Page 21 of Friendzone Hockey
He nods into my chest. I let him cry.
Eventually, the shaking subsides, and silence takes over. He tilts his head back. “I needed that,” he says. “I’m-I’m sorry I made a mess of your suitcase.” His breathing’s still uneven.
Using my palm, I wipe the tears from his cheeks, smiling from my own watery gaze.
“You’re still cleaning it up and repacking the whole thing.”
“I know.” He crushes me with this ultra grip.
His head’s right there. It’s so tempting for me to just lean over and kiss it …
There’s a buzz from the front of Dash’s jean pocket. We jump apart, and he pulls the phone out.
He sighs. “It’s Dad. He wants to know when I’m coming home.”
“Tell him you have a job to do for me, and I’ll feed you.” I’m not ready to let him go home just yet. Trav’ll let him stay because he’s with me. It’s a good reminder, too. Travis trusts me to be alone with his son. In my room. Fucking god. What we did on the bed was okay, wasn’t it? It was just some innocent fun.
I try not to make it too obvious that I’m stepping away from him, but I am stepping away.
“I’m gonna get you a cloth for your face. I better see progress by the time I get back.”
He rolls his eyes, saluting me.
I take a few extra minutes in the washroom, wiping my face. My cheeks are fucking red and wet, so are my eyes. Apparently, I was crying too. Didn’t even notice. I take a few breaths. Everything’s intense around Dash. Everything. I always leave him feeling like I’ve run a marathon in the stifling heat with a one-meter sprint finish.
Guess I was gone longer than I thought. When I’m back, he’s got half my suitcase packed. Nothing is where I’d put it. Pants are on top of T-shirts, a few balls of socks are tossed in with the main body of the suitcase rather than in the mesh compartment meant for socks and underwear. Jesus. It’s a whole “nails on a chalkboard” situation that initiates a body-wide cringe.
Is he fucking with me? He could be fucking with me. Just in case he’s not, I hand him the cloth without commenting on his suitcase-packing skills. Besides, it’s adorable, is what it is. I mean, I’m definitely repacking it myself once he’s gone, but it’s sweet. Fills my chest will all the warm and fuzzies.
“Here you go, sweetheart.”
Aw, hell.
Shit.
If I thought I was cringing before.
What do I do? What the fuck do I do? I don’t call him that. I’m not supposed to call him that—that’s for fucking sure. What are the chances he didn’t notice? Or maybe he’ll pass it off as a friendly term of endearment.
He freezes, a pause so minute you might miss it if your anxiety levels weren’t as high as mine are right now. Oh, yeah,he caught that. Is he gonna say something? What’s he thinking? Have I fucked everything up?
“Thanks.” He proceeds to wipe his face.
Thanks?
“Yeah, no problem-o,” I say.
No problem-o? What’s wrong with me?
It’s awkward after that. At least that’s what the pounding in my ears and the way I don’t know where to put my hands says. Dash is too quiet. My mind sifts through a card deck of ideas I could use to make this right.
What if I call everyone sweetheart from now on? I like nicknames. Maybe it’s a new one. Yeah. Totally fits my brand. I’m convinced of my delusions while I’m deep into dinner-prepping mode. Jack walks in the door with Casey. Perfect. Jack’s the best of anyone for testing out my fresh new nickname. They’ve got Dirk with them too, which is new. His older brother Hunter likes him home for dinner.
It takes me a while to work it into conversation so that it’s natural. We’re set up around the TV, lounging on the couches, using our laps as tables. Dash is on my left, Jack’s to my right and closer to the ketchup.
“You mind passing me the ketchup, sweetheart?” I ask Jack.
Jack—good ol’ Jack—doesn’t think a thing about it. “Sure, bud,” he says.
