Page 94 of Friendzone Hockey
It isn’t.
For half a second, the bitter taste of frustration rises. They don’t get it. No one gets it. Except for finally Dash. We’ve fallen into a nice rhythm this past hockey season. My heart’s reached acceptance—so long as I don’t think about or talk about my real feelings for Dash—and everyone’s happy.
“When’s the last time you dated anyone?” Jack pushes. I kinda wanna pound on him a little bit. Why’s everyone making me want to pound on them today?
He’s just had a horrible breakup, Stace. He’s emotional.I take a breath. “Derek. I saw him for a few months.”
“Ain’t that the guy Dash trolled non-stop before accidentally trading out his shampoo for hair remover?” he asks putting air quotes around the word accidentally.
Okay, yeah. Dash didn’t like Derek. But it was because we didn’t have the same taste in music and that’s a dealbreaker. If you hate Nickelback, it’s not gonna last. Who in their right mind hates Nickelback? Some might say that’s trivial, but when Dash brought it up, it was good enough for me.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, they get weird when they date other people,” Casey says, siding with his bestie on this one, talking as if I’m not in the room.
Know what? I’m ignoring them. I retrieve the paper bags filled with pub food and work on plating it before shoving it all into a warm oven. I also text Trav a thank you because I’m sure he staffed this food for us.
Dirk’s first to walk down the hallway with wet hair, shaking it out all over the floors.
“Why do you insist on doing that?” Casey says.
“I like to air dry.”
And he likes to do all the things his brother didn’t let him do at home, even three years later.
I pull the plates out of the oven and set them on cloth placemats at our kitchen table. We rarely eat at it. I’m making us eat at the table today. I spin around to grab the last plates, just as Dash steps into the hallway.
He’s wearing a hockey jersey.
Myfucking hockey jersey.
I can’t breathe. Can’t tear my gaze away from him. I walk face-first into the damn wall. Yeah, again. This time I hit my big forehead.
“Ow, fuck,” I hiss.
“Stace?” His eyes widen. “Shit, you’re bleeding.”
Jack and Casey burst into hysterical laughter. Dash rushes over. Dirk grabs a dishtowel, which Dash swipes before I can get hold of it so he can be the one to dab the blood away.
“What are you two hyenas laughing for?” Dirk says.
“Because,” Jack says. At least he’s forgotten about his aching heart for the moment.
“It’s not that bad,” I insist, prying the dishtowel away from Dash. There’s a small amount of blood, and there’ll be a helluva bruise later, but I’ve had way worse.
“You’re icing it,” Dash decides out loud. “You always make me ice my shit.” He walks toward the freezer.
“Yeah, Stace. You always make him,” Casey says in a sing-song voice. They crumple into each other, unable to breathe from laughing so hard. I’m gonna strangle those two in a minute.
“What is going—” Dirk’s eyes land on the back of the jersey—the Alderchuck stamped in bold font, the number thirty-three underneath.
My name and number on Dash’s back. This is worse than when he wears my clothes. Way worse.
I’d finally learned to control myself. I’d finally stuffed my greater feelings of love for him into an imaginary vault. But I’m only a man. A hockey man. And he’s in my jersey. Did I mention that he’s wearing myhockeyjersey?
All the hunger I have for him wakes up. My chest bursts in the way the air must feel when a flock of birds takes flight, flapping their wings against the current.
How many times am I doomed to fall in love with the same man?
Dirk’s in on it now. Every hockey player knows what it does to them when they see the object of their affection in their damn jersey. Maybe except for Dash since he’s wearing mine like it’s nothing. He’s still blissfully unaware of what’s going on behind him, so I send the three of them an icy stare, promising retribution if they make him feel bad.
