Page 162 of Friendzone Hockey
“I’ll come back to the Wildcats. I’ve got enough money saved to do something with and?—”
“No. No way.”
He’s got that look about him, the one he gets when his mind’s made up. I could argue, but I’m not as opposed to the idea as I once was.
“Tell me the idea of me being with you when Robin’s released isn’t appealing to you, and I’ll eat my hat.”
“Okay, fine.” I’d been planning to get some kind of injury for when it happened anyway, so I could go to him. “But it’s just a trial run.”
“Just a trial run.” Dash trembles. “Stacey, this is me. I’m strong and I’ve come a long way, but I’m tarnished. I know you don’t like to hear that, but I am. And I’m not being self-deprecating, I’m explaining how my insides feel. I’m always gonna work on getting tougher, but I also need to follow the pathways of least resistance along the way. The best pathway for me is with you.”
I hate hearing him say he’s tarnished, I don’t see him that way, but I finally understand. Someone broke him down, and he’s sewn back together, but some of the pieces are mismatched and there are cracks.
Vulnerable, sensitive, anxious, needy—he sees these things as imperfections, but I see them as beautiful pieces of his personality.
Without warning, I flip us. He’s on his back, and I’m straddling him. I kiss his neck because it makes him shiver.
“Your best pathway is with me,” I promise. I lay down more kisses, he shudders.
Just as I chose him, he chose me. Fuck it. Fuck the world. Fuck everything else.
“I’m your architect, remember?”
He said I built his mind castle.
His brown eyes gaze up, adoring me in the special way they do only for me.
“You did.”
I’ll build him whatever he needs, in whatever way he needs it. That reminds me of something.
“Speaking of building and fixing shit, I’m your husband now, only I fix shit around here. Something breaks, you come to me. No more Hunter.”
He laughs. “I knew that bothered you.”
“Brat. Now, promise.”
“I promise. I promise,” he yelps when I tickle him for good measure.
“Glad we cleared that up.”
Epilogue
ONE WEEK LATER
Dash
I’m not surprised that Stacey’s a dutiful husband, but I’m still in awe, watching it. He sits at the end of the bar top like a sentinel while I work. I doubt he’ll be able to sit still for long—Stacey’s not good at doing nothing—but he’s here and that’s enough. Though, I’m sure he’ll end up on the schedule before the week is through. When I told him what I wanted, us attached at the hip for the rest of the off-season, even when I go to work, I thought I’d get some kind of negotiation or push back. I thought he’d tell me he’d have to check his schedule. All the while, the oppressive claws of anxiety tore into me, making me hate myself for asking and unable to stop myself from asking at the same time.
Instead, all he said was, “Of course, sweetheart.”
I said, “You can’t really be that blasé about being chained to me.”
He held out his wrists. “Lock me up, Mr. Alderchuck.”
And he didn’t wait on me giving him my schedule, oh no. He was proactive, logging into the app we use for scheduling at The Wicklow—he knows all my passwords—and going so far as to get me up and ready for work rather than the other way around.
It’s the attentiveness for me. All the little things. Stacey intuitively knows how to make me feel safe enough to be myself.
