Friendzone Hockey (Heartbreak Hockey #4)

Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

NOW

Dash

T here’s a bright yellow Hummer in our driveway. Even if you were wearing a blindfold in the fog, you’d still see it from space. Is there fog in space? Anyway, you’d see it. Maybe it’s Sutter’s. He’s the only one I can think of who’d own one, let alone have the fucking audacity to own one while living in the city. No one drives Hummers in the city because there’s nowhere to park vehicles this big, and they’re terrible on gas. But Casey and Sutter should be long gone to camp by now, so whose is it?

Guess I’m about to find out.

That I can actually get into the house without knocking confirms that Casey and Sutter got out of here like they were supposed to. Sutter insisted we needed what he calls inside locks. We all knew it was because he didn’t feel safe leaving Casey here with one standard door lock, so we let him do it. Casey deserves to have someone dote on him like that. But it means having someone let you in when the others are home, even when you have your key with you.

Inside, the house is quiet. The light in the kitchen’s on and what the…? Did an army of toddlers raid the place? Open bags of chips and cookies are everywhere. Chairs are strewn sideways and upside down. The damn tap’s running.

My kicks crunch over crumbs on my way to the sink. I turn it off and listen. There’s a loud bang-crash from Stacey’s room. As far as I know, Stacey’s not here … or is he? Oh, god. Are we being robbed?

We keep a bat by the fridge, which Sutter lined with barbed wire no matter how many times Casey and I told him how unnecessary that was since there isn’t going to be a zombie apocalypse, and he’s not Neegan from the Walking Dead. Now I’m kinda glad for his foresight.

Creeping down the hallway, I’m the definition of stealth. There’s another crash-bang, this time it’s followed by laughter.

I don’t know that laugh.

“That’s it, sweetheart, put it in his hole, nice and slow.”

But fuck, I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere, half dead.

Stacey. Did he just call someone sweetheart? It’s not that Stacey only calls me sweetheart, but if he’s gonna call one of us sweetheart, it’s usually me. He never calls outsiders sweetheart.

Never.

So, does that mean he’s with one of us? Clearly, he’s with two people. A stranger and maybe one of us. Dirk’s the only possibility. Is Dirk hooking up with Stacey right now?

A not-so-unfamiliar feeling creeps over me. Stacey is one of my best friends. In the seven years we’ve been friends, we’ve become close in ways I’m not with the others, and I want him to be happy. Meet someone meant for him in every way—like I have with Syd. But I get, I dunno, would it be called protective? A tad possessive? My back gets up, okay? My defense system rockets to high alert, and I watch his potential lovers with acuity, even though I couldn’t tell you what I was looking for.

I need to approve whoever it is. Stacey deserves someone special.

He's special.

But anyway, if he is hooking up with Dirk and calling him sweetheart, I shouldn’t have anything to worry about. I’m just surprised is all.

But.

But.

Fuck.

The idea that it could be Dirk in there, getting called sweetheart while doing unspeakable things to Stacey layers the familiar feeling with?—

Okay, fine.

Jealousy.

Am I jealous?

Yes.

I hate how much I get jealous of Stacey with other people. I’m not supposed to feel that way, and I always lash out in some possessive kind of way.

My heart races. I want to burst in there. I want to?—

The door opens and Stacey emerges, his curls flattened to waves, bare sun-kissed skin on display, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers with hearts all over them, a gift from me the year we had an anti-Valentine’s Day together. He’s covered in hickeys, love bites, and lips. Someone in there was wearing red lipstick, now it’s painted on his body.

“Dash?” he says blinking. Then he spies the bat in my hand.

“I thought we were being robbed,” I admit. “When did you get home?”

I didn’t know he was coming home today, either. It’s only been two weeks since I last saw or heard from him, but it’s like I’m looking at an entirely different person. It was bad enough that last season felt like it lasted a hundred years. Sutter and Casey finally became a thing after way too fucking long of them push-pulling their way to a volatile ever after. Stacey and Casey had their first NHL season with the Vancouver Orcas and had a cup run, which means their season ran into June, and I was forced to spend even more time without Stacey.

Then he pulls an out-of-character disappearing act.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Earlier today. Casey knew. He didn’t tell you?”

Casey, that fucking bitch. Why wouldn’t he tell me? “I mean, you could have told me. You could have answered my texts, too, but whatever.”

“Yeah, I meant to, but I didn’t, and I get it if you’re mad at me.”

Am I mad? Fuck, yeah, I’m mad. He’s in so much shit for this. Stacey has never ignored me in his life. Not for an hour, certainly not for a day. Going two full weeks was like having my soul ripped out of me. Since our friendship began, I knew the day he got sick of me would come. I’m a lot. I’m needy, sensitive, and all-around high maintenance. I told him I’d be too much, but he promised—no he vowed—that he’d never leave me.

The first day of radio silence, I talked myself through my usual script of affirmations: He loves me, he’s busy, he said he needed some time to himself.

But another voice said, “When has he ever needed time away from you?”

I reasoned that it was about time he did. I’m getting married. Us spending as much time as we do together—even when we’re not actually together—is going to change. He’d left pretty quickly after I asked him to be my best man, it made sense that he’d need to process the upcoming changes.

Then day two, day three, day four … nothing. My stomach’s been eating itself. The anxious buzz that used to be my daily companion returned, and it brought bullies, feeding me negative thoughts like they’re the breakfast of anti-champions.

Old protective mechanisms have already kicked in, trapping the feelings I’m so used to pouring out to him in my throat. I don’t deserve to feel this way. What right do I have? None. The answer’s none.

I run my fingers through my hair. I want to force a smile and tell him, “No, just missed you and worried about you.” Most of that would even be true. But I didn’t just miss him; I couldn’t think about anything or anyone else but him. I obsessively checked my phone for a message. I did recon, trying to get information on him from our friends. I also may have slept in his room a few times, crying into his fucking pillow.

I was forced to live without him in a new way. I thought being away from him during the season was rough—and boy was it—but none of that compares to the last two weeks without a goddamn word from him.

“So what? I don’t merit a fucking explanation? That how we work now? That’s bullshit, Alderchuck.”

“Dash, I?—"

We’re interrupted. Two men—naked men—strut out of the room. They’re a similar type, thin, blond, and dainty. They’re so similar that people might mistake them for being related at first glance, but something tells me they’re not. They’re also pretty in the same way I’m pretty, but with less muscle.

I hate them on sight.

My body tenses, and I don’t bother to hide my glare. My anger’s already bubbling to a violent froth, there’s only so much I can keep to myself.

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Stacey says. “Put some clothes on for me, eh?” He kisses one on the cheek and smacks the other’s bare ass.

My blood boils. We’re talking “could melt an ice rink” boils.

“Yes, Hockey Daddy,” they dutifully say.

Hockey Daddy? I’m gonna throw up.

“Um, I’ll clean up. Promise.”

Fuck the house. We have way bigger issues brewing here than a messy house. “So, who are those lovely creatures in there?”

Stacey stares after them. “Just … just some guys I met. It cool if they stay with us for a bit?”

Is he for real right now? But I don’t want him catching on to my minor panic attack. I’m sure what I’m experiencing is shock and concern. Fucking off without contact and showing up with two gorgeous men he has to have plucked fresh from Benduovr isn’t his MO. It’s so far from his brand that I’d be more inclined to believe Casey and Stacey have had a secret triplet all along.

He’s gone momentarily insane, and I can look past it this once.

“Yeah, totally cool.” Wish I hadn’t said that. It’s so totally not cool. “Um, so long as it doesn’t interfere with your best man duties. You’re still my best man, yeah?”

I hope that’ll spur him into action. Challenge him to say something. It’s hard to know if what I’m sensing is real, or if I’ve fabricated the whole thing. But it’s just … fuck, he left right after that. He didn’t talk to me, but I know he was talking to other people. Kinda hoping to goad him into a confession if I’m honest, because yeah, I’m a little petty about it. He’s always asked for—no demanded—full honesty from me, and now he’s what? Lying? Dishonest?

“There a reason I wouldn’t be?” he says, brown eyes hardening.

Because of the look you get when I bring it up. “Not one I can think of.”

“Of course, I’m your best man. I said I was, didn’t I?”

“Well, we have a lot to plan. The Bobbsey Twinks gonna be down for that?”

“They do whatever I tell them to do,” he says.

My veins burn. Fine. I guess they’re some kinda kinky sex slaves or something. Whatever. I can’t stop staring at all the marks on him. Fuck, I need to stop staring at all the marks on him.

“Guess I can put this away,” I say, gesturing toward the bat. I turn.

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re right. I should explain myself.”

The marks, the lipstick, the hickeys—they’re all I can see. That’s not fair. He has a right to those. I’m getting married, and Stacey should get to be with whoever he wants. I’m over him. So over him.

I am.

Then why the fuck do I want to break something?

Maybe because life is fucking unfair. Maybe because I’ve been forced into accepting that the one person I want—the only person I’ve ever wanted in a bone-deep way—told me we’re never going to be a thing.

Yeah. More than once. In ways that severed my fucking heart. Well, what was left of it. He told me I was too dependent on him. Has always been firm that he played too much of a mentor role in my life for us being a thing to ever be appropriate.

I can’t even tell him he was wrong because I can’t exist, can’t function without him—in other words, he’s right. I chose friendzone for life over nothing at all, even though it kills me just a little every fucking day. That’s some kind of codependency I’m sure they haven’t added to the DSM-5 yet. I never want to be anything but honest with Stacey, with the exception of a white lie or five to preserve my sanity. But I’d have to admit that he’s been right all along. The way we bonded during the hardest time of my life made me need him like air, and I’ve never stopped. I’ve been through enough therapy by now—after a lot of convincing to finally get me to the therapist’s office—to know a real relationship can’t be forged from that kind of trauma experience.

Nothing good can come from trauma-bonded relationships. Everyone says that. Everyone knows that.

Intellectually, I know this, too. But tell that to my heart. It refuses to fucking believe that my feelings for Stacey don’t exist. That they’re some sort of fabricated alternate universe invented by my trauma-muddled mind. It’s just … they’re so real to me, and Stacey means everything to me. I’m led back to the same conclusion: Does it matter how we started, so long as we’re good to each other?

I have to recite reality to myself and out loud. Those feelings don’t exist, they don’t exist, they don’t fucking exist. But my heart beats with those feelings no matter what I do. Dating other people, moving on, even trying to keep my thoughts clean—operative word try.

I never want Stacey to know how much I’m still attached to him. I never want him to know that I’ve never moved on from needing him. It’s the reason he refused to date me, no matter how many times I threw myself at him. And there’s still a small piece of me that’s terrified he’d remove himself from my life permanently if he knew I physically can’t get over him. That I need him in the most visceral way you can need a person.

He's taken the first step. He fucking ghosted you, Dash.

He’s told me time and time again that he’d never leave me, but Stacey does what’s best for Dash. Period. Ask me how I know. If it came down to it, he would if he thought it was something I needed.

Yeah. He’d totally pull an Edward Cullen from New Moon and fuck did I ever hate that book for that reason.

But he should be mine. He belongs to me. No one else should have their fucking hands on him.

I gesture up and down his body. “I’m not talking to you like this.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, and I don’t miss the tightening of his jaw. Then he rubs a hand over his face, erasing the tension.

“What do you want from me, Dash?”

Everything I can’t have.

I spin the wedding ring on my finger ironically, swallowing down the lump of anger and betrayal. And yeah, that’s rich coming from me when I’m the one getting married, but he started it. He rejected me first. Fuck, though. I’m letting the gremlins take over. I can’t do that. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that.

“It’s just…” My voice cracks. “You left me. You were away from me all fucking season. I looked forward to seeing you, Stace, but you left before I could get in the door. Couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

Oh man, Past Me is rolling over in his grave right now. He had plans to be chill about this. He had plans not to say a fucking thing about this. Now Me’s kiboshed those plans straight to hell.

The moment Stacey breaks is a horrible thing. I know how much the man never wants to hurt me, but he did, and that sinks in like acid for him. “Dash, I didn’t mean … I thought …” He looks around as if maybe someone’s thrown him a life raft to pull him out of the sinking ship that is us.

I want to claw at my eyes, tear them out so I don’t have to watch his heartbreak. But what was I supposed to do? I’ve never been good at hiding big feelings from him. “Sorry. Maybe I need some sleep, I dunno. I can’t do this right now. See you in the morning, okay?”

He nods, utter dejection about to crumble him. I’m sure he’ll be fine. His little pool boys can pick up the pieces. I can’t. I head to my bedroom, breathing heavily behind the door, dropping the bat in the corner, and twisting my engagement ring some more. I should call Syd. Hearing his voice—that’ll help me calm down.

I do love Syd. I do. I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life with him. What I feel for Syd’s exciting because with him I have a real chance to move on.

But I don’t fool anyone, even myself. I’m not going to call Syd. There’s only one thing I want to do right now.

I dig through my closet. Way at the back, I have one of Stacey’s old Wildcats jerseys. I haven’t gotten my hands on one of his Vancouver jerseys, something I’d hoped to remedy this off-season. I get naked and slip into it. Then I crawl into bed.

It’s a weird thing I do, sure, but Stacey’s … Stacey.

He helped me get over the hardest time in my life. I might have developed something close to hero worship for him. He exists in a special place in my head as my hot mercenary angel. I’ve compared everyone I’ve ever dated to him, and no one’s measured up. The comfort alone. Stacey’s held me through more cryfests than I can count. I’ve lived half my life in those big arms of his.

Text Syd, a little voice says.

Syd’s away. Off on another business trip. He’s into buying apartments worldwide and renting them out—residentially and commercially. He’s out of town checking out a few prospects. He asked me to come with him, but I didn’t, thinking I’d spend time with my friend, have our last summer together before I’m a married man.

The thought makes me ache all over, and not in the fun way. Things will change. They’re already changing.

As much as I love Stacey for being Stacey, it’s because he’s him that we didn’t end up together. I don’t like to think about the time I made a huge fool out of myself, throwing myself at him. I’m lucky that because we’re such good friends, it didn’t ruin our friendship, but it could have.

I’ll always be the guy he mentored after my life went to shit. I’ll always be his boss’s son—even though my dad’s not his boss anymore. He’s made that crystal fucking clear. He’s too much the “always does the right thing” kind of guy to ever step outside of that.

You have Syd. Remember that guy?

I do.

I love Syd. I’m being crazy, and the blame solely rests on the shoulders of the blond sluts next door.

I send Syd the kiss emoji. I get a message almost immediately.

Syd

Do you need me, my love?

My love. I smile.

Me

Nope. Just sending you love.

Needy, sensitive, and a tad high maintenance—that’s me. I know it, I own it, I’m grateful Syd’s so good with me.

See? I’m all set.