Page 97 of Friendzone Hockey
Dash laughs. “What are you doing, Alderchuck?”
I don’t have an answer for him. I’m running on pure instinct. I carry him down the hall and to the kitchen. I take my spot at the table, swinging Dash where he belongs: in my lap.
“Stace?” he says.
“Thought you wanted to ice my forehead, sweetheart. You can’t do it from over there, can you?”
“Oh, right. I’ll just?—”
He tries to move to grab the ice pack wrapped in a dishtowel that I spy on the counter. I tighten my grip. Don’t fucking think so. He’s not going anywhere.
“Dirk’ll get it for you, won’t you, Dirk?”
“Um, yeah.” He hops to it, passing the cold pack over to Dash.
Eerie silence has befallen the house, all of them captivated, wondering what I’ll do next. Same. I’m wondering what the hell I’ll do next, too. But I’ve let my primitive side off the leash. He’s in charge. He’s getting to do some of the things he’s always wanted to do with Dash.
Other men, leaving marks on him. If I ever fucking see one I’ll?—
“Oh, sorry. Am I hurting you?” a familiar voice says. Dash. That voice is Dash.
It’s the same sensation as waking up. I return to the kitchen. There’s a chill over my throbbing forehead. My teeth are chewing nails. “I’m fine, Dashie.”
He rolls his eyes. “I knew it. You’re nothing but a big baby. Why are the largest ones always the whiniest when they’re injured?”
I close my eyes. Dash is in my lap, wearing my name. It’s all so … right.
… it would be fucking awful if he went through what he did, did the work, and then was never considered all stitched up.
Sometimes my brother’s an immature clown. Other times he’s prone to deep wisdom. There’s no in-between with that guy.
He put your damn jersey on, brother. Dash isn’t stupid. Trust me on this one.
Did Dash say something to him in confidence? Does he still feel the same way he did years ago? Would he forgive me for constantly rejecting him? Would he continue to look for my body after Travis buried it in a remote location in Northern BC?
What a fucking mess.
The bright scent of his shampoo hits my nostrils. I breathe him in. I could breathe him in forever.
Yeah, it’s a huge fucking mess between Dash and I, but dammit, I want to find a way to clean it up.
Step one. I have to talk to Trav. Flashes of the things he’s done to Dash’s crushes and boyfriends over the years flicker through my mind. Travis is an odd dichotomy of lenient and overprotective. When Dash wanted a Ninja—in his dare-devil era—Trav went straight out to buy him one, was even stoked to teach him how to ride, but when things tread too close to Dash’s dating life, he perks up.
I used to think he’d fire me, and while that’s not off the table, I think it’s far less likely than it would have been when Dash was struggling the most.
Tell my nerves that, though.
I’ve run my hands through my hair so many times that it’s a disheveled mess.
C’mon, Alderchuck, don’t be a fucking coward.
I knock on the door to Travis’s office. “Um, may I?”
“Stacey, my boy. Come in. I was just thinking about you.”
“You were, sir?”
“Sir? What’s the sir for?” His eyes rake over me. “Are you okay?”
