Chapter eleven: Xayl

                                    

                                          
"Time out!" Coach I-dont-remember-the-name rang his whistle, signaling our break after two hours of hitting the puck. My head has been swinging like shit since the practice began, and I keep falling over each time I try to concentrate.
"What happened with you, bro? You looked like you're gonna pass out on ice back there." Jake's voice laced with slight concern and mockery, his nose still with a band-aid from the last incident.
"Do I have to call–"
"I'm fine, I'm fine." I shugged it off with a fake smile, my defiance building, but was quickly crumbled as more and more fucking waves of the feeling of tipsy setting in.
Jake strode over to me in less than three and a half second when I suddenly almost fell over. I felt nauseous, my face turning red from the pressure of me trying to keep it in.
"What's going on here?" A voice asked. I looked up from dizziness, my glassy vision still catching the latest features:
Bronde hair...
Rosy cheeks...
Blue eyes...
I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm seeing pink fucking unicorns dancing in couches in my vision. I'm hallucinating, and I don't know why.
In a minute, my world turned pitch black. Then, back to consciousness. What the fuck is happening?
****
I woke up for the seventeenth time from the sound of beeping machines by my side. I was in a hospital bed, my head still throbbing like crazy.
"You're finally awake," A voice rang. It was Gwen. Of course she's there. "Seems like you're poisoned. How demure to not care about what you plunge on that mouth of yours."
Gwen's words made my face turn into a scrowl when those slipped out of her lips like melted butter. She smirked at my reaction as she flipped the papers hanged on the clipboard and wrote down my monitor records.
"Why are you even here anyway? Aren't you supposed to nurse Bea like some any other assigned shit would do?" I spat in comeback.
Gwen's scribbling on notes momentarily stopped before continuing again as she spoke, "Bea got admitted a few hours after you came. One of the nurses got assigned in her room while I monitored you until you eventually die." Gwen took a slight glance at me before her full attention came to the heart monitor.
If a minute would be like air coming on and go, I'd assume this shit monitoring is take seriously forever.
Her faint bare vanilla perfume reeks over my nostrils, making it slightly itchy on my flesh. 
"Stop itching your nose as if you're smelling poison, Xayl." Gwen snorted, and I scoffed.
"It's not my fault that you smell like vanilla fuck that literally reeks all over the room once you enter." I sneered, seeing her eyes roll in irritation.
"You're lucky I'm not even killing you yet."
"Well, farewell to your licenses then." My smirk grew wider as Gwen's eyes narrowed at me like sticky glue.
It wasn't just about thirty-seven seconds later, the door flung open, revealing Sheena in all red and pushing Gwen aside as she strode to my bedside.
"Are you okay? What happened to you?" Sheena's fingers brushed over my cheek, as if I got punched by ice.
Okay, fuck this. I got food poisoning, not stage seven cancer.
Just play the game, Xayl. Play the motherfucking game like a foolish little sheep.
"I'm fine." I said gruffly.
Sheena's face softened before wrapping her arms around my neck like a vice. Motherfucker.
I want to push her off, yell at her and tell her to fuck off because I ain't her husband to be concerned for. I'm just her sex partner where the fact I was pressured to fuck her so my career won't land down like an airplane.
I hate my life. Much more worser if I'm with Gwen fucking Mildred than Sheena Quinns.
Plus, I'm turning twenty-six by November. I don't need a somebody to help me change. I'm a grown man.
"Sheena," Mr. Quinns popped his head out by the door, his face stern and keeping no room for refusal.
Of course, the daughter obeyed the father. Finally.
But just when I was about to relax my shoulders and kick back to the headboard, a knock came in again.
"Come in."
A five foot two inch dude, barely even taller than the door with dark disheveled hair, mismatched green and brown eyes. Timmy Martinez.
He's a relative from my sister's arranged marriage two years ago. He's as gay as dipshit, but he's a damn troublemaker. Timmy and I are kinda close, despite the eleven years age gap.
"Xayl." Timmy spoke in a low, stupidly and randomly depressed tone.
My eyebrows furrowed slightly at the hearing of his voice, my eyes almost hurting from the pressure of my eye roll.
"Pardon to soften the tone, please? And cover up your eyes, thank you." I said sarcastically, but I was damn serious.
Timmy sighed before grabbing a chair then slumped back to it, his pullover sweater looking like shit that hasn't been washed in days.
"You look like shit," I spat. "No offense."
"I'm running out of connections." He said bluntly, his eyes glassy and almost watery.
"What do you mean?" I asked in a half mocking, half concerned tone.
"Remember the eighth heiress; Noelle Nichols? She ran away and I could tell even the FBI couldn't find her if I ask for help." Timmy sighed, rubbing his pinkish cheek in despair.
I couldn't say anything, since I don't even know what the hell even happened and why that heiress ran away.
"Why are you here anyway? Aren't you supposed to be in Singapore or Philippines or something?" I asked again, trying to avoid Timmy from ranting.
"Well, since it's November, I cut my classes early." Timmy replied nonchalantly, as if he doesn't gives a fuck if he fails.
After all, he's a Martinez. Satan would give him anything in one snap. 
He's rich but needs therapy and need to cover up his mismatched eyes because it's probably giving hot vibes to wannabe girlfriends here.