Page 115 of Friendzone Hockey
What’s one more, I guess? I keep this stuff from Dad anyway, but that’s what my therapist is for. The rare times this happens these days—and it is fucking rare—I call her for an extra session.
“Okay, and I’ll call Billy, too,” I tell him so that he knows I’ve got things handled. He raises a brow. “My therapist. She does online sessions; I’ll book an extra one.”
Syd takes my free hand in both of his. They’re warm. “Once I know if I’m forgiven or not, I’ll tell you why I do recon on the people I get serious about, but I don’t want to influence your decision. It’ll make for good breakfast conversation.”
He’s right, I should have told him. Even Dirk said the same thing. Stacey sure as hell would. Just because everyone thinks so, doesn’t mean I’m obligated to—I know that—but I like knowing what other people would do. Especially when it’s hard to trust my gut reaction.
My gut reaction is surprisingly indifferent. Exactly what I didn’t want happened, but it’s a relief not carrying that around with me.
And.
Annnnd.
Actually.
Syd responding with the familiar concern everyone else has—namely Stacey—kinda proves just how normal Stacey’s reactions are.
“That smile bodes well for me.”
I nod. “You’re forgiven, but no more recon. You wanna know something, you ask, and I’ll tell you if I want to.”
“Promise. Cross my heart.”
Chapter
Twenty-One
THEN
Off-Season Pre-Orcas
Stacey
Is it wrong to hope for their demise? At least they’re not exclusive, but Dash talks about him, a lot, and I can’t bring myself to make him stop. The difference between Old Stacey and New Stacey is that New Stacey’s stopped giving a fuck about holding back with Dash. Okay, maybe “stopped giving a fuck” is an exaggeration, but everything we started over the hockey season stays on the table, even though we’re back at our home in Vancouver now.
When he wants to sit in my lap, I let him. I’m available to him at all times of the day. My bed? He owns a whole side of it. For real. I know better than to try and take up my whole bed after the last time. He tried to crawl in after a shift, and when he saw me in the middle of the bed, he thought that meant I wanted the bed to myself. But he’s not Old Dash anymore. Old Dash would have quietly returned to his own room, New Dash woke me up, voice watery with tears and rejection, demanding to know why hewasn’t welcome anymore. I spent the rest of the night consoling him, convincing him that my bed was his bed, too. I make sure he’s busy for the day before I make plans. If he’s free, then I belong to him. To be honest, I’ve canceled plans to be with him.
No one needs to tell me how pathetic I am. Already know, and I don’t give a fuck. Don’t plan on stopping any time soon.
At this point, it’s kinda pissing me off that he doesn’t know, which isn’t fair. I should tell him if I want him to know, but it’s better I let this Syd thing run its course. After that, no waiting. I’ve given every damn signal there is.
Sutter bursts in through The Wicklow door, looking around like a starved dog in desperate need of food. He’s so obvious. No one wants a hook-up this obsessively.
“Casey’s not here,” I tell him.
“He at home?”
He is, but I shrug. Casey might not want him knowing.
“He’s not answering his cell phone. What if he choked on a Jolly Rancher?”
“Get out, Sutter.”
“Fine.” He struts out like he’s a Bond villain.
Dash bursts from the kitchen. He was cut from his section an hour ago, which means he wasn’t sat any more tables and once the tables he had were finished, he was done. Looks like he’s off now, changed into his black skinny jeans and a concert tee. He slides his gorgeous ass onto a seat at my bar top.
“Was that Sutter?”
