Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,82

than being fucking laughed at.”

The gravity of guilt from his words has me toppling forward in shame. My palms hit the table at the same time my eyes squeeze shut.

Shit.

Shit!

How much fucking damage have I really done this time?

And, why do I feel like I just failed the most important audition of my entire life?

Chapter 17

I wouldn’t call myself a superstitious person, but when my reflexologist confesses that even she can’t relieve my body of its stressful state, I have trouble not taking that as a sign that the shitstorm in my life will be calming down anytime soon.

On a heavy, exhausted sigh, I reach for the door handle to the locker room at the same time someone is opening it from the other side. I manage to stop myself from initially being thrown off balance, yet Coach Victor not welcoming me inside leaves me unsteady on my feet. His arms fold defensively across his chest, leaving no doubt in my mind about what’s to come.

What I expected to come.

“Rhinehart, the other players would prefer if you didn’t gear up in the same room with them.”

Dread begins to boil in the pit of my stomach, once more.

It seems like it’s been at a dull simmer since yesterday.

It seems like it’s just been waiting for me to turn it back on high since my boyfriend created a scene worthy of a fucking People's Choice Award.

“They don’t feel…,” his dark gaze grows in obvious disgust during his search for the more PC version of the bullshit he’s about to spout, “comfortable dressing and undressing in front of someone like you.”

Someone like me.

Someone who likes guys.

Of course, it doesn’t fucking matter that I like girls, too.

It only matters that dick is something I enjoy, which automatically means everyone that crosses my path, I automatically consider fucking.

Fuck, can people be anymore predictably moronic?

“They would rather you change elsewhere.” His older, overly tanned face offers a terrible sympathetic smile. “You understand, right?”

I understand that my entire life changed in a single breath without my permission.

I understand that consent…was stolen.

I understand that there are consequences I will be paying for actions that weren’t even my own.

I understand a lot of shit…except how I’m supposed to pick up the pieces of my life that someone else had no business making a mess of.

Knowing my voice will betray me by shaking and stuttering – a weakness that was exposed in front of an audience yesterday – I simply nod my comprehension.

“Bathroom’s not too far down the hall.” He rests his back against the door as if needing to guard it. As if I’m going to go barreling inside to play grab ass or some shit. “And, uh…you can wait out here when you’re finished. I’ll get you when it’s time to join the team.”

The lump in my throat expands, but I maintain my composure.

I swallow it down.

I nod and turn to go change into my gear elsewhere.

During the uncomfortable switch from basic gym clothes to my performance wear, I battle the increasing number of emotions body checking me from every direction. Anger and rage. Resentment. Sadness. Fear. Tears clog my throat and tremble my frame. My wobbly figure has me knocking into everything around the bathroom stall, and every bump inspires those same tears to break free. To stain my face. Every action – big and small – becomes mountainous. I can hardly catch my breath. I can hardly remember how to breathe. The point of breathing.

Post changing, I’m left outside the locker room waiting.

I’m left anticipating acceptance that I fear will never come.

I’m left imagining acceptance that I’ve tried to write about over the years.

There’s no real surprise when everything moves along without me.

The pre-game speech given.

The team chants of victory.

The thank you for volunteering for a good cause sentiment.

I can hear it all, but I am not allowed to partake.

I am not allowed to be involved.

I am not allowed to feel like I’m part of the team anymore.

My segregation continues throughout the rest of the early evening. I’m placed in the back row, in the corner, a spot reserved for injured players. Those I previously called teammates keep a noticeable distance whenever seated, and if for some reason they must pass by me, they go out of their way to guarantee we don’t physically connect.

I guess just in case being bisexual is a disease you can get.

No one makes eye contact with me.

No one speaks to me.

Despite how difficult it is to ignore someone my size,