Page 5 of Friendzone Hockey
Dirk’s my childhood bestie. We grew up together. We’re more like brothers than friends, though. Fight like ‘em too. Dirk expresses his worry through anger. He had as rough of an upbringing as I did. When I went missing, he teamed up with my dad to find me. When I escaped Robin, I ran to his and his brother’s place.
He saw me that night, hand garbled, bruised, scratched, malnourished, scared as fuck. The image is embossed on his brain.
“Huh, you actually seem okay,” he says, once I’m halfway through my burger.
I … do actually seem okay. I smile, sneaking a quick glimpse at my mercenary angel at the bar.
“Smiling? What’s gotten into you, Dashie?”
Yeah, I’m so not telling him about my new fascination with Stacey. He’ll think I’m interested in him and go ballistic. Instead, I show him my hand. “It’s healing up good. Trainer says I can go back to hockey.”
“Really? That’s fucking awesome, Dashie. Wait till I tell Hunter, he’ll be so proud.”
I sip my orange juice and take another bite of my burger. Hunter’s Dirk’s brother. In a way, I grew up with him as much as I did Dirk.
“I should get back to the line before Jack fucks up too many orders. You good?”
“I’m good.”
“Please don’t stay down here too much longer, okay? Trav is gonna flip as it is.”
“Where is he by the way?”
Dirk makes a face. “Out. Some pretty brunette.”
“Ew. I don’t wanna know about his sex life.”
He shrugs. “Man’s got a penis.”
Maybe so, but I like to pretend my dad stopped having sex after me. Don’t all kids do that?
My ultimate goal is to be down here on my own without Dad around. Did I maybe kinda sorta check out the schedule and note the times Stacey’s working? Maybe, but that’s nobody’s business.
He’s an Alderchuck, though, and I know the name Alderchuck. I’ve played hockey against him and his brother a few times. Know what’s better than a mercenary bartending angel? One that plays hockey. I should have known he was a hockey player by the shape of him. Broad shoulders, thick thighs filling out his jeans—a hockey player’s perfectly round ass.
The poor man doesn’t know that he’s the equivalent of my teddy bear. I’ve never touched him, he hasn’t seen me yet—though I’m sure he’s heard of me by now—but his presence soothes me all the same.
Thanks to him, I’m able to make it out from my booth in the back to a little further central in the restaurant.
“Do you think I could work in the restaurant, Dad?” I ask. He knows what I’ve been doing—minus the Stacey part—and it makes him nervous as hell.
He’s getting ready to run some errands. His liquor supplier forgot the tequila and we sell out of that stuff fast, or so I’ve been told. I always hear about the night from Dad. Sometimes we sit up late talking about it.
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s filled with a whole lotta hesitancy. He wants me to do stuff, have independence, but he also wants to keep me safely tucked away where no one can hurt me. “Let’s give it another week, okay?”
A week? I know how that’s gonna go. If I didn’t force the issue, I’d still be sequestered in the apartment. Why can’t anyone see the strides I’ve made? All they see is a broken boy. And they’re not wrong, I am broken, but just like my thumb, no one needs to see those parts of me. I can still function without being perfect.
I’ve got to take matters into my own hands.
Dad slides into his red and black flannel. It’s the summertime, he can’t possibly need that much flannel, but at the same time I can’t picture him without it. “Need me to pick anything up for you?”
“Um, maybe some more of that Kettle corn you brought home the other day?”
“You got it, bud.”
Iusually stick to the evenings—Dad doesn’t work evenings, and Stacey does—but Stacey switched shifts with someone. I want to sit at the bar, not hidden, not within the safety of a booth. Looks like it’s going to have to be during daylight hours too.
Of course, I chicken out, slipping into one of the booths nearest the kitchen. It’s a slower time of the day, which means I won’t have the hostees breathing down my neck for sitting where I want to.
