Page 118 of Friendzone Hockey
“I’ll try,” he says, wiggling his other foot to signal he’s ready to have that one massaged. Am I the definition of tragic for massaging his feet while he texts another man on my suggestion? Maybe. Don’t care. When I say I’ll do anything for him, I mean it.
But I’m not a saint. Part of me hopes Syd reveals himself as an insensitive prick or something. Sooner rather than later.
He sends off a text, and it’s not long before he gets an answer that plasters a new kind of smile on his face.
“Whoa. This is huge.” He hugs his phone.
“Well? What is it?”
“Syd’s thing he wanted to talk to me about was a surprise. I thought for sure he was breaking things off with me. He’s been distant as fuck. But what he’s been doing is traveling, buying real estate. He bought a condo in VancouverandKelowna. That’s, well, I don’t even have words. He apologized for getting distracted by the process and not touching base enough. He said he’ll call and text more often.”
I can articulate what Dash can’t. Syd gave him certainty. He made a huge fucking gesture. More than that, Syd’s been thinking about him. He’s been planning this for a while.
There’s a slam from within, the same sensation as being smashed into the boards by two hundred pounds of hockey pads and muscle, flying at a velocity of thirty kilometers per hour.
This.
This is the moment losing Dash begins, and there’s nothing I can do but watch. Worst of all, it’s my own damn fault.
September
It’s a rainy Vancouver day when I have to leave Dash. Even the birds are quiet, the sky’s overcast with gloom. The pure scorn on his face for the fact I’m leaving—I swear, he’d burn down the league if he could. Dash follows me around till the last moment. Casey and I need to get our asses to the ferry terminal. Training camp’s in Victoria this year, and we’re about to miss the boat if we don’t get our shit together.
I’m supposed to be the strong one, but a gut-gnawing feeling’s taken root and it won’t let me move. There’s also the fact that Dash stole my car keys and won’t give them back.
“Dash.”
“I’ve changed my mind. You’re not going, I’m not going. We’re all quitting hockey.”
I’ve chased him through the house, and while I might be bigger, he’s faster. His chest rises and falls from across the kitchen island. Sweaty hair plastered against his forehead, and his bare toes press into the linoleum, ready to run.
“Dash,” I repeat, hoping that if I say it with more authority he’ll listen.
No deal.
“Fuck you, Alderchuck. You’re big and mean and just … mean!”
He’s beyond reason, and I don’t have any reasons to give him. Not good ones. His “quit hockey” idea sounds moreappealing all the time. We wouldn’t be rich—I couldn’t buy him two condos like Syd can—but we’d be together.
Even together as friends is better than leaving him.
But I’m going.
“I’ll get an Uber.”
His eyes flick to where my phone is on the counter. He thrusts his hand toward it at the same time I do. I change course and grab his wrist instead. He’s trapped. He’s mine. I tug, pulling him across the island.
“Stacey! Let me go.”
“Give me my keys.”
“No!”
It only takes a swift motion to drag him the rest of the way despite his gallant kicking efforts. In a blink, he’s on his feet and I have him pushed against the wall, my hand wrapped over the one holding my keys hostage with the other planted beside his head.
My hair falls over my shoulder, almost touching him, and I must make for a grim silhouette.
Dash’s free hand punches my solid chest over and over. I can take a hit. I let him get it out. He dissolves into tears. “No, no, no. I can’t do it without you.Please.”
