Page 27 of Friendzone Hockey
Hockey Daddy. Blech.
Stacey surveys the spread. He’s too polite to break their hearts. He’s left with no choice but to sit and eat his weight in sugar. “Wow. This was thoughtful. Daddy’ll reward you later.”
My ears. Can I bleach my ears?
They high-five each other, and sling arms around each other’s waists, waiting with building anticipation for Stacey to take the first bite. I pretend I’m not watching or laughing inside my head. Stacey—predictably—takes a sip of his coffee first. I knew he would. Stacey’s a coffee guy. No matter the time he gets up, he likes to sit with what he refers to as “first coffee” for a good hour before he gets breakfast going, before he even thinks about breakfast. He drinks “second coffee” with breakfast. Third and fourth coffee only happen if he’s had a rough night.
He can’t hide the nose wrinkle when he tastes the bucket load of honey they dumped into the mug, but he covers it quickly when they frown collectively.
“Just a bit sweet,” he admits. “But you used the perfect amount of coffee grounds.”
Of course. Stacey could have been an elementary school teacher with the way he’s able to find authentic compliments buried in utter failure. He’s perfect, so fucking perfect. Sometimes I hate how perfect he is, but only because I can’t have him, and even if I could, what have I got to bring to the table?
Emotional trauma? Abandonment issues? A bratty as hell attitude when I don’t get my way? I don’t even have a fat trust fund. Stacey’s the millionaire between us. He’s always taking care of me, too. I must be exhausting. These two happy little sprites are what a man like Stacey deserves—easy, breezy, giggly. I’m not easy or breezy. I’m not sure I’ve ever giggled in my life. It’ll be so much better for him when I’m out of his life.
And yet, I’m just that selfish. I’m going to find a way to get rid of these two just like I’ve gotten rid of everyone else who’s tried to take Stacey from me.
That fucking phantom pain in my thumb decides to show up. I itch to soothe it, rub my other thumb over top, but I resist. It’ll set off alarm bells for Stacey. That’s all I fucking need right now.
The slightly taller one smiles, planting his hands on Stacey’s round shoulders, jumping. “We wanted to do something nice for you.”
“It’s very nice, sweetheart.”
I cringe. If Stacey calls either of them that one more time, I’m going to rip out his tongue.
They take their seats and help themselves to pancakes. Stacey eyes his breakfast with a hefty amount of dread, says a silent prayer, and digs in.
“We gave you extra syrup, just how you like it,” the shorter one says. I would learn their names, but I’m hoping they won’t be around long enough for it to matter.
Stacey tilts his head. “And just where did you learn how I like my pancakes, huh?”
Uh-oh.
His eyes are on me. He’s already put two and two together.
“Dash. He told us how you liked your coffee, too,” the taller one says, proudly.Rat.
Stacey taps his fingers on the table. “He did, did he?” He’s still got his razor-sharp gaze on me. My heart races, and I’m suddenly inspired to crawl under a rock. The devil bites him, I can practically see the wheels in his mind turning.
And that makes …ahhh. My body sighs. A tendril of mischievous warmth curls its way through my limbs.
We finish breakfast, Stacey licking every last drop of syrup and honey from his plate—good lord, he’s gonna have a sugar high—and then he addresses the twins.
“How about you two take a shower, and then I’ll take you exploring.”
“Yes!”
“May we play with each other in the shower, Hockey Daddy?”
“You may—but no coming without my permission.”
Good god.I don’t bother hiding my scowl. Is this what Stacey wanted? Is this the real reason we never worked out?
Something scratches in my throat, wanting to get out, but I tamp it the fuck down. I’m not going there, and I never will again. It makes me so mad when I think about it that I want to punch Stacey in the face.
I love Stacey more than I want animosity between us, so I let it go. But, man, this is fucking stirring the pot.
The half-naked men race for the shower, excited by the prospect of play without gratification, and I—fuck—that’s kinda hot. I’m picturing that, and I forget that I’ve got an almost six-foot-three, angry hockey player across from me.
