Friendzone Hockey (Heartbreak Hockey #4)

Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

NOW

Next Morning

Dash

O ne of them’s pushing a chair toward the cupboards, the other one’s on the counter. At least they’re wearing pants, I guess, but I’m not sure the fitful sleep I had last night is enough to give me the patience to deal with them. They’re so pretty and small. Is this what Stacey’s always wanted? As petite as they are, they’re overgrown children, climbing the damn cupboards. The one on the chair opens the cupboard, passing a bottle of honey to his counterpart.

Where the hell is Stacey? Can they be trusted on their own? And, ugh, Stacey. I know him, which means I know he’s going to make me talk to him, and I don’t want to. I want to pretend I didn’t say shit last night. That I’m totally unbothered by him moving on with his life.

That’s right. I know what he’s doing. I’m getting married, so he’s moving on with his life. Taking the first steps toward distancing himself from what we’ve always known is a pretty codependent friendship. One neither of us could let go of no matter how far down the rabbit hole we dug. What’s my problem with that? Everything. Our friendship’s only so fucked up in the first place because it shouldn’t be a friendship. Stacey should be fucking mine. I consider him mine. That’s what makes me crazy when I see him with anyone else. It’s gotten worse over the years, not better. But no matter what I’ve done over seven fucking years, he won’t budge on his personal brand of sanctimony. It’s infuriating. But yeah. It led me to where I am now. I can’t live like this anymore. We both need to move the fuck on.

Someone please tell me how to do that.

“What are you two doing?” I snap.

“Making peanut butter and honey toast for Daddy,” the one on the counter says.

“Stacey hates—” I don’t finish that sentence. Stacey hates honey on peanut butter. He doesn’t like too many sweet things, actually, besides his obsession with all things chocolate and caramel. This’ll be fun.

“What does he hate?”

“He hates it when you don’t use enough honey. Make sure it’s dripping.”

“Oh, it’ll be dripping,” he says, obviously making some kind of innuendo that I pretend not to get.

“Put it in his coffee too,” I add. “He loves that.”

I don’t know why I’m being so mean. He didn’t do anything to me—except not talk to me for two weeks.

Okay, that might be why.

By the time Stacey saunters out from the shower, the summer twins have a small breakfast of peanut butter and honey toast, coffee, and a stack of pancakes waiting. It’s enough simple carbohydrates to put him in a post-breakfast, sugar-induced coma.

“Look what we made you, Hockey Daddy. Come eat.”

Hockey Daddy. Blech.

Stacey surveys the spread. He’s too polite to break their hearts. He’s left with no choice but to sit and eat his weight in sugar. “Wow. This was thoughtful. Daddy’ll reward you later.”

My ears. Can I bleach my ears?

They high-five each other, and sling arms around each other’s waists, waiting with building anticipation for Stacey to take the first bite. I pretend I’m not watching or laughing inside my head. Stacey—predictably—takes a sip of his coffee first. I knew he would. Stacey’s a coffee guy. No matter the time he gets up, he likes to sit with what he refers to as “first coffee” for a good hour before he gets breakfast going, before he even thinks about breakfast. He drinks “second coffee” with breakfast. Third and fourth coffee only happen if he’s had a rough night.

He can’t hide the nose wrinkle when he tastes the bucket load of honey they dumped into the mug, but he covers it quickly when they frown collectively.

“Just a bit sweet,” he admits. “But you used the perfect amount of coffee grounds.”

Of course. Stacey could have been an elementary school teacher with the way he’s able to find authentic compliments buried in utter failure. He’s perfect, so fucking perfect. Sometimes I hate how perfect he is, but only because I can’t have him, and even if I could, what have I got to bring to the table?

Emotional trauma? Abandonment issues? A bratty as hell attitude when I don’t get my way? I don’t even have a fat trust fund. Stacey’s the millionaire between us. He’s always taking care of me, too. I must be exhausting. These two happy little sprites are what a man like Stacey deserves—easy, breezy, giggly. I’m not easy or breezy. I’m not sure I’ve ever giggled in my life. It’ll be so much better for him when I’m out of his life.

And yet, I’m just that selfish. I’m going to find a way to get rid of these two just like I’ve gotten rid of everyone else who’s tried to take Stacey from me.

That fucking phantom pain in my thumb decides to show up. I itch to soothe it, rub my other thumb over top, but I resist. It’ll set off alarm bells for Stacey. That’s all I fucking need right now.

The slightly taller one smiles, planting his hands on Stacey’s round shoulders, jumping. “We wanted to do something nice for you.”

“It’s very nice, sweetheart.”

I cringe. If Stacey calls either of them that one more time, I’m going to rip out his tongue.

They take their seats and help themselves to pancakes. Stacey eyes his breakfast with a hefty amount of dread, says a silent prayer, and digs in.

“We gave you extra syrup, just how you like it,” the shorter one says. I would learn their names, but I’m hoping they won’t be around long enough for it to matter.

Stacey tilts his head. “And just where did you learn how I like my pancakes, huh?”

Uh-oh.

His eyes are on me. He’s already put two and two together.

“Dash. He told us how you liked your coffee, too,” the taller one says, proudly. Rat.

Stacey taps his fingers on the table. “He did, did he?” He’s still got his razor-sharp gaze on me. My heart races, and I’m suddenly inspired to crawl under a rock. The devil bites him, I can practically see the wheels in his mind turning.

And that makes … ahhh . My body sighs. A tendril of mischievous warmth curls its way through my limbs.

We finish breakfast, Stacey licking every last drop of syrup and honey from his plate—good lord, he’s gonna have a sugar high—and then he addresses the twins.

“How about you two take a shower, and then I’ll take you exploring.”

“Yes!”

“May we play with each other in the shower, Hockey Daddy?”

“You may—but no coming without my permission.”

Good god. I don’t bother hiding my scowl. Is this what Stacey wanted? Is this the real reason we never worked out?

Something scratches in my throat, wanting to get out, but I tamp it the fuck down. I’m not going there, and I never will again. It makes me so mad when I think about it that I want to punch Stacey in the face.

I love Stacey more than I want animosity between us, so I let it go. But, man, this is fucking stirring the pot.

The half-naked men race for the shower, excited by the prospect of play without gratification, and I— fuck —that’s kinda hot. I’m picturing that, and I forget that I’ve got an almost six-foot-three, angry hockey player across from me.

“Well, I’m just gonna—” I stand.

“You’re not going anywhere, Dash. Sit.”

Fuck me. That voice.

I fucking sit, sinking into my chair, accepting imminent doom.

“Dash?”

I jump. “Yeah?”

“There a reason I’m being punished?”

“Punished? That’s not what I’m?—”

His barbarous expression stops my mouth from talking. From lying.

I huff. “Sorry.”

His lips break into a huge grin, which is not appreciated. It’s pretty obvious, no matter how much I want to deny it, that I’m jealous of the attention he’s giving them, and I retaliated in a brat-like manner.

Not my finest moment.

“Nah, I deserved it,” he says. “We talk every day, I didn’t call you once, and then I show up with two adorable subs on my arms. I didn’t do it to hurt you, I did it to move on, but I won’t continue if it hurts you.”

“Wait, move on? Move on from what?” Because that sounds a lot different than the kind of “move on” I’d been thinking of.

“From you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Okay, it sounds special when he says it to me. And you’re distracting yourself from what he just fucking said, Dash. What did he say? I need to run that by my brain again.

I needed to move on from you.

“From me? There was no us to move on from, Stace.” I hear the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I don’t mean them how they sound but, judging by his wince, he takes them how they sound. I’m trying to make his words make sense in real-time, out loud, when what I should be doing is finding out just what the fuck he means before I let my mouth get me into trouble. Instead, it sounds like I’m trying to draw a hard boundary. I’m not. Not at all. “I mean … fuck.”

He leans closer. I’m in the seat across from him, much too far away. The world does that funny thing it does whenever he stares at me for too long, as if it’s tilted its axis a degree too far, spinning too fast.

“I know this comes too late, but, fuck it,” he mutters. “I wish it were me marrying you instead of Syd.”

He wishes what…? I can’t have heard him right.

“But … but you said nothing was ever happening between us. You said … you said?—”

“I said stupid shit. It was shit that I believed, really fucking believed at the time, Dash. I was trying to do right by you, and I don’t regret what I did. You were too vulnerable when we met.”

He didn’t just say it, he lived it. Our friendship’s been one long walk on a tight rope, balancing on a thin wire, always worried we were gonna go over. I wanted it, wanted that free fall into him. But for Stacey, falling over the edge meant the fall of his moral code. Each time we wavered, got close, confronted our feelings, he pulled away, drew a hard line in the sand.

“But the whole time, I ached for you. I tried to erase the ache. This fucking bone-eating ache.” He takes a breath as if that ache is eating away at him right now. “I was going to tell you the season before last—my last one with the Wildcats. But then you met Syd and you fell for him so fast. On paper, keeping my mouth shut seemed like the best course of action. Nothing was going to come of my feelings, what would be the point?”

Yeah, what is the point? What good does he think coming clean about this is gonna do now? I’m getting married for fucksake. I work to keep my breathing under control. My emotions are another story. A contradictory stewpot of anger, frustration, and pure elation bubbles beneath my skin, wanting to froth over.

What am I supposed to do with this?

“But the rift is already there, Dash. The only way I can think to close it, heal it, sew it up, is with pure honesty. Dealing with it won’t be comfortable—this conversation’s not fucking comfortable—but it’s the only way through.”

I want to say so many things, but the words are trapped, clogging my throat. Mostly, what the fuck? What the actual fuck? I know he doesn’t expect me to dive into his arms so that we can run off into the sunset, but even if he did, the answer would be no.

Not after … after … I’m so confused. He told me it would be wrong for us to date until I believed him. How would we undo that? The amount of time I’ve lived with that reason—seven years if anyone’s counting—and the fucking heart-smashing rejection when I tried to convince him otherwise. It took ages to recover from that, but in the end, having Stacey in my life was always the most important thing.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I finally manage.

That. That right there is why I’m a selfish, selfish, leech. I want Stacey to stay forever mine no matter what else happens. That’s fucked up. It doesn’t stop me wanting it.

“You’re never gonna lose me, okay? I’ll get over my feelings in time. I promise not to make this weird for you. I know how to be respectful, and I know how to be your friend above all else.”

“Oh, god. I asked you to be my best man. I’m the worst.” All the little horrors wash through me. Me going to him with every Syd problem, me telling him I was getting married. If he was already aching, these things had to be ripping him apart. I’m not an innocent party just because I was an ignorant party.

“You’re not the worst, but it’s stuff like being your best man that made me see I had to tell you. How can you be an authentic friend if you don’t know how I feel? You probably wouldn’t have asked me had you known, but I’d still like to be your best man if you’ll let me.”

I don’t know what I want right now, but I do know that whatever it ends up being, I won’t be able to do it without him. “You sure you’re gonna be fine with it?”

“I’m not saying I won’t have days, but I won’t let it affect you. Trent and Alex help.” He winks.

My stomach lurches.

“Unless … should I take them home?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m just not used to seeing you with someone like them. I’ll be fine.” Am I fine, though? I guess I’m doing a good job of looking fine. Just like I always do. Showing how not fine I was never boded well for me.

He leans back. “This is already a relief. It’s a weight I’ve been carrying around for years.”

What the fuck? Years?

“But now that it’s out there, it’s not so heavy. I can move on now, I think,” he finishes.

Move on? I didn’t know there was an on and now he’s moving on from that on? Inside, I’m drowning, which is stupid.

“Plus, you’re so in love with Syd that I figured this wouldn’t be a big deal.”

I force a nod. “Yeah.” I do love Syd.

But not like I fucking love you, you fucking idiot.

Stacey’s the only person on earth I can love like I do while wanting to pound on him at the same time.

I can’t stave off the tick any longer. I let my right hand cup the left, I let my right thumb smooth over the phantom ache. It’s the second-best feeling in the world.

Stacey doesn’t miss what I’m doing. He frowns, biting his lip and trying not to let me see that he sees.

“I just…” My voice comes out all croaky. “What changed for you? What made it finally okay?”

He wants to touch me, wants to reach out and stop my hands from what they’re doing. I can feel it in the air. He doesn’t.

“It was something Casey said to me. You haven’t been in the state Robin and your mom left you in for a long time. You’ve done the work, and it would be so unfair for me not to acknowledge that. You’ve moved past it.”

The elation that was on standby, that I haven’t let out of the box yet, snuffs out of existence. It’s a damn good thing I wasn’t stupid enough to let myself go there. Stacey’s wrong. Yeah, I’ve moved on, but it’s not as pretty as he’s making it sound. The damage Robin and Mom did isn’t gone. It was permanent. But just like my thumb, you can’t see the scar because I don’t let it come to the surface. I keep those parts of me on lockdown because when people see them, they think I’m still injured.

That’s the difference. The injury’s gone, I can function again, but the phantom pain remains.

I’m not as vulnerable or skittish as I was, but I’ll always be just a little dependent on him, or maybe a lot. Stacey doesn’t want that. He made it clear that needing him like I do was only fine as friends. Anything else would be a breach of morals for him. And while Stacey and I have very few boundaries, that’s not one I’m willing to cross.

If anything, this is the final nail in the coffin for us. I want Stacey, he wants me, but my past will forever keep us apart.

I let go of my hand and that seems to relax him. Wouldn’t he like to know that I’ve simply opted for pain today? Pain is a good teacher.

“I’ve definitely done the work. And, yeah, Syd’s pretty great, so I’m happy.”

“Good. Okay. That’s fucking good. I didn’t know how this was gonna go over, but I think it went well?” He lifts a single brow to punctuate the question mark of that sentence. He needs to know from me, needs my okay.

What do I tell him?

The right thing. I’ve got to do the right thing. Especially when I have no intention of breaking things off with Syd.

The wrong thing would be telling him to continue to be mine without being mine. Stacey’s been my security blanket, my hero, and my source of self-esteem for so long, that’s got to be why I’m having this reaction. This was always coming. We never talked about it, but deep down, we knew this day was coming. We’d have to break off our friendtuationship. What better time than before my wedding? He can’t wait around for me while I get over myself.

But doing the right thing is hard, so fucking hard. I take a breath.

“Of course, it’s okay. Not gonna lie, it’s hard not having all your attention, but I’m being a big baby. It’s important to me that you’re happy.”

Stacey loses the brightness he came home with. He licks his lip as if he’s preparing to say something, but the words don’t come.

“What?” I ask.

“Even when you think you don’t have my attention, you have it, Dash.”

I can’t remember if I inhaled or exhaled last. Why do his words affect me so damn much? I need them to roll off my back. What’s the saying? Like water off a duck’s back?

They’re not rolling. They’re not water.

What’s the saying for when they stick like molasses?

I force a swallow, swallowing the fucking stupid shit that might come out of my mouth. I’m marrying Syd. I love Syd. I’m just being so me about this, blowing it up for no reason. Later, I’ll realize how much of a non-issue this is. I’ll laugh.

I’m so gonna be the duck.

Water, meet duck.

And know what? In the spirit of the knowing, the absolute faith that we’ll get through this awkwardness, I walk over to him. He stands. I’m not what you’d call a tiny man, I’m not even small. Maybe a tad small for a hockey player, but that doesn’t make me small. But Stacey’s always been larger than me. He’s a towering, almost six foot three and his presence adds another level of “big” to him. His size swallows me like it always does, my head lays itself perfectly on the perch of his shoulder.

My arms reach around, and I imagine that I’m trapping him with me forever.