Friendzone Hockey (Heartbreak Hockey #4)

Prologue

BEFORE THEN

Dash

I don’t know if I can do it—dislocate my own thumb. Dirk and I watched a video about it because when we were ten, we thought we were gonna be real life James Bond. Yeah, I’m serious. If we couldn’t be hockey players, next on our list was secret agent. How delusional were we? But anyway, the man in the video had pointed out that most everyone thinks you’d dislocate the metacarpophalangeal joint when what you actually wanna do is dislocate the carpometacarpal, which is below the metacarpophalangeal, closer to the wrist. He also said it’s not easy to do. He said that most people can’t do it because their joints aren’t pliable enough. He said it’s easier for women to do than it is for men.

Dirk and I scoffed at what we considered the failures of others. We’d be able to do it. We’d be professional spies, and professional spies can do anything.

Well, guess what? Not James Bond. Nothing but a scared eighteen-year-old boy. Afraid of the pain, afraid I’ll only ruin my hand, afraid he’ll come back while I’m trying to escape, and I won’t be able to fight him with a messed up hand.

I rattle the cuff against the metal footboard. I think it’s metal, anyway. It sounds metal. I can’t see a fucking thing. It’s so goddamn dark. Even when he chained me to the pole, it was hard to see. There was only a scant bit of light from the doorway. I’m at the end of a bed, but the bed won’t move for some reason. I’m on the floor because Robin said this is where I deserved to be.

There’s a skittering across my bare flesh, over my calf. I thrash, batting at it, scratching at it. What kind of creepy-crawly is it? A bed bug? A spider? Maybe I don’t wanna know. But they’re on me, always crawling on me. Maybe that’s why it’s better I’m wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. I can feel them. I wouldn’t want something living in the folds of a sweatshirt so it could—oh god—crawl in my ear. Or my mouth.

I had been screaming. Robin didn’t come in here to stop me. I got the feeling—though he never said it—that the longer I screamed, the longer I’d be ignored. But it also means that no one can hear me. I’m on my own. I won’t be found. It’s up to me to get myself out of here.

In other words, I’m fucked.

S omething’s brushing against my face. I flinch. There’s brightness too. I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t wanna open my eyes. I can’t look at his face. I trusted Robin. He’s been Mom’s boyfriend for years. I don’t know that I’d call Robin a stepdad exactly, but he looked after me. He hasn’t been the nicest, but even at his worst I didn’t think he was capable of this. Mom died when I was seventeen. I stayed with Robin. I trusted Robin. All that time passed, including a birthday, and things were fine. Not good, but fine.

Then one day he led me down here.

What’s that smell? It’s pretty and floral. It’s coming from whatever he’s using like a paintbrush over my cheek.

I take a breath and then let my eyes blink open. The lights are on for the first time since he handcuffed me here. The bedroom isn’t much. Just a bed, a dresser, and something that looks suspiciously like it’s meant for me to piss in. My gut curdles. Jolts of alarm—that are far too fucking late—scream at me to get out, get out, get out! But I can’t, and I let him do this.

You didn’t fight him. Didn’t even question him. How fucking stupid are you?

He tries to soothe me with the thing, the pretty-smelling thing. It’s a rose. A singular rose with all the thorns removed.

“Shh, it’s okay. This is temporary, remember? As soon as you learn to behave, you can roam free again. You have no one but yourself to blame. I told you to stop asking questions, I told you I’d take care of you, but you wouldn’t listen. You forced my hand, Dash,” Robin says.

Mom died. I felt a lot of things about it for months. Sobbed until I was hoarse, cried until my eyes were surely turning into raisins. And then I retreated. Got numb. I didn’t want to feel anything, so I shut down. What choice did I have? The pain was unbearable. And I’m not so much of a moron that I don’t know most people would have a hard time loving a mom like mine. She was addicted to drugs—plural. It wasn’t just the one kind, there were a few. People have nasty judgments and opinions about someone like that, someone who chooses getting high over their child, and I get it. It made me angry often enough. She did a lot that hurt me. But what they couldn’t see that I did was that life got her first. Life led her to Robin. Robin, who I thought was trying to help her, but turns out it was exactly the opposite.

If she hadn’t met Robin, would she have dug herself from the pits of depression before it was too late? I don’t know, but she would have had a fighting chance.

But that’s neither here nor there. She was addicted to something that released her from pain she couldn’t face, and it made my feelings about her death a whole lot more complex than simple grief.

Maybe that’s what made me follow Robin. He told me he’d take care of me. He told me he’d be the one I could depend on. I went with him like an idiot. I let him lead me to this house, straight down the stairs to the basement, and into this room. No fighting, no protest.

I trusted the devil.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“That right there. That’s the kind of attitude we need to cure you of. You’re more like your fucking mother than you think you are. Bet you’ll take to the cocktail I have planned for you just as easily, too. You’ll be just as pliable as she was once I have you hooked.”

“No. Please, no.” I want to play hockey. I want to lie on the grass with Dirk and dream about what we’ll do with our lives. I want to fall in love. I want to find my dad and tell him I’m sorry, tell him I love him.

I don’t want to be erased like he erased my mother.

The video—the one about thumb dislocation—missed some vital information. Thumb dislocation is hard. Under regular, everyday circumstances, it’s near-to-impossible. You’re not going to be able to do it because you want to escape handcuffs.

What you need is fear. Insurmountable fear eating away at you until dislocating your thumb is of no consequence. Until yanking on your thumb so hard that you dislodge it from its comfortable home, ripping all the associated ligaments, maybe irreparably, is insignificant by comparison to the hell that awaits you.

He forgot to mention that.

Someday, I hope I can tell Dirk.

O ver breakfast, I begged Dad to let me come down here—just for a little while. I smooth my right thumb over the tender left one as if maybe this time I’ll finally push away the constant ache. I should have worn my brace. It’s been months of physical therapy; shouldn’t I be done with the brace? If this were the movies, I would be. Real life should be more like the movies.

I’m sitting in a booth at Dad’s pub-style restaurant, The Wicklow, way at the back where no one will see me. It’s taken me months to make my way down here, to the main restaurant. We live upstairs in Dad’s small-ass apartment. Even the trailer I lived in with Mom was bigger, but at least it’s solid, I guess. And nice. Dad has a lot of nice things. More in the well-made sense versus the bougie sense. Dad’s not a bougie guy. My favorite part about the apartment by far is the massive window that spans the east wall. Even though I don’t like heights, I love my place on the couch where I can sit with the curtains open and watch the busy streets of Vancouver.

I sleep on the couch. Dad tried to get me to take his room. When I passionately turned that idea down, he suggested a second bed in his room with one of those divider thingies. I didn’t want that either. I wanted this spot on the couch. I’d never be able to fall asleep in a bedroom without the lights on, and I wasn’t making Dad suffer through that. He has a restaurant to run, he needs his sleep.

The open living room with the bright moon—when it’s not clouded over—is enough that I can eventually pass out from sheer exhaustion and stay asleep.

I’ll take anything over being in the dark. I spent months in the dark. Months that felt like an eternity. All alone. Things crawled over me. My movements were limited. Robin fed me, but not often enough. I spent every moment on edge, waiting for the day he’d shoot me up with something. Would I get addicted too? Would I love it? Would I need it? All I know is what drugs did to Mom. I stayed the hell away from them.

I escaped before I ever found out the answers to those questions.

My schoolbooks are spread across the table and, eventually, I’ll get to working. I’m not going back to school. I’ll get my GED and call it a day. My sights are set on hockey. I’m just stubborn enough that I won’t let what the physio and doctors say penetrate my thick skull. I’ll find a way to get my hand back to where it was. That’s what I’m interested in working on. That and maybe making it out of this restaurant on my own.

I can’t leave Dad’s sight. Or more like, Dad can’t leave mine. I’m fine in the apartment where all his stuff is, but down here, I need to have him within my line of vision. Though, I think it goes both ways. I suggested I try taking a walk around the block. Dad told me in no uncertain terms that wouldn’t be happening. He’d take me, or maybe in a week or so, he’d feel comfortable with Dirk taking me.

It's been a week or so. He’s not comfortable with it. But it’s just as well. It was my idea, which means I’m sure it was a terrible one.

I look for Dad. He was near the bar last I checked, stocking the well, counting how many bottles of each kind of wine he had in the fridge. The yellow bottle-filled crate is there, but no Dad. My eyes flicker back and forth, scanning every crevice of the bar. Where … where the fuck is he? My heart beats out of my fucking chest. Something drops from my hand and there’s a rolling skittering sound as I swing my arm across my chest, clutching fabric, clutching reality.

Heaviness lands on my shoulder. Fingers. I catch the faint hit of deep-fryer and cologne. Maybe some vodka, too, from all the messing around he was doing behind the bar.

Dad.

“Dash? Buddy? Fuck. What was it that book said?” he mutters. Has he been reading books so he can help me? “Take a breath, son. Nice and slow.”

He places my non-injured hand on his flannel shirt. His barreled chest rises and falls underneath my palm, acting as a guide, triggering my brain into compliance.

“That’s it. There you go.”

My eyes blink open. He’s there. His hard face, smooth golden skin, long hair falling across his face. Dad has chin-length dark hair, but it’s kissed by the sun at this time of the year. He does all the landscaping around the restaurant himself, shirtless. It’s disgusting how many men and women gather around to watch him. He’s my dad! But I think it’s the tattoos. Every inch of him’s covered in ink.

For me it says he’s fierce. That he’ll protect me. Still don’t know why he would, after everything. I’ve been a horrible son. Mom and Robin told me the worst stuff about him, and I believed them. Kinda hard not to when some of the stuff about him checked out. Like how he used to be a member of a motorcycle club. It doesn’t help that he looks like every biker criminal stereotype. Dad is a ruffian, but he’s also got a soft side.

“Maybe it’s time you head back upstairs,” he says. It’s not a suggestion.

“I’m fine. You’re the one that left.”

“I popped into the kitchen for five seconds, Dash.”

I get it. I’m weak. Can’t even be in a booth sequestered from the other patrons. Got to have my daddy nearby.

He runs a hand through my hair. Shit. It’s wet. Am I sweating? “We’ll try again tomorrow, okay?”

I nod with the bite of a thousand fire ants twisting my expression into something vile. I wish he’d let me drink. I’m so close to nineteen. Sure, that’s the legal drinking age, but what’s a couple months? But it’s not an argument worth having. With stiff limbs, I scoop up all my school shit, refusing to look at him. I don’t know why I’m so mad at him; this isn’t his fault. It’s so far from his fault, but the people deserving my ire are out of reach or dead.

“Wait, here you go, bud.”

He holds out the pencil that fell to the floor in his big hand. Is Dad a hugger? I could really use one. Maybe he’ll let Dirk come up later, after his shift is over. Dirk’ll cuddle up to me after he lectures me for doing too much too soon. After he tries to convince me for the hundredth time to see a counsellor.

I won’t go back. I won’t. Counselling didn’t work out for me.

“Thanks.” I sniffle and use the back of my free hand to wipe the tears before he sees them. Ow. Fuck. My fucking hand. Yeah, should have worn the brace. I’m not ready for life without the brace. I’m not ready for life with people.

W ith TheraBand covering my thumb like it’s got some kind of latex kink—thank you internet for that one—I move it up and down, side to side, and through every possible range of motion for the thumb. I don’t stop there, working on the wrist, too, as well as every piece of my hand. Dad found me an amazing trainer who specializes in these kinds of injuries. I mean, she calls them sports injuries, not “injuries sustained while escaping a madman”, but potatoe potahtoe.

I’ve been diligent, and the exercises have been paying off. I’ve ditched the brace, and she thinks I should be fine to play next season. It still aches sometimes, and nobody can tell me why. They say things like, “these things just do” as if it’s perfectly normal for a joint to retain some damage no matter how far away you get from the day it was injured. It doesn’t make sense to me. The tissue’s repaired and the muscles have strengthened.

I’ve decided it’s haunted. That it needs to remind me so I never forget.

Ha! No chance of me ever forgetting.

But there’s no pain now. I remove the band, tossing it on my couch bed, flexing and extending it. There’s no scar. From the outside, you’d never know anything had happened to it. Is it like that for me too? Can I make it like that? I don’t want anyone to know what happened to me. It’s not like it lasted very long, only a few months. I just want to move the fuck on from it.

My gaze flickers to the door. I’m supposed to get Dad’s permission to head down to the restaurant. He’s never given me permission this late in the day. It’s well after dinner, but there’ll still be so many people. Just the thought has a heavy weight pressing against my ribcage.

I flex and extend my hand again. No scars. No signs that anything ever happened. Just a haunting ache now and then.

Fake it till you make it.

Dad helped me replenish my collection of concert T-shirts, giving me some of his and buying a few from thrift shops. We could have bought them online, but we agreed they should be as authentic as possible—online would be a last resort. He also has a bunch of rocker friends that were willing to donate shirts for me, which squeezed my fucking heart. I toss a Nickelback shirt on and a pair of skinny black jeans. I step into a pair of black boots probably looking like I’m on my way to audition for My Chemical Romance. All I need is some eyeliner. But I only have two styles. It’s either this or sporty Dash.

Using the injured—previously injured—hand, I twist the doorknob, opening it with the power of someone who doesn’t even know what a bad day is. Just gotta ignore the little curdle of anxiety about meeting Dad’s eyes when he sees what I’m doing. He’ll be annoyed, but that’s about it. I’m almost an adult.

I have to walk down a set of stairs and through a hallway that passes by Dad’s office. My footsteps halt in front of the door, my ears check for the faintest of sounds. Nothing. Dad must be in the restaurant. I carry on past the cubbies, into the chaotic kitchen. There’s shouting, sizzling, plates clattering. Servers brush past other servers, pure anxiety written on their faces. Guess we’re still in the middle of the rush.

Steely gray eyes land on me, taking my breath away. Fucking hell, Dirk. When did he become a bulldog? He’s dressed in a black cotton kitchen jacket, acting as expo tonight. Guess he’s moving up. He was a busser and then a barback. Expo’s another step up the ladder. I’m nothing because I can’t stay down here long enough to eat a burger, never mind work here.

But all that changes tonight. It would be nice if I could work here, too.

“What the fuck are you doing down here? It’s mayhem. I know Travis didn’t okay it. This is bullshit, Dash. Get the fuck back upstairs.”

My cheeks heat. Everyone heard that. I’m sure they know something happened, but not what. I’m already a social pariah, Dirk’s making it worse. I love him, and I know he means well, but he’s a real dick sometimes.

“Fuck you, Dirk.”

I storm past him. Now I’ve got to do this if just to prove that I can.

The heavy two-way door swings open under my hand, almost knocking over the server on the other side along with the dirty plates stacked on his arms.

“Hey! Watch it. Say ‘corner’, asshole.”

Jeez. Are all restaurant people like this? What a jerk. Though, I guess barreling through a door without looking or giving any warning when there are this many people swarming around is kind of an asshole thing to do.

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t seem to care that much, nor does he stop, but I do. It’s a sea—a sea of calamity, noise, and people. Servers run from one point to the next with large trays of drinks. I jump when the door swings again.

“Behind!”

Gah! I’m gonna get run over. I shuffle to the edge, looking for somewhere to take cover. My usual booth is shockingly free, so I scurry the fuck that way. This still counts, right? It counts as me coming down here on my own even if I’m hiding in my booth, yeah?

I can’t see Dad anywhere. Maybe he was in his office? This might be for the better. When he sees me, he’ll probably frog-march me right back upstairs.

Flexing and extending my hand again, I take a breath. I made it. I’m here. I’ll order something, eat, and go back upstairs. Wonder if I can trick the server into getting me a drink?

A guy around my age, green eyes, floppy blond hair, and a dopey smile, saunters up to my table.

“Um, hey, man … you’re Dash, right?”

So much for my cover. “Yeah.”

“The hostees are losing their minds because you sat here without asking them.”

“Hostee?”

“The hostesses—we call ‘em hostees.”

“Sorry, I can move,” I say not wanting to move at all. This is the only place I can sit, especially at a time like this.

He winks. “Don’t worry, I gotchu. I told ‘em you were Travis’s kid and that shut them the hell up fast. I was just letting you know for next time.”

“Oh, thanks, man.”

“Jack. Can I get you something?”

I order juice and a burger. I’m gonna stay no matter what. Even with the buzz all around. Even with Dad nowhere in sight. To be honest, it’s the second thing more so than the first thing that’s the real issue. Quiet is better for my nervous system, but it’s not the noise that sets me off. It’s thinking Robin could be here. Lurking. Waiting to lead me away.

After Jack leaves, I sink my head against the puffy bench seat, surveying the place, breathing. I let the noises sink in, let my brain get used to them. There are so many people, too many people. This was a fucking mistake. I should go back up the stairs before Dad sees me. Before Dirk storms out here and yanks my ass outta here. Kinda surprised he hasn’t yet.

I let my thumb run a loving rhythm over the haunted one, soothing it—a poor attempt to massage away the ache along with the ghosts who live there.

My paranoid eyes catch something at the bar. A spin of brown hair, a touch of golden weaved in with the brown when the light hits just right. He’s large, with the widest shoulders I’ve ever seen. But then he smiles, and I know I’m seeing an angel slinging vodka and pouring pints.

Wait a sec. He looks a lot like?—

“Orange juice,” a voice says. It’s jerkface from the door. I look between him and the guy at the door to make sure I’m not seeing double.

He laughs. “That’s my twin over there. I’m Casey. Sorry about earlier, I thought you were one of the other staff. Almost lost my stack.”

“You guys always talk that way to each other?”

“When it’s busy and people don’t shout corner, yeah. It’s dangerous and heart attack inducing.”

True. I did almost have a heart attack, even though I was the cause of that almost-collision.

“Sorry. I’ll remember for next time.”

“And I’ll try to be less of a dick next time—no promises,” he says, but there’s a bit of teasing in his voice.

“What’s his name—your brother’s?”

“It’s Stacey,” he says. “Why? You think he’s cute? If you do, you must think I’m cute, too.”

There’s no denying that Casey’s attractive, but identical as they may be, there’s something different about Stacey.

“No, but I expect you to say nothing. Don’t tell him I asked you that and I won’t have my dad fire your ass.”

“Trav isn’t gonna fire me for … fuck. You little shit. But I respect a little conniving. Yeah, fine.” He waggles his brows with a sly smile. “I gotta go. Enjoy the view.”

He’s still a jerkface.

I try not to be a creeper about it, but yeah, I’m looking. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind, but if I’m being completely honest, he’s totally my type.

Since I can’t find Dad, every time panic tries to build, I find Stacey instead. I imagine what a beefy guy like him could do to a dweeb like Robin. Those biceps alone—bet he could crack Robin’s head like a watermelon between the crook of his elbow. It’s a weird thought to have about someone who’s got literal angel energy pouring off him in streams. Maybe he’s, like, a mercenary angel. That’s fucking hot.

As if to prove my point, there’s a ruckus at the bar. Stacey’s eyes narrow, his bulky biceps flex.

“Alright, Corey. You’re out.” One hand plants on the bar top and his legs act as springs, catapulting him over. He lands, slapping one of those big hands of his to the back of Corey’s neck. “Let’s go.”

The big man is escorted effectively—but kindly—toward the exit. Kicked out with love.

Whoa. Fucking whoa. That’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen.

The sound of ceramic sliding across wood catches my attention. Dirk’s there with a withering glare for me. He sits on the other side of the table.

“Well? Eat.”

Guess he’s staying. Guess he’s totally fed-up with me.

Dirk’s my childhood bestie. We grew up together. We’re more like brothers than friends, though. Fight like ‘em too. Dirk expresses his worry through anger. He had as rough of an upbringing as I did. When I went missing, he teamed up with my dad to find me. When I escaped Robin, I ran to his and his brother’s place.

He saw me that night, hand garbled, bruised, scratched, malnourished, scared as fuck. The image is embossed on his brain.

“Huh, you actually seem okay,” he says, once I’m halfway through my burger.

I … do actually seem okay. I smile, sneaking a quick glimpse at my mercenary angel at the bar.

“Smiling? What’s gotten into you, Dashie?”

Yeah, I’m so not telling him about my new fascination with Stacey. He’ll think I’m interested in him and go ballistic. Instead, I show him my hand. “It’s healing up good. Trainer says I can go back to hockey.”

“Really? That’s fucking awesome, Dashie. Wait till I tell Hunter, he’ll be so proud.”

I sip my orange juice and take another bite of my burger. Hunter’s Dirk’s brother. In a way, I grew up with him as much as I did Dirk.

“I should get back to the line before Jack fucks up too many orders. You good?”

“I’m good.”

“Please don’t stay down here too much longer, okay? Trav is gonna flip as it is.”

“Where is he by the way?”

Dirk makes a face. “Out. Some pretty brunette.”

“Ew. I don’t wanna know about his sex life.”

He shrugs. “Man’s got a penis.”

Maybe so, but I like to pretend my dad stopped having sex after me. Don’t all kids do that?

M y ultimate goal is to be down here on my own without Dad around. Did I maybe kinda sorta check out the schedule and note the times Stacey’s working? Maybe, but that’s nobody’s business.

He’s an Alderchuck, though, and I know the name Alderchuck. I’ve played hockey against him and his brother a few times. Know what’s better than a mercenary bartending angel? One that plays hockey. I should have known he was a hockey player by the shape of him. Broad shoulders, thick thighs filling out his jeans—a hockey player’s perfectly round ass.

The poor man doesn’t know that he’s the equivalent of my teddy bear. I’ve never touched him, he hasn’t seen me yet—though I’m sure he’s heard of me by now—but his presence soothes me all the same.

Thanks to him, I’m able to make it out from my booth in the back to a little further central in the restaurant.

“Do you think I could work in the restaurant, Dad?” I ask. He knows what I’ve been doing—minus the Stacey part—and it makes him nervous as hell.

He’s getting ready to run some errands. His liquor supplier forgot the tequila and we sell out of that stuff fast, or so I’ve been told. I always hear about the night from Dad. Sometimes we sit up late talking about it.

“Yeah,” he says, but it’s filled with a whole lotta hesitancy. He wants me to do stuff, have independence, but he also wants to keep me safely tucked away where no one can hurt me. “Let’s give it another week, okay?”

A week? I know how that’s gonna go. If I didn’t force the issue, I’d still be sequestered in the apartment. Why can’t anyone see the strides I’ve made? All they see is a broken boy. And they’re not wrong, I am broken, but just like my thumb, no one needs to see those parts of me. I can still function without being perfect.

I’ve got to take matters into my own hands.

Dad slides into his red and black flannel. It’s the summertime, he can’t possibly need that much flannel, but at the same time I can’t picture him without it. “Need me to pick anything up for you?”

“Um, maybe some more of that Kettle corn you brought home the other day?”

“You got it, bud.”

I usually stick to the evenings—Dad doesn’t work evenings, and Stacey does—but Stacey switched shifts with someone. I want to sit at the bar, not hidden, not within the safety of a booth. Looks like it’s going to have to be during daylight hours too.

Of course, I chicken out, slipping into one of the booths nearest the kitchen. It’s a slower time of the day, which means I won’t have the hostees breathing down my neck for sitting where I want to.

Next time. Next time, I’ll sit at the bar. But fuck, how am I supposed to show my dad I’ve moved past everything enough to work here if I can’t even sit at the damn bar?

All I brought was my phone to pass the time. Maybe that says how much faith I have in myself doing this. Fuck. Maybe I shouldn’t have done this. Feathers of panic are already fanning the flames in my chest.

Stacey’s not even here yet. Do I have the right day?

Smack!

No, wait. There he is. Did he just walk into a wall?