Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,93

instant he lays eyes on me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His tone says it all.

And, if it didn’t, the way he’s holding a t-shirt to block his chest does.

“You shouldn’t fucking be in here,” Gardin, a junior who plays center swiftly backs him up. “No one wants you bustin’ wood and getting new shit to put away in your spank bank.”

Ire and irritation battle for the right to be showcased, leaving me momentarily stunned silent.

Just as I prepare to snap back and remind them who the fuck they’re talking to, how many games I’ve played, how many assists I’ve had, and how – even if you put their stats together – they’d still come up short in comparison to mine, Peck’s completely gearedup frame steps in front to bark, “You two, get the fuck out of this locker room.”

Flockston scoffs at the order. “What?”

“I said get the fuck out of this locker room.”

“You don’t get to make that fucking call,” Gardin bucks up. “You’re not the fucking coach.”

“No,” Peck’s voice remains firm and fearless, “but I am still the fucking captain of this goddamn team until told otherwise. And, as acting captain, this is still my team, meaning this is still my locker room, making it my,” his face leans towards them to drive home the point, “Fucking. Call.” Unparalleled rage rips through my crew member’s expression. “Which means I can and am kicking your asses out of it. We don’t want…your kind around here.”

Hearing the phrase used in a reverse sense threatens to make me smirk.

Flockston tosses his practice jersey haphazardly to the side and angrily bites, “You’re really gonna drop me from the team for some fucking fa-”

“Finish that fucking word, and I’ll lay your ass out,” Springfield unexpectedly says at the same time he stands up from the bench.

“If he doesn’t, I sure the fuck will,” Scottsdale promptly proclaims from the back corner near Rutledge who now looks torn between seething and smiling.

“I like what I’m seeing,” Stiles’ voice, surprisingly, says over my shoulder.

“When the fuck did he get in here?” Gillette quietly mumbles beside me.

“Mostly,” Stiles adds and shoots me and Gillette disapproving stares. “Your asses should’ve been in here and changed ten fucking minutes ago.” His head slowly shakes. “You think I wouldn’t notice that shit?” He grunts prior to tossing his chin forward. “Fucking go. Stop leering at me like that’s gonna make up for it.”

We begin to hustle deeper inside, which ignites more disgust among a couple of the players.

Stiles adjusts the hold he has on his clipboard and relocates his glare to Flockston and Gardin seconds after we’ve flopped down on the bench to dig out our gear. “Why the hell are you two still in here? You heard your captain, or better yet, your ex-captain since you don’t fucking play for this team anymore.”

Their eyes bulge in tandem, something impossible not to watch, even if we shouldn’t.

Gardin is first to try to speak, “But-”

“Save that bullshit for your parents, who you’re gonna go crying to when you leave here,” Stiles callously commands. “Oh, and I might as well tell you now, any of the bribes or threats you think can rescue you a spot on this team won’t. Fucking. Work. I don’t operate like that. I won’t ever operate like that.” He takes a step closer, and they noticeably shrink inward. “I shape fucking champions for this university, and those champions shape the high fucking standards of this campus that the Dean and the fucking school board are anxious to continue having. Champions know the color of someone’s skin, where they decide to dip their dick between games, or how fancy their fucking gear is doesn’t fucking matter. What matters is how hard you play. How much you give to the fucking team. How much sweat and blood and time you fucking sacrifice to get to the top, not just because that’s where you wanna be, but because that’s where you want your team to fucking be. Champions know that those that touch that ice with you are your family. Champions know you stand up for your family, you fight for your family, and when someone makes the mistake of coming after them, you don’t let that shit slide.” Stiles cradles the clipboard to his chest and announces to the entire room. “I don’t have room on my team for anything less than fucking champions, so if you feel at all like Flockston and Gardin, save me the strength