Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,8

up to my name and crashed? I mean I could definitely use some…non drama-filled Vlasta air for the weekend.”

His stare shifts to mine showcasing a foreign feeling. “I-i-if you w-w-want. Th-th-that’s f-f-fine with m-m-me.” Rage and embarrassment immediately replace whatever emotion he was previously displaying. The change in disposition always comes when his stutter surfaces, something he hates because he thinks it makes him look weak, but something I adore because it makes him look mortal instead of superhuman. Several strained deep breaths later, he adds, “I’m cool with you coming. I never mind having you around, Crash.”

There’s no denying the way the words wash over me, cleansing my spirit of the callous words I was called less than an hour ago.

Like always, Hugo provides me with the antidote that only he seems capable of creating and administering.

Just a few minutes with him and all my mistakes don’t seem nearly so detrimental.

All my flaws far less heinous.

I actually feel comfortable in my own skin rather than just executing extra amounts of energy to convince everyone that I am.

I love this feeling.

This sense of security that only he seems able to provide.

Maybe a few days filled with nothing but him, his levity, and some liquor is exactly what I need to cope with the clusterfuck of emotions Jevin’s spent the last year putting me through. And, even if it’s not…at the very least, it’ll keep me from immediately falling for that asshole when he inevitably comes crawling back to me like he always does.

Chapter 3

I can’t fucking believe this shit is happening.

I mean really fucking happening.

I’m not referring to the absurd view of Gillette wedged into the kitchen sink of our oceanfront luxury beach house due to the impromptu announcement from Stratton that the floor is now lava, but the fact that Crash Donovan, my best friend…my favorite person…my fucking soulmate… is here, too.

For all three days.

He is here for all three days.

He will be sleeping in the room right next to mine.

For all three days.

He will be sleeping naked in the room next to mine.

For. All. Three. Days.

Naked.

100% naked.

He doesn’t particularly like anything that restricts his movements or him for that matter, which means he will – without the smallest sliver of doubt – be naked in his bed.

The idea of accidentally seeing an ass shot when he’s rolling over and I’m walking by to take a leak in the early morning causes me to brace my beer bottle against the crotch of my black, baggy basketball shorts.

I have to stop having that fantasy.

It’s beginning to become unhealthy.

“Any part of your feet touches the floor at any point, you gotta chug your whole fucking drink, and only have one minute to get to the kitchen, get a new one, and find safety again,” Stratton informs from where he’s now sitting on top of the long dining room table. “Goal is to get to the safe zone. That’s how you win.”

“But, everyone’s already pretty drunk,” Tatum, his girlfriend, needlessly reminds, pecan brown shaded face frowning in confusion.

Almost everyone.

Peck and I are still on the same drinks we had two hours ago.

He hasn’t touched his since his first sip.

I only have a swig from mine whenever Crash stares at me too long or smiles at me too bright or I can feel my stupid fucking stutter surfacing.

Alcohol is not something I like fucking up my body chemistry, but nothing fucks up that chemistry quite like Crash Donovan.

How can one person be a hazard to my health and yet essential to my very survival?

Stratton shoots a wink over his shoulder at her. “That’s exactly right, Tater-tot. Everyone is already pretty fucked up. That’s what makes it more fun.”

“Oh…you purposely waited until the probability to get everyone really wasted was increased.” She cheerfully concludes at the same time she nearly spills her overfilled cup all over her tank top-covered chest. “You combined that with our scattered natures and determined now would be the optimal opportunity to not only take us by surprise but put true alcohol handling skills to the test.” A happy giggle is hiccupped out of her. “Brilliant.”

“Only you make me sound that way, Tater-Tot,” he sighs into his plastic cup that’s also filled with Irish Trash Can Punch, “only you.”

“And, where is the safe zone?” Crash questions from the foot stool he’s pretzeled himself onto.

He’d go better with my brewski than any high caloric snack food I’d ever get from a grocery store.

He’s one snack I would eat well past midnight.

Every