by my boyfriend.
While he’s still my boyfriend.
The horn of my car has just finished announcing its locked status when the last voice I’m in the mood to hear says, “Well, would you look at that shit.”
My frame slowly angles itself Jevin’s direction.
Given his sweat-covered complexion and shirtless attire, I’d guess he was just out for a morning run at the gym.
Or, who fucking knows.
Maybe he was running from a quicky at some girl’s apartment back to his apartment, where another victim of his selfishness was idiotically waiting.
“You’re still sneaking in and out of apartments while it’s dark outside.”
Also, why I should’ve just spent the night at Hugo’s.
I don’t have to park so fucking far from his building and risk running into this Ringling Brothers side show, whose building is much closer to my boyfriend’s than I care for it to be.
“Not surprised,” Jevin offhandedly announces, both hands now gripping the towel around his neck. “I mean you do make a great dirty little dick sucking secret.”
Disgust narrows my gaze to a glare. “I am not a secret in Hugo’s life.”
His head tilts condescendingly. “You sure about that?”
“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but yeah, I’m sure.”
“Then how come you never post pics of you two together?”
That’s a personal preference.
I like to keep my posts about me.
My dancing.
My adventures.
Then again, dating Hugo is a huge adventure…
Whatever.
I could post if I wanted, which prompts me to casually state, “That’s my choice, not his. He has nothing to do with stopping me from sharing photos of us together.”
“Right, right,” he nonchalantly nods, “and the whole don’t attend parties together thing? Your choice, too?”
“Yeah. Hugo doesn’t really like parties.”
“He doesn’t like parties, or he doesn’t like being seen at parties with you? Because I’ve seen his big elephant ass at so many victory parties over the past three years that makes it easy to believe it’s the last thing I said.”
The glower on my face gets deeper.
“And, if you’re more than just his dirty little fuckboy, how come he hasn’t come out and said some shit about you two being together so you stop getting DM invites to help you break in those new heels of yours in a different way?”
Jevin wasn’t the only one to send me that message when I showed off the new red, zip-up leather boots I got on a random shopping spree with my mom.
Like the others, I simply deleted it.
Hugo doesn’t demand to know what’s in my phone or who’s blowing up my phone because he trusts me.
Right?
Or…Or is there any way that Jevin’s right, and the reason he doesn’t go ape shit is because I don’t really mean that much to him?
That he only calls me his boyfriend to keep me around and not complaining?
Has he ever actually used that term when we were in public?
Has he ever used that shit around his crew?
“We…,” I struggle to keep my voice steady, “are…together. We go out together. We go out and do things together.”
“Where people can see you’re together?” Jevin taunts on an eyebrow lift. “Or, where people are less likely to notice two dudes together? You know places where it’d be easy to write you off as just friends or cousins or even fucking adopted brothers?”
My mind races to pick apart the accusation yet isn’t given adequate time.
“And, really, how often do you go out instead of just ordering in