I'm Neil DeAngelo, 27 years old, an army brat that grew up mainly in Mississippi. I've been coaching the UCLA track and field team since May of last year. I have a cat who did not stay a kitten forever and a boyfriend with a really sexy jawline.
Neil was at the beach.
He’d been there for maybe half an hour — left directly after track practice, kitten in tow (incognito, of course), barefoot in a slightly oversized UCLA Track shirt and cut off jeans that he certainly hadn’t worn yesterday. And then he’d managed to squint out Don’s thinly veiled S.O.S — or at least that was how he read it. Although the blonde did have a tendancy to care so much he sometimes made up things to care about — and he told himself that it was hot and Captain was tired and he didn’t really want to be tanner anyway.
And so his shirt had gone back on and he had sprinted to the car with the incognito kitten and here he was. Smelling like saltwater and cologne and kitten because, well.
Despite the sudden urge to run like hell, something that he couldn’t account for and didn’t know how to deal with, the blonde leaned forward and knocked on the door. The noise made Captain Hargrave blink, apparently waking up, and meow from the crook of his arm. Neil made a face at the kitten. “Hush, you spoiled piece of evil. Believe me, my arm is cramped.” he frowned at it, before turning his attention back to the door.
..Silence. Frowning, he bounced lightly on his toes, leaning back so that he could see some of the other numbers on the doors along the hall. Weird. Raising his fist, he knocked one more time.
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