Page 15 of Friendzone Hockey
Jealousy.
Am I jealous?
Yes.
I hate how much I get jealous of Stacey with other people. I’m not supposed to feel that way, and I always lash out in some possessive kind of way.
My heart races. I want to burst in there. I want to?—
The door opens and Stacey emerges, his curls flattened to waves, bare sun-kissed skin on display, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers with hearts all over them, a gift from me the year we had an anti-Valentine’s Day together. He’s covered in hickeys, love bites, and lips. Someone in there was wearing red lipstick, now it’s painted on his body.
“Dash?” he says blinking. Then he spies the bat in my hand.
“I thought we were being robbed,” I admit. “When did you get home?”
I didn’t know he was coming home today, either. It’s only been two weeks since I last saw or heard from him, but it’s likeI’m looking at an entirely different person. It was bad enough that last season felt like it lasted a hundred years. Sutter and Casey finally became a thing after way too fucking long of them push-pulling their way to a volatile ever after. Stacey and Casey had their first NHL season with the Vancouver Orcas and had a cup run, which means their season ran into June, and I was forced to spend even more time without Stacey.
Then he pulls an out-of-character disappearing act.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Earlier today. Casey knew. He didn’t tell you?”
Casey, that fucking bitch. Why wouldn’t he tell me? “I mean, you could have told me. You could have answered my texts, too, but whatever.”
“Yeah, I meant to, but I didn’t, and I get it if you’re mad at me.”
Am I mad? Fuck, yeah, I’m mad. He’s in so much shit for this. Stacey has never ignored me in his life. Not for an hour, certainly not for a day. Going two full weeks was like having my soul ripped out of me. Since our friendship began, I knew the day he got sick of me would come. I’m a lot. I’m needy, sensitive, and all-around high maintenance. I told him I’d be too much, but he promised—no he vowed—that he’d never leave me.
The first day of radio silence, I talked myself through my usual script of affirmations: He loves me, he’s busy, he said he needed some time to himself.
But another voice said, “When has he ever needed time away from you?”
I reasoned that it was about time he did. I’m getting married. Us spending as much time as we do together—even when we’re not actually together—is going to change. He’d left pretty quickly after I asked him to be my best man, it made sense that he’d need to process the upcoming changes.
Then day two, day three, day four … nothing. My stomach’s been eating itself. The anxious buzz that used to be my daily companion returned, and it brought bullies, feeding me negative thoughts like they’re the breakfast of anti-champions.
Old protective mechanisms have already kicked in, trapping the feelings I’m so used to pouring out to him in my throat. I don’t deserve to feel this way. What right do I have? None. The answer’s none.
I run my fingers through my hair. I want to force a smile and tell him, “No, just missed you and worried about you.” Most of that would even be true. But I didn’t just miss him; I couldn’t think about anything or anyone else but him. I obsessively checked my phone for a message. I did recon, trying to get information on him from our friends. I also may have slept in his room a few times, crying into his fucking pillow.
I was forced to live without him in a new way. I thought being away from him during the season was rough—and boy was it—but none of that compares to the last two weeks without a goddamn word from him.
“So what? I don’t merit a fucking explanation? That how we work now? That’s bullshit, Alderchuck.”
“Dash, I?—"
We’re interrupted. Two men—naked men—strut out of the room. They’re a similar type, thin, blond, and dainty. They’re so similar that people might mistake them for being related at first glance, but something tells me they’re not. They’re also pretty in the same way I’m pretty, but with less muscle.
I hate them on sight.
My body tenses, and I don’t bother to hide my glare. My anger’s already bubbling to a violent froth, there’s only so much I can keep to myself.
“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Stacey says. “Put some clothes on for me, eh?” He kisses one on the cheek and smacks the other’s bare ass.
My blood boils. We’re talking “could melt an ice rink” boils.
“Yes, Hockey Daddy,” they dutifully say.
Hockey Daddy? I’m gonna throw up.
