Page 3 of Friendzone Hockey
Ha! No chance of me ever forgetting.
But there’s no pain now. I remove the band, tossing it on my couch bed, flexing and extending it. There’s no scar. From the outside, you’d never know anything had happened to it. Is it like that for me too? Can I make it like that? I don’t want anyone to know what happened to me. It’s not like it lasted very long, only a few months. I just want to move the fuck on from it.
My gaze flickers to the door. I’m supposed to get Dad’s permission to head down to the restaurant. He’s never given me permission this late in the day. It’s well after dinner, but there’llstill be so many people. Just the thought has a heavy weight pressing against my ribcage.
I flex and extend my hand again. No scars. No signs that anything ever happened. Just a haunting ache now and then.
Fake it till you make it.
Dad helped me replenish my collection of concert T-shirts, giving me some of his and buying a few from thrift shops. We could have bought them online, but we agreed they should be as authentic as possible—online would be a last resort. He also has a bunch of rocker friends that were willing to donate shirts for me, which squeezed my fucking heart. I toss a Nickelback shirt on and a pair of skinny black jeans. I step into a pair of black boots probably looking like I’m on my way to audition for My Chemical Romance. All I need is some eyeliner. But I only have two styles. It’s either this or sporty Dash.
Using the injured—previously injured—hand, I twist the doorknob, opening it with the power of someone who doesn’t even know what a bad day is. Just gotta ignore the little curdle of anxiety about meeting Dad’s eyes when he sees what I’m doing. He’ll be annoyed, but that’s about it. I’m almost an adult.
I have to walk down a set of stairs and through a hallway that passes by Dad’s office. My footsteps halt in front of the door, my ears check for the faintest of sounds. Nothing. Dad must be in the restaurant. I carry on past the cubbies, into the chaotic kitchen. There’s shouting, sizzling, plates clattering. Servers brush past other servers, pure anxiety written on their faces. Guess we’re still in the middle of the rush.
Steely gray eyes land on me, taking my breath away. Fucking hell, Dirk. When did he become a bulldog? He’s dressed in a black cotton kitchen jacket, acting as expo tonight. Guess he’s moving up. He was a busser and then a barback. Expo’s another step up the ladder. I’m nothing because I can’t stay down here long enough to eat a burger, never mind work here.
But all that changes tonight. It would be nice if I could work here, too.
“What the fuck are you doing down here? It’s mayhem. I know Travis didn’t okay it. This is bullshit, Dash. Get the fuck back upstairs.”
My cheeks heat. Everyone heard that. I’m sure they know something happened, but not what. I’m already a social pariah, Dirk’s making it worse. I love him, and I know he means well, but he’s a real dick sometimes.
“Fuck you, Dirk.”
I storm past him. Now I’ve got to do this if just to prove that I can.
The heavy two-way door swings open under my hand, almost knocking over the server on the other side along with the dirty plates stacked on his arms.
“Hey! Watch it. Say ‘corner’, asshole.”
Jeez. Are all restaurant people like this? What a jerk. Though, I guess barreling through a door without looking or giving any warning when there are this many people swarming around is kind of an asshole thing to do.
“Sorry.”
He doesn’t seem to care that much, nor does he stop, but I do. It’s a sea—a sea of calamity, noise, and people. Servers run from one point to the next with large trays of drinks. I jump when the door swings again.
“Behind!”
Gah! I’m gonna get run over. I shuffle to the edge, looking for somewhere to take cover. My usual booth is shockingly free, so I scurry the fuck that way. This still counts, right? It counts as me coming down here on my own even if I’m hiding in my booth, yeah?
I can’t see Dad anywhere. Maybe he was in his office? This might be for the better. When he sees me, he’ll probably frog-march me right back upstairs.
Flexing and extending my hand again, I take a breath. I made it. I’m here. I’ll order something, eat, and go back upstairs. Wonder if I can trick the server into getting me a drink?
A guy around my age, green eyes, floppy blond hair, and a dopey smile, saunters up to my table.
“Um, hey, man … you’re Dash, right?”
So much for my cover. “Yeah.”
“The hostees are losing their minds because you sat here without asking them.”
“Hostee?”
“The hostesses—we call ‘em hostees.”
“Sorry, I can move,” I say not wanting to move at all. This is the only place I can sit, especially at a time like this.
