Page 54 of Friendzone Hockey
“Gah! No, god. Not everything reminds me of Robin.”
“A lot of things do,” I point out. He doesn’t like it, but they do. I might hate it more than he does at this point. If I ever see Robin, I’m gonna do something that’ll land me in jail, and I don’t give a fuck.
“Not this,” he says, his brown eyes darkening with frustrated anger. He exhales, heavily, one arm resting on the doorframe. He pulls in another breath and with his arm stretched like that, the hem of his shirt lifts enough to reveal his creamy skin. Great. Now my dick decides to show signs of life. I’m paralyzed—any sudden movement could cause a full-on boner versus the half-chub threatening to ruin my life currently.
I want him. I want him so bad.God.I’d nibble on that fucking lower lip of his that’s always tempting me. So plump, juicy, begging for my teeth. What would he taste like? How would he look with a hickey on his neck? One I put there?
Dash’s hand reaches out. Slowly, he grips my hand—it’s larger than his—and he traces the knuckles. His damn Bambi eyes look into my soul, lashes fluttering.
“I don’t like seeing you with people, I guess. I feel weirdly possessive of you. You’ll find someone to be with, and I’ll get less of your time. That’s so wrong. Ugh. I’m terrible. Ignore me.”
“It won’t happen again,” I promise.
“No. Don’t do that. I don’t know why I feel this way. I’ll get over it. Especially when I can’t even think about being with anyone, Stace.” The “but you” hangs in the air. That’s normally cause for me to take a step back, create distance between us. But how can I when it looks like he might fall apart? “I meant what I said before. It just … gives me the ick to think of you with someone.”
Taking a bit of a risk, I snatch his wrist and suction him to me. I inhale a deep breath of him, starved of him after being polluted by … what was his name with the flip-flops? Don’t remember. Already erased from my browser history.
“If there’s anyone who gets it, it’s me, okay?” At least my brain does. My heart might never fucking understand. My dick? We’re not gonna talk about that damn troll. It would be sunk so far into Dash at the smallest flash of a green light.
“Do you think I’ll get better someday? Better enough to have a someone?” he asks.
“Of course, I do.” Even if that someone will never be me.
I made a promise to his dad. He trusts me to look after Dash. I won’t betray that trust, I won’t betray Dash, even if my body has other ideas. It’s just lust. Isn’t that a sin? Not sure, I’m not particularly religious, but I could use that as my deterrent.
Unless there’s a religion based around Dash. I might have to start attending church.
Hunter Boulder, Dirk’s older brother, is aninterestingguy. He’s always wearing gray, sleeveless shirts that have his bulging biceps on display, his jaw has to have been cut from steel, and while he has hair, it’s shaved pretty close to the scalp, like he’s in the army or something. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man in anything other than jeans, and the steel-toed boots he seems to wear for every occasion. According to Dirk, he never leaves the construction site, even when he’s left work for the day.
I’ve come home to him, sweating under the hot August sun, doing repairs around my house—um, our house, I guess. But it’sshit I feel like I should do, and it’s weird having him carrying two-by-fours toward my steps—over his boulder-sized shoulders—and go to town with his fucking nail gun and portable table saw. He works like a horse too, only stopping to sip whatever he’s got in that large sports bottle of his. He makes Dirk help him.
And it’s fine. Our landlord’s an older guy who appreciates us keeping the place in shape for him. He’ll even knock a little off the monthly when we do something like this.
But fucking Dash watches Hunter like he hung the moon. His bare toes skim the grass as his feet kick with delight from where he watches, perched on the old bench that’s an accessory in our yard. A breeze kicks up, blowing summer air through his thick hair.
He should have shoes on with all the nails Hunter’s got carelessly—in my opinion—scattered at the bottom of the steps. Our backyard is not a construction site.
“What’s going on here?” I ask.
Hunter gives a tight smile. “Few steps were loose. Didn’t want this one fallin’ and breaking his neck.”
His gaze lands on Dash, not Dirk. My body seizes with annoyed tension. “I was planning on fixing those,” I say, even though my plans would have probably seen the steps fixed once we returned for the off-season. This house is my responsibility.
Dash is my responsibility.
“Take a load off, brother. We had extra wood and nails at work, and I wanted to show Dirk how to do this anyway. These are important life skills,” Hunter says.
Dirk shrugs.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to embarrass myself. “You want a beer?” I force myself to offer. Mom taught us good manners.
“Love another one after I finish up with the saw. Dash was kind enough to bring one out for me.”
He was, was he? “Guess you’re all set. I’ll just …” I gesture toward the house.
I turn to begin my journey to the front of the house since that’s where I’ll have to enter with Hunter’s shit everywhere.
“Stacey, wait! I’ll come with?—”
