Page 78 of Friendzone Hockey
Robin. He did this. To my Dash. “You’renota mess. You’re not a mess, Dash.” My voice lowers an octave, all the menace I have creeping in. “What the fuck, Dash? Have you stopped seeing your therapist?” I yank his arm, pulling him toward me. If I could breathe fire, I would be. I have to calm down, but I don’t know how. I’m falling off a cliff and there’s nothing to grab onto.
“Fuck, no. I see her every Tuesday and Thursday without fail.”
“Then how could you think that about yourself? You didn’t think that way before.”He didn’t think that way when I was mentoring him.I force myself to let him go before I crush his damn hand, letting pure Alderchuck anger course through me. “You’re seeing a different therapist. Effective immediately.”
“Fuck you, Stacey.”
I deserved that. “Be as mad as you want, it’s happening.” My mind’s spun off into wild places. I thought him dating was a sign he was doing better, but he’s worse. It’s my fault. I’ve never stopped being there for him, but I’ve distanced myself a little.
What were you thinking, Alderchuck?I know what I was fucking thinking. I was thinking that if I took myself out of an old role that maybe one day, over time, we’d have a chance at something more. That’s just … it’s never gonna happen. Even the idea of it’s done this to him.
I’m selfish. Selfish for even thinking it.
“Or what? You’ll tell my dad on me?”
I didn’t exactly say that I’d stop going to his dad, but I had planned on it, and I haven’t since that night I talked to Trav. But now …
“Please?” I try.
“Are you actually asking?”
I run fingers through my hair, tugging at the scalp. I’m not. If he says no, I’ll fucking make him myself. I don’t need his dad for that. He can’t. I can’t lose him. My heart pounds into my skull. It’s so loud. Can’t think. Can’t think …
“I’m not.”
The silence stretches on for an eternity. Volatile anger rips apart my insides. His foot taps underneath the table, jittering up his leg, to his fingers, his brown eyes dart all over the place. Then he shoves the sleeves of his hoodie up. It looks like he had a fight with a kitten and lost. Barely scabbed over scratches dart their way up his arms.
“Dash.” Tears well in my bottom lids. Those nightmares had stopped, but they’ve started again. And I know why, he stopped crawling in with me.
“She’s not a bad therapist. We’ve done some good things. I mean, a lot of it’s just stuff you’ve already said, but it’s helped me, nonetheless. The parts that don’t help so much are the parts where I rehash the past over and over. It makes it worse somehow. Like I’m recording a story so that my brain never forgets. But Stace? I want to forget. I want to delete it from my brain and record a new story. Is that bad?”
He’s looking to me for the answers because his compass is off kilter, but it’s got to come from him, even if it’s the smallest inkling of a something. I slide back into an old role. If this is what he needs from me, this is what I’ll be.
“If you don’t know the answer to that question right now, what question could you answer?” It’s the right thing to do, but tar spills over my insides, suffocating any breath of hope I might have had about us eventually getting to a place where—where we could what?
You were fooling yourself, Alderchuck.
Clearly, Dash needs me in ways beyond romance. Maybe this is why I came into his life. It’s a damn honor. I need to count myself lucky that I get to be the one to do this for him, not rue what I can’t have.
He swallows. “I can answer it. It’s not bad. I know it’s not. I want to move forward. I need a way forward. A brand-new fucking story. I need out of my head, Stace.”
I know what that’s like. Mom died and thoughts bombarded me. How would I make money? Would Casey and I starve? Would I ever know what it’s like to live without soul-crushing pain again? I made my brain shut up. I refused to give it an audience. I'd shove it back in when the sad would creep out from the darkness. Our survival depended on it.
“The thoughts won’t stop, but they stop when I’m with you.”
I love that, love that I can make the thoughts stop. He’s supposed to be able to do it on his own—I know that. But is it really so bad?
Yes. It is.
Tools. He needs tools he can employ on his own.
“Have you ever talked to your mom?” I ask.
“Um, maybe you missed this part, but?—”
“I talk to mine,” I blurt out.
He tilts his head. “You’ve never said that before.”
