Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,98
it were up to me, I’d probably never stop holding them. My parents, as well as Crash’s, told me all parents feel that way about their kids when they’re younger before they added that when we become grandparents someday, the feeling will start all over again with our own grandkids just like it did for them.
This is something that’s evident by the way every chance they get, all grandparents can be caught carrying around our twin girls like their little legs are broken.
They aren’t.
All the constant twirling and spinning on the dance floor and the ice proves that.
What’s hilarious to me are Crash’s dad and mine are worse than our moms.
They can always be caught toting the girls around like they’re Ubers for preschoolers.
After they plant sloppy kisses on my cheeks, I stand back up to retrieve their snacks. “How was dance class?”
“I got two star stickers!” Shel exclaims pointing to her left rosy cheek. “I can count music! One. Two. One two!”
Her twin sister, Roxie, pushes her tangled dark hair away from her forehead to show me her haul. “I got one monkey sticker! I can play!”
“Plie,” Crash politely corrects upon his entering the room.
“That’s what I said Daddy!” Roxie instantly sasses at him.
Given the fact he named her, it makes sense to me she embodies so many of his characteristics. She loves heels. Anything that’s brightly colored. She’s always speaking her mind and doesn’t have any problem telling you she’s not interested in what you’re offering – something I don’t love when it’s time to try new things at the dinner table. The one thing she didn’t inherit, ironically enough, is a love of dance. Our little Rox loves hockey. She always loves to body check pillows all around the living room, while her sister watches on in horror from a safe distance in the kitchen. Shel, on the other hand, takes after me in many ways. She hates to get dirty. She hates loud noises. She prefers to love and hold things rather than to break them. She does like to ice skate, but I think that has more to do with the sparkly skates rather than the activity.
“That’s not what you said,” Crash snips in return, “just like your so-called dance teacher has no business talking down to you girls the way she does. It’s called Creative Movement not Criticism Class.”
His overprotective nature regarding the girls’ self-esteem is something I fucking adore.
It makes my heart beat faster, and my dick that much harder for him.
Much like our parents, we want our girls to embrace themselves, whoever that may be. This is not always approved of by the outside world – apparently taking your daughter to the grocery store to grab milk in her leather Wonder Woman boots, Cat in the Hat hat, and fishbowl purse is a crime worthy of alerting store security. The overly judgmental woman got even more judgmental when she found out not only did we have two kids who were both dressed oddly, but that we were dads in a same-sex marriage. Crash hit the roof when she started making rude comments in front of our kids, prompting me to have him take them away while I settled everything. Strangely enough, words like lawsuit and discrimination coming out of a 6’4 man hold quite a bit of weight. Free groceries for a year and a permanent discount card soothed some of Crash’s irritation, and seeing him go off about our little bundles of madness – who were only two at the time – had me jumping him the second we could hear their snores over the monitor.
“I know Betty owns and operates the place, which means she must vouch for that pointe-footed witch from a dance perspective, but we have to talk about some ‘ish concerning that class the next time we meet for dinner.”
“The girls like it,” I gingerly remind him.
His sardonic stare is instantaneous.
“Okay. Shel likes it, and Rox likes being with her sister, so collectively speaking, they like it. This means it’s fine for them, and you should leave it be.” After shooting him a wink, I pick up their zip-loc bags of homemade cheese crackers, “Snacks.” They eagerly take them at the same time allowing me to grab the two waiting cups. “Cran-Grape juice for Shel Bell.” The purple cup is transferred into her clutches. “Cran-Orange for Rox.” She swipes the dark green object. “Cran-Apple for Daddy.”
Crash fights himself on the decision to grin or glare as I