Page 113 of Friendzone Hockey
“Because I hate roses,” I admit. “I’m sorry that I hate roses.”
“You don’t have to be sorry that you hate roses or that you pricked your finger on a thorn,” he says. He turns into the parkade.
“Would you like me to dispose of those?” he asks in his mild British accent as we pass the building’s compost bin.
I’m still holding onto them like a prom queen. “Yeah. Oh, god. Sorry.”
With one hand, he chucks them into the bin, with the other he takes my mine and leads me to the elevator.
Syd bought the penthouse. It overlooks Coal Harbor because he knows how much I love the water, but he doesn’t know that the reason I love the water so much is because of all the lazy days Stace and I have spent at the beach.
The place is all granite countertops, shiny appliances, wood cabinets, expansive windows, and soaring double-high ceilings. Syd loves art, so each furniture piece is custom designed, and the space is kept showroom ready. The couch is a semi-circle to match the shape of the living room, and it sits in front of a glasscoffee table with a steel underside in the shape of an infinity symbol.
From this height, I can watch the sailboats peacefully trickle into the bay, the joggers, the people walking their dogs, all while I drink tea and eat the breakfast Syd usually serves me.
Syd leads me to the couch, politely asks me to sit and covers me with a fluffy white blanket. If he’s worried about me getting my blood on it, he doesn’t say.
“Just going to get my first-aid kit.”
He cleans and bandages my finger for me, including a cute kiss over the minor injury when he’s done.
“I’ll make you some tea, okay? And then I’ll apologize for whatever it was I did until I’m forgiven.”
Syd heads over to the kitchen, that I’ve got a clear view of from where I sit on the couch.
“You didn’t do anything. I had a bad experience with roses,” I say.
He nods but doesn’t say anything, taking off his blazer, and slinging it over one of his key lime art deco chairs. They look like matching one-armed thrones, the mirror image of the other.
Fuck, but the man is sexy.
Syd pretends not to watch me as he boils water and fiddles with fancy loose tea, but he is. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and his five o’clock shadow is extra dark. He grows it out for me. I told him I liked the way it scratched my face.
When the tea is done, he sets a handleless tea mug down on one of his wooden, hand-carved, “I love Whistler BC” coasters. He sits beside me, leaving space, making an effort to be close but not touch me, and clasps his hands.
“I have a confession to make,” he says.
“Oh, god, Syd. I don’t know that I can do a confession right now. You’re not gonna tell me you’re a serial killer are you?”
He laughs, quietly. “No.”
“On the run from the law?”
He shakes his head. “Not that either, but it’s something I should have told you sooner. It might make you throw that tea at me.”
“Then, see? Better wait until it cools.”
“What can I do for you in the meantime?”
I don’t even know. Stacey takes care of me when I’m like this. It doesn’t happen often anymore. Even roses aren’t enough to trigger me on a regular day, but I was already riled up and there were so many.
Is it so wrong that I want Stacey to take care of me when I’m like this?
“No, let’s get this over with.” I can’t help the grim tone, but with the summer I’ve had so far, what’s one more thing?
Syd takes a breath. “I know.”
I raise a brow. “Know what? You’re gonna have to be more specific.” He can’t know about the kiss between Stacey and I, can he?
