Page 75 of Friendzone Hockey
“Don’t think it was anything to do with Tony.”
“My dad’s forcing me to be a Monk.”
I take pity on him. “Be a good little boy and get good grades from your counselor. I’m sure that’ll ease Trav’s mind.”
“Har, har.” He groans and there’s a pause. He raises his head. “And what about you? Will that ease your mind too?” Dash watches me carefully with his feelers out. There’s an obvious mood shift from playful to a bitter kind of hope.
I know what he wants to know. If he gets the “he’s okay” stamp of approval from a therapist, could that make us okay? I don’t know. I don’t know what makes me not a monster in this situation.
“I want whatever’s best for you, Dashie,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t like my answer. The disdain is carved onto his face as bold as an epitaph on a tombstone. As final as one, too.
“Who decides what’s best for me? Dad? The therapist? You?”
It’s easy to figure out where he’s going with this. Who he left out. The right answer’s supposed to be himself. Even if I said his dad, that would be better than what I want to say.
Me. I want to say me.
That’s the terrible, horrible truth. I want to decide what’s best for him, so I can keep him safe, never let anyone hurt him again. I’m worried he’ll fall prey to another Robin. I’m worried that because of the history with his mom, he’ll latch onto the first guy who gives him any positive scrap of attention.
I’m worried that guy is me.
Stacey’s Fourth Season With The Wildcats
Training camp to kick off the start of my fourth hockey season (Dash’s third) that September, breathes life into all of us. Our bones ache more than our hearts for once, and we fall into an eat, train, eat some more, sleep, repeat cycle. I’m too tired for love or lust. Besides, who could compare to Dash? I’m so tired that my dick doesn’t last past a quick few tugs in the shower anyways.
I have the unfortunate experience of learning that Dirk and Casey are equally lazy about hooking up and help each other out like Jack and Casey used to before he began dating Rhett. I don’t need to hear about them, and our little found family needs way more boundaries
“What do you think about them hooking up like that?” I ask Dash one night after a large bowl of Kraft Dinner. My brother’s the KD maniac, but every once in a while, it hits the spot.
He shrugs. “Meh.”
“So, you really never had feelings for Dirk?”
“Ugh. You sound like my dad. He thought Dirk and I were boyfriends for the longest time until Dirk told him off about it.”
I raise a brow. “He told him off about it, eh?”
We burst with laughter because Dirk and Trav! We catch our breath just in time for Dirk and Casey to walk through the door, but that sets off our laughter again.
“I will never understand you two,” Casey says.
“Me neither.” Dirk puts his arm around Dash.
Turns out this is the season Dash has decided to test my fucking patience. I’m supposed to be running drills for coach, but instead, I’m staring after the big hockey brat who’s blatantly flirting with the goalie. There he is, leaned against his net, in his fucking crease. He should get a penalty for goaltender interference. I don’t care that we’re not playing a game.
Dash leans in, giving away smiles that don’t belong to the big, goofy goalie. Why do I get the feeling he’s doing it to antagonize me?
I shrug that sensation off. Even if that’s why he’s doing it, he can. He can use me. I can take it. For him, I’ll take anything. I want him to work through his shit in whatever way he needs to.
Later, Dash meanders through the condo door with his goalie. Of course he was successful. Who wouldn’t want Dash? All he has to do is bat his pretty long lashes. Someone’s gonna scoop him up real fast.
A body-wide cringe tightens my muscles. I force myself to relax. Isn’t this what I wanted? Dash well enough to work his way into a relationship? He’s been seeing a therapist twice a week via his laptop and she’s doing far more for him than I ever could. I always knew I was a poor substitute for real therapy, that I was the “better than nothing” option, but watching him change and bloom underlines that fact.
I’m glad he feels strong enough to do this, and I don’t want to ruin it for him no matter how much it kills me.
The goalie’s name is Riley Crawford, but his nickname is Gator. I don’t know why. Nothing about him screams alligator. He’s a big guy, wide across, too smiley. Reminds me a little of Hunter if Hunter ever smiled, but with more hair. He’s a big Canadian boy. Always wears a toque over his mess of hockey hair. Gator holds out his hand as if we’ve never met before. As if I haven’t been shooting pucks at him every practice, more of them aimed at his head since he and Dash started their whatever-the-fuck this is.
