Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,95
return to my eyes.
“I need a verbal confirmation that you want to be here, and that you’re ready to meet the expectations I know you are capable of meeting.”
I immediately nod my head. “Yes, Coach.”
It’s his turn to simply stare on.
“I want to be on this team. I want to play for you. I want to play with them. I want…” my voice increases in certainty, “to be the best fucking defenseman this campus has ever seen in the history of the Vipers.”
“You’re ready to be a champion, again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He folds his hands together on top of his clipboard. “This is your one warning. Miss another weigh in, test, or show up late, and I’ll bench your ass for a month. Understood?”
I quickly nod again.
“Send in,” his eyes drop to steal a glimpse of his sheet, “Springfield.”
“Yes, sir.”
My hockey bag is swung up and over my shoulder in one graceful swoop.
About two steps away from the door, Coach calls to me again, “One more thing, Rhinehart.”
I turn to face him and silently prepare myself for some sort of warning about not making romantic passes at the other players or wanting any more fucking drama in his locker room.
He lets a long beat pass prior to casually stating, “Fuck Victor.”
His additional statement startles me much like the earlier question had.
“He’s the same prick who tried to prevent me from becoming head coach.”
The new information, combined with Coach’s refusal to treat me any differently despite knowing everything, successfully receives a smirk and a small happy hum.
Once I get Springfield to go meet his fate – obviously another year on the team – I meet up with the guys for a brief moment, congratulate them, take their congratulations, and agree to see them at the BBQ. Their girlfriends are waiting for them right on the other side of the door to share in the excitement. Hugs are presented to everyone, although, each of my crew gets a little growly over their woman being wrapped around another guy. We walk out together and separate accordingly. Seeing Mo ride on Gillette’s back instills longing like I assumed it would.
It’s another reason I wasn’t in any hurry to get back to my crew.
Yes.
I love that they’re happy.
I love being able to physically see that they’re happy.
I just don’t love not getting to be.
I also don’t love the feeling I may never have someone who is willing to work so hard to be with me as their girls, clearly, work to be with them.
Fuck, as they clearly work to be with their girls.
Our vehicles come within view, revealing someone posted up against mine. I brace myself for another round of taunting that’ll probably end with more punches but uncurl my fist when the vision becomes less blurry yet still a mystery in a way.
Crash’s mischievous grin shimmers in the sun, and I can’t help but stumble.
“If you fall, I’ll laugh,” Gillette playfully proclaims.
“No yeah, me too,” Mo swiftly concurs.
The glare they’re thrown receives an exchange of laughs between them proceeded by them getting into his vehicle. Gillette greets Crash in passing and informs me he’ll text over the address to his dad’s new place.
It isn’t until they’re almost all the way out of the parking lot that I find my voice. “Wh-wh-what are you doing here?”
He turns his back to me and points at the name at the top of the green Vlasta jersey he’s wearing. “Supporting my boo.”
I’m not sure if it’s the term of endearment or the action itself that swells my throat.
“It’s a little tighter than I wanted, but it’s my own fucking fault for not having gotten one sooner.” Crash rotates so we are face to face again. “It’s my own selfish shit that gets in the way of more important shit…more important shit like supporting you the way you deserve.”
My mouth moves, yet not a single word comes out.
“And, I will support you whenever you want, however you want going forward, Hugo. Whether that means I need to stuff my ass into this shit and then travel across the fucking country to see you knock some dude into the glass while waving an I heart number nine sign, or it means wearing it at home while cheering for you on my couch because you don’t want that type of attention on game day, I am prepared to do it.” He steps a little closer, and the breath I had sucked in is sucked out. “I want to do it, Boo. I