Page 154 of Friendzone Hockey
“I hate it here,” Sutter says. “Anybody else? By all means pick your own teams, why don’t you?”
“We still pick the teams, Sutter, we just have to know who comes with who. I call dibs on Rachel,” Casey says. He and Rachel high-five. “We’re gonna murder you, Sutter.”
Theo raises his hand. “I’m on Rhett’s team because I wanna win.”
“Atta boy,” Rhett says, ruffling his dark hair.
“Ugh, you’ve poisoned him,” Casey says.
The game is a bit of a disaster like it always is. Sutter’s new here, he’s going to have to forget about “real” hockey and play the Meyer way. Multiple people are sent to the penalty box, which consists of two lone chairs, sequestered away from the fans section of the sidewalk, often for ridiculous and made-up offenses. A lot of verbal fights break out. Stanley, who’s just barely learned to walk, joins us as a forward for a goal. Jack’s his puppeteer, helping him accept a pass from Mercy, and stick handle the ball toward the net defended by Theo on the other side. Jack shoots, but Stanley scores.
During the intermission, I stand near one of the nets with my husband, ogling the hell out of him as he talks animatedly to Logan about a show they follow, resting my hands atop the curve of my hockey stick, handle side down. I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off him. All I want to do is slip my fingers into the waistband of his shorts and pull him toward me.
A throat clears. Rhett’s to my left side, and since we’re not besties—though I don’t share Casey’s disdain for him—he must want something.
“Elkington.”
“I want in on this house situation,” Rhett says, skipping pleasantries.
“Why are you coming to me about it? Sutter’s more in charge of it than I am. He’s your bestie.”
“Hmm. He said I should run it by you because it would require a rehaul of the basement, and you’d have to allow my brother to stay with us. I’d pay for the renovations out of pocket and expect nothing in return. I can guarantee they will increase the value of your investment.”
“Why do you want in so badly? I thought you and Logan were buying a place.”
He twitches his lips. “It’s not going so well. I’d almost closed on a deal, a house he finally said he loved, but things changed. He’s enjoyed being close to family this summer, and after what happened when we visited his mother, he’s more attached than ever. Moving in next door is the best of both worlds.”
“Well, who am I to stand in the way of true love?” I already have to live with Sutter and Casey, what’s a RhettLo in the grand scheme of things? “Casey’s okay with it?”
“Okay is a strong word. Sutter’s … handling that. I’m going to take your vote for love as a yes. I bring a lot to the table. I’ll get the paperwork moving faster for us.”
Before I have a chance to protest, he’s gone, pulling out his cell phone as he saunters away. Guess I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t accept Dash living somewhere else either. Speaking of, time to steal him back. I tug on his shirt.
“You two done talking about your soap opera yet?”
“Impatient, eh?” Dash says, wandering into my arms where he belongs. “And it’s not a soap opera.”
“It’s kind of a soap opera,” Logan admits. “Where did Rhett go? He had his scheming look about him. I should keep that in check.”
I point. “He’s scheming that way.”
“What is Rhett scheming about?” Dash asks once Logan’s gone.
“Logan moving in with him.”
“I get it. I can’t imagine not living with you, and I’m gonna have to for too many months of the year. There should be a law that says husbands can’t be separated.”
“Agreed.” And now that he’s officially mine to provide for and protect, I’m even more hellbent on making sure he’s got everything. I won’t give up my NHL salary yet, but NHL careers are short anyway. Maybe since I allowed Rhett to move in with us, he’d be willing to show me how to invest our money?
Our money because what’s mine is Dash’s.
“I’m not gonna think about it for now. Come with me to grab an intermission beer?” he says.
“Always.”
My hand pats the other side of the bed, searching out my husband who’s not wrapped around me for some reason. The sheets are cold. What the fuck? No Dash. Just gone. Well, that’s not okay. I slide into a pair of loose boxer shorts and stumble from the bedroom like a caveman in search of food.
There are children, girl children, coloring at the kitchen island. I race back to the bedroom, toss on some pants and a T-shirt, and return to find out what the fuck is going on.
