Page 96 of Friendzone Hockey
“Am I getting through to you? And before you spout off your usual ‘I was his mentor’ bullshit, you haven’t been that for him either, not for a long time. He comes to you because you’re his friend.”
I’d already decided that, too, consciously, but subconsciously, I’ve been operating like I did when I was his mentor. Casey’s words cut to the heart of me. It’s like I’m a wet towel that’s been wrung out, twisted until the last drop has beenwrenched from me. Even if I were to consider this, there are other problems now. New ones.
“I’ve rejected him so many times, it’s unfair. It would be a real dick move. Like I was playing with his heart or something. I can’t do that to?—”
“Spare me, dude. You’re fucking infuriating. Always with an excuse. What are you afraid of?”
“Of hurting him, okay? I can’t ever hurt him.” That would be unforgivable.
I don’t know why Mom comes to mind right now. It makes no fucking sense, but there she is. And it’s not her usual comedic self, she’s more like a warning beacon.
Casey freezes. Whatever he was about to say dies on his lips. But his expression is similar to the one that’s been on Jack’s face all week—utter devastation. As if the personal hell I’m doomed to for life affects him in some way.
He shrugs it off. “Then it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
My head tilts. “What do you mean by that?”
“You don’t know? Right, Dash probably leaves that out during all the heart-to-hearts you guys have.”
I turn, snarling, twisting my hand into his T-shirt like it’s a hockey jersey. Like we’re on the ice. “Tell me.”
He gets his cocky Casey look, the one that says nothing but trouble’s about to come out of his mouth.
“He likes it rough, Stace. Really fucking rough. Sounds like you couldn’t do that for him, though.”
So help me, he’s taking what’s left of my patience. I breathe slowly. And I shouldn’t ask questions, but I need to know.
“Rough sex?”
“Oh, yeah. Dude loves being taken, manhandled, all that shit. You should see the marks?—”
“I’ve never seen marks like that on him,” I growl. Even during games, I’ve done my best to prevent that.
“Like I said, he’s not gonna show you.”
I peel my fingers from my brother who’s got an annoying and permanent smirk on his face. I turn away from him because if I look at him any longer, I’m gonna wipe that smirk off his face.
“Know what I think? I think you’re the safest person for him to do that with. I also think he’s not gonna give a fuck about past rejection. He put your damn jersey on, brother. Dash isn’t stupid. Trust me on this one. Everyone knows he’s a manipulative little shit when it comes to you.”
That might be true. I might like it too much to stop him.
“As if you’re not trying to manipulate me by bringing up how he likes sex.”
Casey’s making me jealous on purpose because he knows that of all the things I have a hard time controlling, my dark possessive streak, specific to Dash, is the thing that hangs by a thread. Poking at it has triggered reactions out of me, ranging from half-naked cookie baking, to punching a guy’s teeth out.
He shrugs, bleeding with all the smugness in the world.
We’re interrupted. There’s a loud bang on the door. “If he’s trying to get out of an ice pack, you tell him to forget it. I’ll wait out here all day. Get your ass out here, Alderchuck.”
Casey puts his hand over his laughing mouth because he knows I’m gonna do what Dash says. I glare.
“I’m comin’ out, sweetheart. Please don’t hurt your hands.” I open the door, he balks at the sight of me, and I do my damnedest to look past my jersey still on his body. Maybe we just make this a new thing. He gets my old jerseys. See? Totally regular. Totally not me marking my territory.
Which, apparently, other men do. Other men put their marks on him.
Gah!Fuck it.
I don’t think, I just do. My hand circles his wrist, and I swoop and duck, slinging him over my shoulder. How’s that for caveman behavior?
