Page 20 of Friendzone Hockey
He pauses, breath hitching ever so slightly. Is he gonna say it? Will he finally say it?
“Yeah, it’s silly of me to think you’d stop talking to me just because you’ll be away, but I have every reason to believe that,” he says. His jaw hardens, and I detect a bit of a tremble, something fiery laces his words. God, how I’m desperate to pull him into my arms and soothe him, especially when he’s already soothing himself, rubbing his fingers over the knuckles of his other hand. But he’s almost there, where he needs to be. I can taste it.
“You have every reason,” I agree.
“But there’s another feeling—a good one—overriding the bad one. Stace?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s been hard to even see the good feelings, let alone feel them. Like, they’re right there, floating by me all the time, but I miss them because other darker feelings cloud them, hide them away. I have to squint and even then, I’m not sure if what I’m seeing is what I’m really seeing. So, I let it float away just in case I’m wrong.”
My eyes burn.Don’t fucking cry, Alderchuck. Not now.I get as steely as I can. Visions of pounding on all his problems helps.
“Today I don’t justseethe good feeling, I can feel it, in my hands. But it’s fucking slippery as hell.”
“That’s because you can’t hold onto feelings, Dashie. They’re meant to be slippery. They’re meant to come and go. You’ve got to keep reaching for new ones.”
“You’re gonna call me,” he says with confidence. “Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not a dumbass. Only a dumbass wouldn’t call me. I’m a fucking peach.”
“I see,” I say, pulling off the wall, meandering over to him. “A peach who comes to my house under the guise of helping me pack, only to unpack all my shit the first chance he gets?”
I can’t see all of his face from this angle, but enough to tell his lips are hitched at the corners. Besides, his happiness is so loud, you couldn’t miss it if you tried. He’s not sorry at all.
“You were doing it wrong.”
“Oh?”
“I’m the only thing you need in your suitcase, and, uh, I’d demonstrate that, but Casey told me a terrifying story about a man who got trapped in a suitcase and suffocated to death.”
“He’s been on those damn crime subreddits again. I know I told him to stay off of those.”
He shrugs, folding another pair of my boxer shorts and adding them to the pile. I want to touch, but Stacey law says “no touching Dash unless absolutely necessary”, and it’s not strictly necessary. My fingers ache, though. Ache to run through his hair. I keep my hands to myself.
“How come you don’t seem to care?” He still refuses to look at me.
Whoa, what? “Don’t care?Dash.”
I know I’ve fucked up the second the words are out of my mouth. His hands clench. He’s gonna throw more clothes, isn’t he? It’d be a blessing if he did.
Okay, touching has become strictly necessary. I yank him up from behind and turn the sullen man to face me. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to pout and glare murder at the same time. Dash is teaching me all kinds of things today. His gaze cuts through me, accusing,hurt.
“That’s not fair. I’m pretty torn up about leaving you here, too,” I admit with that familiar sliver of terror that anything I saymight lead him on. But friends can tell friends how much they mean to each other, can’t they?
Whether they can or not, doesn’t matter, I need to tell him.
“Look, I know it’s irrational for me to be angry that you’re leaving—” There it is. “—but I am. I hate it. Fucking loathe it. I finally have … I have …” he trails off.
Dash breaks apart. Sobs choke in his throat. That’s all it takes.
Screw my rules.
I’m the first to wrap my arms around him, but he’s not far behind, clinging to me like one of those adorable sloths always coming across my social media feeds. His sobs trigger the bone-deep kind of stitch in my side.
“It’s okay for you to be angry about it, Dash.”
