Page 153 of Friendzone Hockey
“You sure it’s not preemptive groveling for making me play hockey for Slut One and Slut Two’s entertainment?”
“Dash.” I leave a crisp handprint on the side of his ass.
He laugh-yelps. “C’mon, that one was gold. It ate when I said it in front of Casey and Sutter.”
“The same Casey and Sutter who spend hours laughing at fail videos? You need a new audience.” I flop beside him and wrap one of his thick hockey thighs around me. “Do you hate the idea that much?”
“No. I guess they grew on me a little—enough to entertain them with a game of hockey for an afternoon—but I haven’t forgiven them yet. Don’t let me drink tequila around them.”
“Noted.”
I attack him again. How many times can I get us off before we absolutely have to get out of bed?
Let’s find out.
“I’m team captain,” Sutter says.
“I’m other team captain,” Casey shouts just after him.
“And I’m playing on a team with Stacey,” Dash declares. “Don’t care which one of you yahoos is my team captain.”
“You can’t do that,” Sutter says. “You’re supposed to play opposite your spouse—and the captains pick the teams!”
Dash stands taller, crossing his arms. I know that look. He’s not budging
Casey sighs. “Just let them be on the same team. Stacey’s just gonna pass the puck to Dash anyway.”
He’s right, I will pass him the puck.
Only “the puck” isn’t a puck, but a neon orange ball. We still call it a puck. We’re at Meyer Central with two nets set up in the middle of the street. The non-participatory Meyers line the edges of the block with lounge chairs and coolers of drinks set up between them. Philip’s comfortable in a chair, wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts and sandals, a boy on either side of him.
All the proud brats of the group had jaw-dropping moments when they saw him. He’s a pretty delicious sight, and he’s got machismo.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sutter says. “I’d never help you win if we were on opposing teams.”
“Obviously. Nor would I pass you anything but my fists. We’re normal, they’re not,” Casey explains.
“I’m only playing if I’m on Rhett’s team,” Logan declares.
“Of course, you’re on my team, baby. He’s on my team, Sutter,” Rhett informs him. “Shouldn’t I be a team captain? My stats are higher than Alderchuck’s.”
“I swear to fucking god, Elkington, if you go on about your stats one more time?—”
Sutter throws his hands up. “None of you play right. This is such bullshit. Jack? I assume you want to be on a team with Mercy?”
“Nope. No fucking way. Competition is the best foreplay,” Jack says. He winks at his other half.
“If we’re picking our teams, I’m on a team with Bryce,” Maverick says. Yeah, he comes to things now. His in to the group is Rhett.
“No, he’s fucking not. If I have to be on a team with him, I’m not playing,” Bryce says.
“Playing hard to get today, eh? Fine, separate us,” Maverick says, eyes glittering. “I’m happy to chase you, baby.”
“I’m good on either team,” Ari, Mercy’s younger brother says. “My man’s just gonna watch my ass in these shorts the whole time, aren’t you, sweets?”
His man is Cody, looking like Clark Kent in his square black frames. “Sure am!”
Bea, Mercy’s sister, and her partner Trish aren’t playing either. They’re set up with ciders, eyes hiding behind large sunglasses.
