Page 11 of Friendzone Hockey
He rolls his eyes. “Make me something virgin,” he demands. “Please.”
Virgin means no alcohol, but my mind wanders … Is he a virgin? I don’t mean to have that thought, I’m a bad person for having that thought, but my brain thought it without my damnpermission. It’s hard enough to keep my mind from wandering to things in the general direction of me and Dash because, well, just because.
Point is, if he was a virgin and Robin took that from him, I’m gonna…
My lungs heave a forced breath, and I exhale slowly, getting to work on something for him. I remember the pink neon from his Nickelback shirt the other day, using pink grapefruit juice to make him a Paloma, sans the tequila, of course. I give it extra flare with a fresh cherry pierced with a pick, stabbed into a triangle of pineapple.
“For you.”
He takes a sip, nodding his approval. “I like it. Keep ‘em comin’.”
I smirk and check my screen for any new drinks that might have come through. Just a diet soda and a pint of Canadian. I get that up for the server who isn’t Casey or Jack today. They’re at Kits Beach, working on their tans and scoping out the men in Speedos. Jack suggested Wreck Beach, and I gave Casey a dirty look. Wreck Beach is a nude beach, and while I don’t have a problem with that, it’s also a party beach where rules are overlooked. They sell beersicles for fucksakes. It’s a great place for those two clowns to get into trouble while I’m not around to stop them. I can’t really tell them what to do, but I can give them what they call my “dad” look. Sometimes it works.
And other times, it doesn’t.
“You haven’t asked me anything,” he says.
“Astute.”
“Stacey.”
“Did you expect me to drill you?” Fuck, that sounded dirty, but I didn’t mean it like that. “With questions.” Dammit, it’s like the day I walked into the wall but with words.
He bites his lip. He wants to laugh at me, doesn’t he? “Kinda, yeah.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He hides in his hands. He does that a lot.
“What’s the trouble between you and your dad?”
He groans. “Next question.”
It’s hard to know where to start, but that’s why he’s sitting at my bar top. He wants to try. He wants me to guide him. He trusts me—for whatever reason—to be his guide.
Mom’s voice whispers to me.Don’t get to know his pain first, baby.
Right.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Seriously?”
“Answer the question, Dash.”
“Whoa. When you do that I just…my tummy swoops.” He swallows. “I think you already know it.” He swirls the pink grapefruit with his straw.
My chest lifts and sugar-coated warmth settles there.Yeah, knew it was pink.
For the rest of the afternoon, I fire questions at him. Even though we’ve worked together for a couple of weeks, I don’t know a lot about him. It’s a weird realization because at the same time, it feels like I’ve known him all my life. I knew of him in high school, always thought he was kinda cute, but we hung around different crowds. I was distracted with my brother, making sure he was on the straight and narrow and that he didn’t fall apart over Mom’s death, I didn’t have time for dating—according to high school me—or making too many friends.
Hell, I don’t make a lot of time for it now. Most of my current friends are via my brother, and the last guy I dated wasn’t nearly as interesting as Dash.
Fuck. I’m doing it again. I need to stop thinking about dating and Dash in the same breath.
I learn how much he loves soup and hot cider on a cold day. About how he wants to travel. Nickelback’s only his second favorite band, his first is Creed, a band T-shirt he doesn’t have but Travis does, and he hopes it’ll be bequeathed to him someday.
“I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” he tells me. “Dirk and I used to drive Hunter crazy when we’d spend what little money we’d earn from offering our landscaping services to the neighborhood on a mountain of gummy bears and licorice.”
