Page 60 of Friendzone Hockey
No. I needthosejournals. Those journals have entries. Memories. Raw fucking emotions. I might not be on a journal hunt so much as I’m on a journey to the past.
His room doesn’t smell any different than it usually does. I pull in a huge lungful of Stacey’s masculine scent.
Strong hands in my hair, his hands, his lips lighting mine afire …
My body lights with tingles and fuzzy warmth. My cock aches again. It’s my own personal hell, just like before. I’d somehow managed to shove the feelings away—finally—and he has a fucking paradigm shift.
He had to go and kiss me like I’ve always wanted him to kiss me.
On the other side of the bed, I spy a pillow and blanket on a cot. Even the cot is made, which is a telltale “Stacey was here” sign of life. I smile. Stacey’s not sleeping in the same bed as they are, he’s sleeping on a cot. One that’s way too small for him. Ishould feel bad that he’s uncomfortable, but I don’t. I want him punished—just a little—for ever thinking he could?—
He could what?
Find love? Soothe his aching heart? Move on from someone who’s marrying someone else?
Everything he’s done is reasonable. It’s what anyone would do when they think they’ve lost their chance with someone they wanted.
Yet, the betrayal is real.
And if I could just find my damn journals, I could read them, torture myself with the pain of those days with the intensity I deserve and move on from this bump in the road.
His closet smells the most like him. He’s only at the Aquarium, I’ll see him later tonight, but it feels like he’s so far away. Like he’s never coming back to me. Tears well in the bottom lids until they leak over and dribble down my cheeks.
My eyes catch something at the back of his closet. One of his Vancouver Orcas jerseys. Why is it so far at the back? It’s clean but slightly worn. It was definitely a game-night jersey. It’s yanked off the hanger and in my hands before I can catch up with my brain. I slip it over my head, letting it drown me.
Ahhh. That’s better.
The sleeves are too long. I use them to wipe my tears away.
An idea comes. Would the journals be in the garage?
It’s half an hour of searching before I see the clear plastic bin with “Journals and Other Shit” labeled on the front. It’s my handwriting. Must have done this ages ago, but don’tremember doing it. It’s high up, so I drag the ladder over to pull it down.
Inside, my journals are on top. I don’t know why I stopped journaling. I pull mine off the top, Stacey’s are underneath. There are other odds and ends in here. Some old birthday cards from when I first moved in, trinkets, and … photo albums? Wait, there’s another pile of journals at the bottom.
Victoria Alderchuck.
Shit. Do these belong to Casey and Stacey’s mom? They must. Has he ever read them? I organized all her stuff when I moved in and Stace insisted I was good at organizing despite the state of my dresser drawers. It’s why I always ended up as chief organizer on chore day.
But the only reason I did such a good job with his mom’s stuff was because I knew it was important to him. Clearly, I shoved all these journals into this box, probably having forgotten I’d stored his mom’s stuff here. Probably wanting to get them into a box before he made me do a better job, to be honest.
Huh. One of her journals is locked. The others are open, and I could read them, I’m dying to read them. I’d love to know the woman who raised a man like Stacey, but reading her journals without his permission feels wrong. Especially when I’m pretty sure he’s never read them.
It’s a wound. One that’s never fully healed. I scoop them up along with mine and return to Stacey’s cot where I plant myself for the afternoon. Do I do any journaling at all? No. But I fall into a hole back to the past. There’s an entry I have in mind. The one that will knock sense into my thick Stacey-obsessed head.
We’d been journaling for a long while together. We started sometime around when I moved in with him. But it was my second season playing for the Wildcats—Stacey’s third—when I thought maybe we could be more.
Again.
I’d brought it up before, but it was way too soon. Everyone was right to stop me. But that season, I was so sure I was ready.
I chickened out and waited. I journaled about it, but I didn’t take action until early into the off-season.
It was such a mistake.
Entry 46
You told me to write something deep. Your brown eyes are deep, can I write about those? Seriously, though. I try not to let you catch me staring at them too long, but I’m sure you have. You look away. Quickly, too. Why? Why do you do that? Don’t you feel it? The heartbeat of the world? It beats loudest when I’m near you.
