Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,83

they all – coach included – successfully make it happen.

Between periods, they huddle together on the opposite side of the room, leaving me to listen to plays and suggestions I will not be allowed to participate in. They joke and laugh and playfully punch one another like nothing has changed, further reminding me of my invisible presence. I hold on tightly to my stoic expression the entire game, participate in cheers at the appropriate time to continue the façade I am a part of something it is clear I am not, and shoot my parents a text message to tell them I’ll be running late after the game, so I’ll just meet them at their house.

The loss of the final summer match – our first loss at that – doesn’t seem to get the team down.

They still arrange to go grab wings and beers – for those that can drink – afterwards.

And, like earlier, I’m forced to listen on outside of the room.

I’m forced to wait until it’s empty to enter.

This time takes longer than before, due to quick shower offs, and with each passing tick of the clock, it begins to truly set in that this is my life now.

Hockey won’t be in my future.

Just my past.

Parts of that past have perplexity filling my veins as I head to my vehicle in the practically vacant parking lot. Seeing my crew – or, more accurately, ex-crew – waiting against my SUV with their girlfriends and Crash has my brow crinkling in question.

“What the fuck!?” Gillette shouts, hands thrown theatrically in the air. “Why didn’t you fucking play?!”

“Why didn’t they fucking put you in?!” Mo bites from her position at his side.

“Did they like fucking forget every game prior to this one saw victory because your ass was on defense?!” Stratton squawks. “Tater-Tot could show them the fucking math! You are the best fucking defenseman in this whole fucking city!”

“Statistically speaking, you – like Rutledge – do have a much higher than average puck stopping rate, although his is easier to calculate given that he’s a goalie,” Tatum sweetly explains, hand holding her boyfriend’s noticeably hard.

“You so should’ve played!” Poppy protectively squeaks in spite of her wiggling nose. “We all showed up to see you play! We all had big bright Stratton-approved signs to hold up while you played! That’s why we made them! That’s why we’re here!”

“That, and ‘cause Stratton won’t shut up about good publicity for the team,” Gillette pokes.

“Good publicity will matter in the coming season,” Peck proclaims. “We need the Vipers starting on a good note. Not a scandalous one.”

“Don’t say that like I’m the one who stirs up shit,” Gillette defensively bites.

My teammates and his girlfriend immediately throw him a sardonic stare.

“Oh, fuck off,” he lightly laughs. “You’ve all done shit!” His face pauses to correct, “Except for Peck. He’s practically a saint. Saint Peck.”

“That sounds like a porno,” Mo promptly states.

“It does!” Her boyfriend instantly agrees.

“I would never make a porno!” Peck loudly objects.

“For real, though,” Stratton surprisingly shifts the attention back my direction. “Why didn’t you play?”

“You’re not injured, are you?” Peck cautiously questions. “You can’t try out injured. And, Coach Stiles will hang me by my sac if you got injured during one of my practices.”

My mouth cracks open to answer, yet nothing comes out.

It’s not a secret to any of them.

It hasn’t changed their behaviors towards me.

But, then again, mob mentality can change that of the individual in a heartbeat.

Maybe they didn’t care before, yet something deep inside me is whispering that, come Tuesday morning with our full team, there’s a small chance that won’t be the case anymore.

I shut my lips, press them tightly together, and cut Crash the smallest glance.

His silent disposition is unusual; however, if I had to venture a guess, he’s just waiting to be barked at.

He’s waiting to be threatened.

Beaten.

All the things he’s been conditioned to expect.

All the things I thought I had proven I’d never do.

Fuck, the next time I see Jevin I’m gonna bash his brains in to the point he’s paralyzed and can’t speak to terrorize someone, let alone even imagine laying a finger on them.

I know Dad talked a lot about mental abuse at times being worse than the physical, but until I saw that side of Crash yesterday, I had a hard time believing it.

Rutledge finally speaks, disappointment dripping from the one word. “Oh.”

Stratton instantaneously picks up on the pitch and lets his shoulders sag. “Damn.”

Gillette and Peck interpret the verbal cues,