Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,77

you even appreciate the fact that I fucking rearrange my mornings to make sure I have breakfast with you before you go to practice?!”

Hugo’s refusal to take the bait to join the argument only makes the mental dance floor I’m flailing around slipperier.

“Or, is this just what you’ve come to expect?!” My arms fold themselves firmly against my sunset orange tank top. “You just expect me to rearrange my whole fucking life to fit into your schedule?”

“You’re being ridiculous.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads towards me. “And, I don’t have time for this bullshit right now.”

“Exc-”

“You can make yourself your own drink or grab something – anything you want – out of the fridge.” His arm lightly brushes against me in the pursuit of grabbing his car keys. “I’d recommend not having avocado toast if you’re headed to the gym. The high abundance of fiber has a tendency to cause stomach cramps while working out.” He opens the door on a grumbled, “See you later.”

The missing “baby” that I’ve come to adore stings more when the door shuts.

Fuck…

Jevin’s right, isn’t he?

I’m just important when it’s convenient for him.

When he has time.

God, he couldn’t even muster up an “I love you” or slip a goodbye kiss onto my lips?

Am I really his boyfriend, or is that simply the label he gave me to cleverly hide the fact I am still just the same skeleton I was before but in a different closet?

Chapter 15

“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Peck claps at the forwards to quickly take the ice. “Don’t make practice last all fucking day!”

It won’t.

He doesn’t have that authority.

He barely has the power to make our asses get out of bed three times a week to do this shit to begin with.

I understand this shit is great practice for what’s expected of the team during the actual season, but I’m with the other guys on this one.

Sometimes it’d be nice to just stay in bed a little later and have your partner for breakfast.

Thoughts of a disappointed Crash – that because I was in such a rush I forgot to kiss – add fuel to the tank of emotions that this exercise will successfully allow me to work out.

Obviously, I didn’t want to skip our morning session.

I hate doing that almost as much as I hate going to bed without him curled against me.

There’s this one spot on my ribcage where he always seems to rest his head. Whenever we’re about to fall asleep or stretched out on my couch, his head never fails to land on that same spot. I fucking love it. I fucking love it so much I’m contemplating getting his name tattooed right there.

It seems extreme, but if Gillette can plan to propose to his girl, why can’t I get a simple tattoo for my guy?

“Hope you’re fucking ready!” Peck shouts to the players waiting on the ice at the same time I glide onto it. “Rhinehart, don’t hold back!”

“Never do.”

I give myself a slow warmup skate around the rink. It allows me to assess which target to check first but, more importantly, adds anticipation to the when. Theoretically, this should keep them more on their toes. Not knowing or being able to predict when you’re going to get rammed into the board should have you on high alert. It should keep those senses heightened. It should help you be more prepared for the impact that can happen during an actual game, where you may not always know you’re gonna get knocked into either. I’m given free range during this particular drill to hit whoever’s on the ice, as many times as I want, however consistently I want. Some players don’t get touched. Some players get checked so many times it leaves them wondering what they did to piss me off.

Only every once in a while, do they actually find the balls to ask.

Stratton tends to seek the answer when it happens to him prior to popping a pain killer in the locker room.

The players gliding around continue to do so, nervousness noticeably building with each push.

Springfield, a sophomore who proved last season he could do more than warm a bench, is the first target I attack. From mid rink, I hastily skate towards Gillette as though I’m going to ram him, yet, last minute, come to an ice-scraping stop, turn, and rush into Springfield straight on. His back hits the board hard, knocking the wind out of him and him off