Page 100 of Friendzone Hockey
“Nope. This is just for us.”
A mildly uncomfortable sensation fills the air between us. Fuck. I’m giving “the best friend who’s trying to get out of the friendzone” from every sappy rom-com. Doesn’t matter that it’s exactly what I’m doing. I don’t know how to read him, and the panic is real, my heart breaking into a gallop.
Finally, he smirks. “Casey’s gonna be so jealous. He loves the spider rolls from this place.”
Wrong. Casey suggested I get those because he knows Dash likes ‘em too.
With the Northshore mountains as our backdrop, and the borrowed exhilaration from the caffeine still pulsing through me, I lift my arm and put it around him. This is where I’m keeping him all day. He doesn’t seem to object, molding against me as if the lines of my body were created with his shape in mind.
“This is the life,” he says. “You think we’ll ever be able to afford this stuff all the time?”
We. He said we. I’m reading too much into it for sure, but I love the fucking sound of we.
The chances of being pulled up to the Orcas decrease every season. There’s less of a chance we’ll all be pulled up. Hell, the fact that we all get to play for the Wildcats is a miracle. There’s a real possibility we’ll live out our careers on the farm team. But I still have hope.
“I like to think so.”
“I don’t know if I’m ever getting pulled up, Stace. But you could.”
“Hey, now. Why you thinkin’ that way?”
“Honestly? I’m okay with it. I love where I am. I dunno if I could handle the fame like Rhett does.”
Rhett finally left us for an NHL team in the east in a trade that suspiciously—if you ask me—happened just before he and Jack broke up.
I softly graze Dash’s chin with the back of my knuckles, an affectionate gesture I’m not sure I’ve ever used with anyone but him. We’re on a hard wooden bench in the shade, but our skin’s slick with sweat. A shivery breeze blows off the water, breathing relief into us. Cool sand under the table is the perfect respite for our always-tired feet.
“Please don’t worry when I say this, but I just don’t think it’s for me. That’s all. And, yeah, maybe my past is the reason—it’s hard to say for sure—but no matter what it is, itis,” he stresses. “But you, you could. And then you could be my sugar daddy.”
He winks. The mounting concern that was about to slide like an avalanche disappears. Because when he says shit like that, I tend to go off like a lion protecting its territory. I hate all the things Robin’s taken from him forever.
And even his mom sometimes. I do my best to exercise as much understanding as I can with his mom. She was addicted to drugs, and no one ever asks to be addicted to drugs—especially in her case—but it was still her neglect of him that broke pieces of him. Having to watch what it did to him makes my heart fucking ache, and I can’t help that my anger’s directed to her from time to time.
I make myself focus on the fun thing he said.
“It’s like that, is it?”
“Yeah, huh. I want fancy coffee every day, sushi at least once a week, and a surprise every other week. You’ll just have to explain to your future husband that I come with the Stacey package.”
My bones turn to liquid. That was a lot he just said. The “my future husband” part stands out.
Of course, he’s only teasing. He doesn’t mean it. I told him—in no uncertain terms—that there was never going to be a Stacey and Dash. But at least I know how far I have to go to bring us back to a place where we could happen.
My tongue seems to have swelled for no other reason than to prevent me from saying anything at this juncture. What would I say anyway? Profess my love? That’s a sure-fire way to ruin Hibachi Day. I’ve got to say something, though. Something flirty. Something that says, “the only man I’m ever gonna marry is you.”
“Come hell or high water, I’m breaking into the NHL. I’ll hand deliver your fancy-ass coffee to you, sweetheart, every day of your life.”
Boldy, I kiss the top of his head with the sweet summer sun baking our skin, and the salty sea air fresh on my lips.
Hibachi Day is a success on the flirting front. I pull Dash into my lap a few times. I make sure to put my arms around him from behind while he flips burgers and toasts buns. We stay until the stars come out, and he watches them from a blanket on the ground, half curled around me. Jack and Casey drink enough beer to convince themselves that inventing hockey-themed folk songs is a good idea. Their singing is shit, but their lyrics are funny as hell. Even Dirk—who’s usually a tad on the somber side—can’t stop smiling.
The five of us sit around a propane fire, drinking beers, and eating hot dogs. Casey stuffs his with mac and cheese.
“How the hell are we gonna marry you off, eatin’ hot dogs like that? That sort of behavior should come with a fine,” Dash says, sitting up. I sit up too and plant my back against a large Arbutus log, dragging Dash with me, settling him between my legs, his back against my chest. He’s the little fish I’ve captured today. I’m not letting him go tonight, and he’s not objecting.
“Don’t you worry, Dashie. Jack here has agreed to accept my dowry if a man doesn’t ask for my hand by the time we’re thirty,” Casey informs us.
“Shouldn’t a proper dowry have, like, a goat or somethin’?” Dirk asks.
