Page 18 of Friendzone Hockey
Needy, sensitive, and a tad high maintenance—that’s me. I know it, I own it, I’m grateful Syd’s so good with me.
See? I’m all set.
Chapter
Three
THEN
End of August
Stacey
It’s like we’ve been catapulted to the end of the summer, and saying goodbye comes way to fucking fast for my liking. Before I met Dash, I’d been looking forward to my first season with the Kelowna Wildcats, but now I’m dragging my feet. He is too. But can you blame us? Ever since I met him eight weeks ago, we’ve been inseparable. I trained him on bar and started to teach him the ins and outs of serving. When he wasn’t working, he hung out at my bar top like a lonely patron, and I was too happy to give all my attention to him. Maybe it’s only been eight weeks, but I can’t picture my days without him.
We’re at my house, the one in Kitsilano I rent with my brother and our current roommates Bill and Ted. I’m packing while Dash sits on my bed, deep brown eyes filled with accusation. I can’t look at him, so I pretend my socks need extra attention, unfolding and refolding them. He’s pissed that I’m leaving, even though he won’t say it.
But he needs to say it. It won’t change that I have to go, but he needs to know that I'm always with him no matter how far away I am.
In my periphery, I catch him lolling around on my bed, huffing, staring at the ceiling. He followed me home like a lost kitten, claiming someone should help me pack for the upcoming hockey season. I don’t need help. I’m the one that helps others pack. I’ll probably help Casey pack after I’m done with my things. And I don’t know how much him ruffling my bedsheets while squeezing my pillow’s helping get my things packed, but I’m glad he’s here.
“It’s just, will you have time to call me? We were just getting started with this whole faux counseling thing you were doing for me.”
There we go. It’s half an admission, but that’s huge for him. Dash has a hard time asking for what he needs, even saying what he’s hopeful for.
I turn, raising a brow. “Should I tell them I won’t be at training camp? Because I will.”
He lets go of my pillow, the little shit’s thinking about it for a second. My insides do a funny backflip sorta deal, sloshing the bowl of soup I ate for lunch.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you’re going. This is the chance of a lifetime.”
“Glad we sorted that out,” I say, digging into my underwear drawer, removing a stack, placing them in my suitcase.
I’d say more, I want to say more, but I’m walking a tightrope, and I want to see what he’ll come up with on his own. We’ve been talking a lot. Not always about his situation directly, but that’s not a necessity in him building his confidence and getting better. There’s absolutely no reason to relive a nightmare to get rid of it.
Dash believes that if he gets too needy, I’m gonna stop being there for him. He wants to tell me what he needs, I can taste it in the air, but will he?
In the meanwhile, he’s fucking adorable, the way he’s snuggling that pillow like it’s me. I studiously continue packing, checking in on my “helper” once in a while, banking on him falling asleep, surprised as hell when he doesn’t.
Finally, he breaks.
“Okay, can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“You have to promise not to get mad at me, though. They’re just feelings. I know better than to trust my feelings.”
I turn what I hope is a serious face on him. “Who’s telling you not to trust your feelings?”
“Me because they’re not always right.”
I can’t argue with that. It’s true. Feelings can be wrong. So wrong. “That may be so, but they always mean something. They’re clues.”
He nods. “Yeah, I agree. They seem to tell me about myself, I think. But that’s the scary part. My feelings don’t have to be your feelings, and I want our feelings to be the same so bad. Fuck, I hate this.”
My “protect Dash” instincts would have me running to his side, but he’s on the verge of something. I could help him, do it for him, but it won’t be the same as him doing it for himself.
“I’ll be right back. Just runnin’ to the washroom to grab my toiletries,” I tell him. I’m not gone long, but that’s all the time he needs to dump my suitcase on the bed, throw my socks and once neatly folded boxers through the room. I don’t even wanna see the state of my drawers because, from the looks of it, he’s haphazardly shoved the rest of my shit in them.
