Page 39 of Friendzone Hockey
I know.
Dirk’s Wildcats hat. I haven’t seen it. Where has his hat been? The hat he’s been wearing lately is a different one.
I’m about to ask why, but a few employees about to start their shift wander back here, effectively ending our private conversation.
“Stacey doesn’t think you’re broken.”
I draw my mouth into a line. He was there for the whole thing—the whole me and Stacey thing. Maybe broken’s a little far, but once Stacey realizes how many bones I’ve buried, he’ll revert to mentor Stacey mode. It’s the purgatory we live in.
And I hate it,hateit, when my family and friends can’t admit the truth. Broken is how I feel or at least cracked—I’m a vase with cracks. I’m almost protective of those cracks. I earned them and they make me, me. Is there something so wrong with the me I am now that it needs to be erased in exchange for perfection?
“This isn’t over, Nolan,” Dirk says. “We’ll talk later.”
Yeah, I bet we will, but he can fuck off with that. I’m not telling Syd shit. I want to keep the past in the past and there’s no better way to wake up that sleeping giant than to start talking about it with Syd. He’ll worry about me like Stacey does. Like Dirk does. Like my dad does.
I don’t want Syd in that club. I’m not sure I want Stacey or Dirk in that club either. The remnants will never go away, the ones that shaped me, but the bulk of it’s over and they all need to get with the damn program.
How can I convince all of them that while, yeah, I have scars that’ll never heal, Robin doesn’t hold any power over me?
Chapter
Seven
THEN
Off-Season One - July Con’t
Stacey
I’m wiping down the bar in between the lunch and dinner shifts. It was me and Dirk on the schedule today. Jack, Dash, and Casey’ll be here soon. My eyes intermittently find the door. No sign of them yet. I hope they didn’t get caught up playing video games again. Maybe I should text them?
A throat clears beside me.
“Earth to Stacey. I’ve been calling your name, bud. A lot on your mind?” Travis’s low voice drifts into my awareness.
No. Only one thing, constantly. Your son.“Sorry, man. What’s up?”
Travis takes a seat at the empty bar. Dammit, I’m looking for a resemblance to Dash, and there is some, but Travis is rugged, he’s not pretty like Dash is. He must have taken after his mom. Travis is like … an ex-biker Canadian cowboy. Tattoos, plaid shirts, jeans, and his long jacket for when he actually leaves this place, which isn’t often. He doesn’t have a horse, but he should.
“It’s been a few weeks that he’s been living with you, how’s my boy doing?”
Travis has put a lot of trust in me. He needed a safe place for Dash—I’m supposed to be his safe place, not another predator wanting to stick my dick in him.
I will be his safe place, even if it kills me.
It’s hard to put how Dash is doing into words. He’s comfortable at the house and he’ll go out when it’s with Dirk. He’s so damn brave, pushing himself beyond his limits, enough to worry me, more than I’m comfortable with, but I don’t want to discourage him. The best I can do is let him fall and then pick up the pieces.
He still self-soothes frequently. Rubbing his arms, holding his own hands, circling his thumb over the lower joint of his other thumb. He still falls asleep with the lights on—one of us usually turns them off for him if we’re still up. He’s struggling on the inside, but he’s continued to talk to us one-on-one. None of what he’s said has been particularly alarming.
“Never mind, I can tell by your face it’s not all rainbows and roses for him,” Travis says, running hands through his hair.
“It’s not all bad either. He’s in the right place,” I assure him.
Travis lays a warm, rough hand on my wrist. “That I don’t doubt. You’re good salt, kid. Wish he’d agree to the therapist—any luck on that front?”
I shake my head. “He started listening to some kinda self-help stuff, and I think it’s actually helping him,” I say.
“Still, wish I could take the pain away for him. Wish I could bury that sonuva bitch Robin alive.”
