Page 56 of Friendzone Hockey
He laughs.
“Casey and I are kinda close with your dad, too,” I point out, hoping to dispel a theory like that. I’m all for the age gap and love is love, but Dirk and Travis? That would be hard to swallow.
“Dirk and Dad have inside jokes inside their inside jokes.”
Fuck. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. “I hate you for this.”
“And now it’s our inside joke, which will hopefully remain just a joke.”
I shake my head. He’s a brat. Sometimes a conniving brat. I’m onto him. “But back to shoes. These feet better be in them next time Hunter stops by to remodel the house, or else.”
“Or else you’ll what? Spank me?”
A bolt of lightning fries my nerves. Holy shit. He can’t say things like that to me. “Let’s not find out.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Alderchuck,” he chirps, giving me that damn navy salute.
At the end of August and after too long of a wait, if you ask me, the trial happens. By the last day of it, everyone’s a fucking mess, which means I can’t be. I have to hold it together for Dash, Travis, and Dirk. Also Casey and Jack—because they’re involved now that Dash is considered family.
Jack’s pacing the damn living room, fussing with the brim of his hat more than usual. Casey hasn’t touched food in twelve hours. That’s practically starvation mode for him. Travis isn’t at the house, but he’s been texting me non-stop, or well, what’s considered non-stop for him. He’s not a big texter, so the amount he has texted me is a lot for him. I also spoke with him over the phone earlier this morning. I’m a little surprised he hasn’t shown up at the house yet, but we’re supposed to meet him at the courthouse in forty minutes. He’s probably finding his composure.
Dirk is shockingly calm, but I suspect it’s a “calm before the storm” kind of calm. Dash curled up in his lap after breakfast—if you can call coffee breakfast—wrinkling the suit I had dry-cleaned for him.
I give a loud whistle. Firm, decisive, and militant brings its own source of comfort. That I can do in my sleep. “C’mon, Dash, let’s go. Dirk, you comin’?”
That pulls a scowl from Dirk because of course he is.
“Then get moving.” If they have me to be mad at, they’ll forget about the verdict for a minute. Long enough to get them to the courthouse. Jack and Casey’ll hold the fort here. My handremains planted on the back of Dash’s neck till we get to the car. He sits in the passenger seat, and my hand rests on his thigh.
I loved it when Mama would pull me in her arms, and sing the Gilligan’s Island theme song,Dash said. One day she stopped.
After he told me that, I like to keep a hand on him somewhere when I can. I abandoned all my “hands off Dash” rules. I wouldn’t let him suffer because of my weakness for him. It requires all my strength and the occasional reprieve from him, but I’ve been doing it. Especially these past few weeks. He hasn’t left my side for long.
His muscles let go as much as they can, and he closes his eyes. I glance in the mirror, checking on Dirk in the backseat. He’s planning his revenge mission, and I don’t blame him. The things I want to do to Robin for what he did to Dash.
Travis has cleaned up nice for court, ditching his plaid for a suit. Dash falls into his open arms. Being involved in a trial sucks all around, but it’s brought them closer together, something Dash needed.
Robin gets the maximum number of years for grooming a minor, ten years, with the possibility of parole. It doesn’t seem long enough, but it’s enough to shake the anxiety from Dash’s eyes. I know what he’s thinking—this gives him time. He’s got ten years to rebuild himself before he’s out.
We all convene at The Wicklow to celebrate the good news. Travis closed it for the day. We crack beers and pour shots of tequila. Some of the extended members of our posse filter in—Jack’s dads, friends from the team who live in town—and we drown our sorrows in whiskey-laced good times.
Stacey’s Second Season With The Wildcats
I’m not prepared for Dash on the ice with a stick in his hand. Sure, we all played a bunch of street hockey during the off-season like we always do, and we’d hang at one of the many ice rinks in the city, but it wasn’t like this.
He moves with the agility of a high-performance hockey player alright, but also with the grace of a dancer. His stick skims and waves over the ice. And I see it. The power, the pure jubilation. All the reasons Dash loves hockey skate with him down the ice.
Wham!
Some big hockey-playing asshole with the cross-check.
Okay, so it’s not even close to the worst cross-check I’ve seen. Still illegal. Casey’s right, Boston is a dirty-ass team.
Dash pings off the boards like a billiard ball, landing on the ice with a monumental slam. If you’re not used to watching hockey, a wipeout like that will have you calling the local authorities, demanding they ban any kind of aggression in hockey immediately. But shit like that happens every game. We have competitions in the locker room—who has the largest bruise of the night.
I’m saying, I’m used to it, but I’m not used to Dash getting hit like that.
Dash is up quickly, already back in play. Of course, the ref didn’t see shit. Casey claims it’s rigged when we play Boston.Maybe it is. I look from Dash to number twenty-one, otherwise known as the asshole that won’t get off Dash’s ass and click my mouthguard into place.
