Page 67 of Friendzone Hockey
Is everyone gonna be like this all summer? Because I’m gonna riot if they are.
“Please be a Sutter, baby?” Sutter nuzzles his lips against the place on Casey’s neck where he has a tattoo of his soon-to-be husband’s love bites.
Casey must see something there. He’s wavering. Holy shit, Casey’s totally gonna cave.
“You can add Alderchuck to your name and have Sutter as your surname—I want to be The Sutters.”
He watches Sutter as if he’s remembering something. “Yeah, I want that, too.”
Oh. My. God. What’s happening? What dimension did I fall into?
“No takebacks,” Sutter says. He kisses him to seal the deal.
“I feel that. When I marry my The One, I’m making him an Alderchuck,” Stacey says with a lot more aggression than I’mused to hearing from him. His eyes flick briefly to me, long enough for my body to burn. “To The Sutters.”
Syd’s last name is Smith. We were gonna hyphenate—his idea to be fair and all. But I find myself swallowing, hearing Stacey say that so fucking decisively.
I’d be an Alderchuck. I would have gladly been Dash Fucking Alderchuck.
We all drink to the Sutters. A twin sits on either side of Stacey. Thank fuck he doesn’t touch them, but my skin still itches. God. I need a fucking drink—more fucking drinks. Where the hell’s Dirk? He’ll drink with me. Know what? I’m gonna make sure everyone drinks with me.
“Jerry?” I say to the bartender. “Tequila for me and my friends. Keep ‘em coming.”
The world spins, so I try to close my eyes only to find they’re already closed. Fuck, I’m fucked. My insides have become a sadistic tilt-a-whirl. Swinging over the side of the bed, my stomach heaves the last remaining remnants of bile from it into a … bucket? I don’t get to wonder who put it there, I’m just grateful it’s there. The morning fills with awful retching sounds coming from the very bowels of me.
There’s a warm hand on my bare back, a hand I’d know in the darkness, out of my mind, half dead.
“Get it out, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.The name he calls everybody, apparently.
“Get … g’orff me.” I’m less than graceful, hungover as fuck. My brain decides to torture me with a memory from last night—Stacey carrying my drunk ass out of the restaurant because I’d already puked in one of the washroom stalls. Me screaming, “I don’t wanna go home yet. Don’t you dare make me go home yet, asshole,” while I beat on his back.
Fun times.
I wipe my gross mouth with the back of my arm.
“There’s some Advil for you and water,” he says as softly as he can, but it’s still too loud for my head.
I groan and throw myself on my back. It forces me to look up at him. Wait, he’s only half-dressed in pajama pants and his eyes are half open, hair flying all over the place. Did he just wake up?
“Did you sleep with me?”
“No, I … look, I was afraid you were gonna drown in your own puke, Dash,” he says with bitterness souring his tone.
Oh, is he displeased with me? Good. Because I’m pretty fucking displeased with him. Old me might have cared, might have cowed under his disappointment, but new me considers it a great fuck you.
“Where did you sleep?” my gravelly voice asks.
“On the floor.”
“What’s wrong with my bed?” Nothing was wrong with it before he went on his trip.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate anymore.”
“Because I’m getting married?”
“Yeah, because you’re getting married. I shouldn’t be the one telling you that.”
