Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,91

matter.

That he fucking matters.

That I would choose him over anything.

Another realization abruptly hits me, adding one more item to the list of things for me to do to prove I’m ready to be the boyfriend he deserves.

And, I am ready.

I just hope like hell it isn’t too fucking late for an impromptu second audition for that very special role in his life.

Chapter 19

The incessant poking in my right ass cheek causes me to groan myself into a more conscious state.

I’m unsure of who or what is currently bothering me. I’m certain it isn’t Crash crawling into my bed for an early good morning grab ass since I have spent the last three nights sleeping at my parent’s place, and they wouldn’t let him into the house without my consent.

Prodding is moved upward and over to jab me in the rib.

A loud, annoyed grunt is given prior to me rolling over to face my attacker.

“Good morning, Goliath!” Gillette cheerfully says as he returns his hockey stick to his side. “Time to rise and fucking shine!”

I don’t waste the energy glaring.

I don’t expel the breath to banish him.

I roll back over, pull the blanket up for my hips, and shut my eyes to go back to sleep.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Gillette loudly objects and jabs the stick back in my side.

I swallow the hiss it ignites yet rotate myself to shoot him a lethal stare.

“No yeah, I get it.” He retreats his stick away to prevent me from being able to snatch it away. “No one likes being poked in the ass with a stick.” His lips purse to one side in a pause. “Correction, no one likes being poked in the ass with a hockey stick. Mo is actually a major fan of ass play.” The grin on his face grows playful. “And, that Vanilla Cake lube you recommended?” Gillette wiggles his eyebrows in excitement. “I think I might love that shit more than Stratton loves poutine.”

Bold fucking statement.

My expression remains unchanged, prompting him to continue to ramble. “Anyway, the point I was trying to make – and yes, there is one my frowny-faced friend – is that I don’t give a fuck if you hate it. I’m gonna keep this shit up until you get out of bed. Who knows, I may even go downstairs and get some ice and just practice my tryout shots by using your big ass face as the goal.”

This time my eyebrows lower in disapproval.

“I’m not leaving here without you,” he defiantly states on an arm fold. “If that means I don’t make the cut this year then I don’t make the fucking cut. If that means we’re stuck finding some bottom level club team to join three cities over, then fuck it. That means we’re in for long car rides and some metal mixes I’m really into right now.” Humor appears in his eyes, once more, as he casually shrugs. “It’s probably just a montage moment. Blame the chick I’m gonna ask to marry me today.”

I can’t stop my jaw from tumbling to the mattress in surprise.

“At the BBQ, at my dad’s new house, after tryouts.” His stare hardens in seriousness. “Which I am not going to without you, so get your Jack Chopped My Beanstalk Down ass out of bed and dressed because you know Stiles deducts a point for being late.”

My head slowly starts to shake, ready to verbally argue, when he cuts me off, again.

“I’m not leaving a fucking teammate behind,” Gillette repeats the statement I made to him a lifetime ago. “Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.” He kicks his chin a little higher in a stubborn nature. “I’m ready when you’re ready, Rhinehart.”

The weight of his actions is equally as heavy as his words. My eyes briefly shut from the amount of pressure washing over me, but my lips curl upward on a stifled laugh. Gratitude writes itself into my thoughts like long-winded verses that aren’t sure when enough is too much. Thanks and praise for returning a favor that wasn’t given with repayment ever in mind threatens to make tears collect in my throat for an emotional appreciation to be expressed verbally. I, however, swallow the urge to spew words. I shift my eyelids and frame upward. I offer him a crooked smirk, a tiny nod, and some shrugged arm surrender before getting my ass up.

Gillette doesn’t let me out of his sight for a moment of the process nor does he relinquish the hold on his stick