Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,92

just in case it’s needed for further motivational pushing. Fortunately for me, Dad washed the gear I wore – but never played in – on Saturday, leaving me with clean shit to tryout in. Downstairs, post a piss and properly switched out clothes, Dad pops out of his home office long enough to insist we grab fruit to go and to wish us both good luck.

I think staying here with them for the weekend was for the best.

It helped separate me from the looming drama.

I was able to ignore the rumors running.

I spent time learning techniques to help me work through my feelings of frustration, which I was reminded will come in handy if and when my time with hockey ends. Dad gave me a few more pointers on talking to someone who may be difficult to talk to while Mom focused on some old speech therapy exercises to rebuild a bit of the broken confidence that comes from having a speech impediment. There was lots of laughing. Lots of bonding. Lots of takeout – though that one I feel I’m going to regret here shortly.

After parking side by side in the back of the packed athletic parking lot, Gillette and I head towards the facility. He complains over having to hike due to our tardiness and grouses about tryouts week being poorly spaced out among the sports. When those gripes fade, he rambles out details of his weekend. The bet he set up to execute his proposal. Brags about how she’ll never see it coming, how he didn’t even see it coming.

We’re about halfway to the building when taunting catches me off guard, “Hide your nuts, boys. Never know when Rhinehart’s checking them out.”

Jevin’s heckling shifts my stride to a slower one.

“Or, are you more of an ass dude?” It continues, getting more laughs out of the teammates he’s with. “Maybe a take it up the ass dude?”

Gillette prepares to launch their direction in my defense prompting me to shoot out my arm to stop him.

“Come on,” Jevin’s joking continues despite the fact I’ve begun veering his direction, “tell us the truth, Rhinehart. You gotta top, right, because otherwise, they’d have to climb your ass – literally – like a tree?”

His group, needlessly, laughs louder.

My arrival in his space should shut him up, yet he, moronically, keeps moving his mouth, “Is that why you choose hockey? Get you in some extra practice handling sticks?” He chuckles harder at his own pathetic joke. “Lets you-”

The balled fist I didn’t even realize I had been making lands in the dead center of his face, knocking him out cold into his group of friends who barely manage to catch him. Having him able to hit back to start his long, overdue ass whooping and hearing him groan in pain while watching him stumble around off balance would’ve all been great, yet putting him in his place with one punch, proving he’s nothing but a bunch of poorly put together insults is strikingly more satisfying.

I adjust the bag on my shoulder and state to his unconscious figure, “Stop trying to fuck my boyfriend.”

The expression on his friends’ faces becomes that of appalment.

Yeah.

I know about the DMs he sends.

I know about the texts Crash deletes.

I know the shit without having to go through his phone.

I know it because of the way Crash’s demeanor always changes when it comes to this piece of shit.

He’s the reason my best friend gets up in a tizzy and needs to see my phone.

He’s the reason my boyfriend spiraled out of control in a desperate need to be reassured he wasn’t enduring an avenue of treatment I would rather die than subject him to.

Jevin should consider his ass lucky one hit is all he got.

I’m almost certain if he would’ve remained conscious, I wouldn’t have stopped hitting him until he had stopped breathing.

Permanently.

Another word isn’t spoken to him or his gawking group of friends, who seem unsure of if they should take him to medical or perhaps just wait for him to wake up. I turn back the direction we need to be and resume walking as though nothing changed. Gillette’s goofy, amused expression over my action remains the entire duration, but he never verbally brings it up. By the time we’re walking into the locker room, he’s back to talking about the BBQ, reminding me I can’t be late to that because I’ll be bringing the most important item.

“What the fuck?” Flockston, a sophomore left wing bites the