Page 125 of Friendzone Hockey
Now I’m a bozo with someone’s name tattooed on my body. Guess I’ll have to get it removed at some point, but I’m too busy with hockey to even think about shit like that right now. I’m finally grateful for Sutter’s obsession with my brother’s ass. Casey’s so distracted by Sutter, he doesn’t have to witness my downfall.
I’m delusional. Or at least my brain is. The reticular activating system, I think they call it, is on high alert. Casey pointed out Jealous Dash and now my brain finds all the instances of Jealous Dash it can to torture me with.
But he definitely was jealous of Sutter—yeah, Sutter for some reason—at Christmastime, and he didn’t talk much about Syd. He didn’t ask about the tattoo either, though, so he couldn’t have been too serious about it, which makes me feel all the more like a fool for taking him seriously and inking it on my body.
Fuck, I’m an idiot.
Stanley Cup Playoffs - Final Round
The puck is mine. At least that’s something I can still chase after and claim with acuity. The scuff of my blades carving down center ice reaches my ears despite the many other louder noises in this area. It’s my meditation, my new heartbeat. It focuses me.
I shoot. The puck leaves my stick. It’s all in slow motion to me, but the crowd clenches around me, their anticipation flavors the cool and sweat-soaked air.Bam! He scores. Alderchuck scores again.
Casey told me that Sutter called me a hockey terminator.
Am I? I hope so. I hope Dash is watching with Syd. These are for him—every goal for him. It’s the only thing in my control at the moment. I’ve had to watch with a smile on my face as Dash falls more in love, hiding my descent into madness.
Know what the wildest thing is, though? My foolish heart’s still over here hoping. They’re getting married. I had to look at the ring, my stomach in my throat, and tell him how much I loved it. Soon as I was off the call, I cried. I cried until I gagged. Until my eyes hurt. I didn’t know one human could cry that much.
I thought the agony I lived in before was pretty bad, back when I still had hope. Nothing, nothing is as painful as this—and I watched my mother wither into oblivion. I get it now. All the books about love. Even the batshit crazy books from the eighteen hundreds we had to read in high school with characters like Heathcliff who went off the deep end, driven to revenge because of a broken heart. I get all of that now. I’ve already had several revenge fantasies. But unlike what Heathcliff did, all my revenge would be on Syd, not Dash. Syd’s lucky I’m a law-abiding citizen.
And yeah, I know what I sound like, which is why I keep these thoughts to myself. Time heals all, right? The only hope I have left is that this exhausting, gut-wrenching pain will subside. That I’ll stop waking up in the middle of the night, calling for him.
That I’ll finally be able to breathe right again.
“We’re getting married.”
Swish-crack!
Slam!
I’m bulldozed into the boards but get to watch the tail-end of what becomes of my slapshot. Off the crossbar. So close. If that one had gone in it might have changed the whole game. Did you know that? One goal can change a game. One goal can give a team enough momentum to pull up from a four-goal deficit.
What if I had spoken up? Would that have changed the course of me and Dash?
“Will you be my best man?”
I grab the jersey of the guy who’s been riding my ass all game. You wanna ride my ass? Take me to fucking dinner first.I swing—crack!—knocking his helmet off in one go. He whines and bitches but swings with just as much fervor. We’re sent to the penalty box, but well after I’ve kicked his ass.
“Of course, Dashie. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Stace. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Every time I replay the conversations about the wedding—which is a lot because my brain’s a fucking masochist—a sharp pain lances my insides. The first time, I physically doubled over. Every time after, it’s like I’m on the ice being run over by skate blades attached to two-hundred pound men. Everything hurts. Everything aches. My sleep is so shoddy, I’m running on pure adrenaline and heartbreak during games.
Maybe I’ll get an injury, maybe I’ll never play hockey again.
Or maybe hockey is all I’ll ever have.
From inside the penalty box, bile rises, but I choke it back down. Did you know you could cry so hard your stomach hurts in the same way muscles do after a workout? That your eyes could burn like they do when they’re dry, even though they never stop being wet?
It’s a choking, suffocating nightmare. As if someone carved away a vital chunk of me. Or maybe I puked it out. The universe is purging me of Dash, but it’s my body fighting against the forces, trying to keep some part of him with me.
“We’ll get married at home. Dad even said he’d help pay, can you believe that? I think he actually likes Syd. Didn’t think he’d like anyone I married. He hated all my boyfriends.”
I’ll never tell Dash, but Travis tolerates Syd. He’s got nothing against the guy, and so long as there’s a smile on his son’s face, he’ll have no beef with him either, but he still hasn’t pulled out the good scotch for him. That’s how I know. That and the little wrinkle in his forehead whenever his name’s mentioned.
I survey the ice. A chill bleeds through the polyester, to fan across my slick skin. I know Dash isn’t out there. I mean, he’slikely watching, but we’re in Boston. I still see him, though, an apparition on the ice just in front of me, flying like he’s Gretzky.
