Friendzone Hockey (Heartbreak Hockey #4)

Chapter 19

Chapter

Nineteen

THEN

Off-Season Four - End of June

Stacey

W ell, that’s one way to start the off-season. Jack thought Rhett was going to propose to him, but instead they broke up. Can’t say I didn’t see that coming, but I’m still devastated on his behalf while simultaneously glad it happened. Rhett’s fine, but he wasn’t for Jack. I guess I can’t be counted as an expert on the love topic seeing as I’ve pined for Dash for four fucking hockey seasons now. But experiencing Jack’s utter heartbreak is a reflection of my own.

Jack’s hockey hair’s a mess, his lucky hat sits lonely on the coffee table. Casey’s where he’s been for the past few days—beside him—and I’m trying to come up with something we can do to ease the world-ending devastation.

Dirk and Dash are at the pub, but they’re due home any minute.

“It’s just, I thought we were it, y’know?” Jack says. “He called me sunshine—is anyone gonna call me sunshine ever again?”

Casey puts an arm around him, pulling Jack into his side and kissing the top of his head. “I’ll call you sunshine, bud. Know what we should do? Let’s go on a sex bender. We’ll bang so many dudes during the off-season, bro.”

That spells major trouble. I’m gonna have to keep my eye on them.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs. “Maybe.”

The front door swings open. A disheveled Dash and Dirk storm through the door, fresh from the end of the lunch rush. Everyone’s been working overtime, taking some of Jack’s shifts so he can mope. We make sure someone’s with him at all times so “the sad” doesn’t have time to kick in. His words.

“I’m telling you, people who want one menu item split more than two ways on a bill deserve a special place in hell,” Dash says. “Their bill got so fucked up because of it. Didn’t help that they moved around from seat to seat like fucking toddlers in a daycare, playing musical chairs.”

“Agree, bro,” Dirk says with an arm around him. “We brought burgers and beer, Jack.”

“I love burgers and beer,” Jack says. “I also love Rhett.” Tears spill down his face for the third time in two hours. “Rhett hated burgers and beers.”

“Ah, man. I’m sorry.”

“I got him,” Casey says. “But, uh, maybe pass over those beers. A few of those and he’ll be right as rain.”

“Okay, but I’ll leave ‘em on the counter. I was working in the kitchen again. I need a shower before I get near other humans. You comin’ with, Dash? Save water?”

We’ve showered in a locker room together eighty thousand times and we keep it up at home because, y’know, we totally love the environment. Or maybe because we’re horny young men. Something like that. But I’m fucking proud to say I’ve showered with Dash, not popped wood, and was able to wash his hair for him all without turning into a sexual predator.

“Sounds good. We’ll cuddle you when we’re clean, Jacky,” Dash promises.

Dash slides behind me from where I’m working in the kitchen. His fingers crawl across my torso, leaving a wake of tingles. “Hmmm, cooking shirtless again, eh?”

It’s been my thing since, well, maybe Gator? I can’t remember. He didn’t hang around long once he was traded.

“Mhm.”

“Checking in, Captain Alderchuck. Today was fucking brutal.”

That gets my attention. We’ve done this for a while, check-ins instead of major conversations—unless he wants to have one. It took a few therapists for him to find the one he’s been seeing for the past year. But his current therapist, Billy, is fucking phenomenal. She’s a holistic psychologist and a bit edgy, all things Dash vibes with. I turn off the stove, spinning around to pull him into my body properly.

“I can finish this for dinner since you two brought food home. You need to talk?”

He shakes his head, wrapping his arms around me, sinking into my skin, sighing. “No. I needed … this.”

My heart beats a steady rhythm. I run my fingers through his hair and kiss his crown. “You smell like a deep fryer.”

“Mhm,” he hums against my naked chest. “I had to jump onto the expo line while Terry dealt with a sliced hand.”

“Nolan! Let’s go!” Dirk calls from down the hallway.

“I swear, he sounds more like his brother every year.” Dash lets me go. I want to punch Dirk in the face. Dash needed a hug.

“I folded the house laundry earlier. Left yours on your bed.”

“Thanks, Alderchuck,” he says. He ambles his tired self toward the shower. Two sets of eyes watch me.

My brows lift. “What?”

Jack’s eyes are red, but he’s not crying anymore. Casey’s got a smirk as wide as Lynn Valley Canyon across his face.

“ Puh -lease, Stace,” Jack says.

I scowl.

“He doesn’t like talking about that,” Casey warns.

“We should,” Jack mutters as if the topic of me and Dash is communal.

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.

My fucking 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 my hockey jersey?

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.

Dirk’s eyes sparkle. “Wat’cha doin’ in Stacey’s jersey, Dashie?”

Fucker. My cheeks heat, but I’d kinda like to know too. I want to get him out of it, pin him to my bed, ram my cock so far up inside of—fuck. All that time spent getting over him was a waste. Ruined by simple polyester and varsity font.

“Huh? Oh, dunno. It was on my bed with the laundry,” he says, rooting around for an ice pack.

I facepalm. The laundry. I did a shit ton for the house today. Some of it was from the season. We’ve been that busy, too busy to get to it. I must have accidentally put my jersey with his stuff. He thinks I wanted him to have it.

Jack and Casey put it all together. They might literally die of laughter if they don’t take a breath soon. Dirk’s not laughing like they are, but his evil fucking smile says a lot.

“It’s too small for me,” I say, and it’s true. I was gonna get rid of it anyway, I can’t think of a better home for it than on Dash’s body.

I’ll just have to get over these new feelings. The predatory ones that make me want to leave more marks on him, declaring him mine. I’ve done it before, I can do it again.

The only immediate problem is the giant boner filling my sweats. “I’m … I’ll be right back. Will you finish this for me, Dirk?” I say, shoving the oven mitts at him.

Ducking into the bathroom is my only escape. I don’t know how I’m gonna go back out there, him wearing my idea of a stamp of ownership, me unable to do anything about it.

Unless.

I reach for my dick. There’s a knock on the door, so I abandon that idea fast. “It’s me, Stacey. Open up.” It’s Casey.

“Go the fuck away,” I warn him.

He bangs on the door. “Let me in.”

I close my eyes, gathering all the calm I can, but it’s in short supply today. I open my eyes and then the door, yanking my brother inside, slamming the door shut. “What?” I snap.

His brows pinch together. “Oh my god, bro, were you trying to?—”

The back of my head bangs against the tiles. “What did you think I ran in here to do?”

“Take care of your massive forehead bruise?”

Shit. From what I see in the mirror, it is a sizable bruise, and it needs ice, fast. I exhale hard enough to flutter the longer strands of my hair always falling in my face. I brace myself with hands gripping either side of the small bathroom countertop. I can’t go back out there, but at least my hard-on is subsiding.

“Oh my god, you’re still in love with him,” Casey says.

“What did you think it was?”

“An old crush? Lust? Dude, if it’s love, you gotta go for it.”

“I’ve already told you?—”

“Yeah, yeah. We all get it, believe me. We don’t need to hear you say it anymore. Years ago, I saw your points. Not just because you said ‘em, but because I could see ‘em in Dash. They’re not there anymore.”

“He just came to me for comfort because he had a bad day.”

“And Jack’s been crying on our couch for the past week.”

I recall that conversation I had with Travis once that’s burned its way into my soul. “Those two things aren’t the same.”

“Maybe not before, but they are now. Dash wanted to heal, and he did. Is he perfect? No. Nobody is, though. It would be fucking awful if he went through what he did, did the work, and then was never considered all stitched up.”

Oh.

Okay, ouch.

He knocks on my skull, which is squeezing from all the swelling. A pressurized ache beats across it.

“Am I getting through to you? And before you spout off your usual ‘I was his mentor’ bullshit, you haven’t been that for him either, not for a long time. He comes to you because you’re his friend.”

I’d already decided that, too, consciously, but subconsciously, I’ve been operating like I did when I was his mentor. Casey’s words cut to the heart of me. It’s like I’m a wet towel that’s been wrung out, twisted until the last drop has been wrenched from me. Even if I were to consider this, there are other problems now. New ones.

“I’ve rejected him so many times, it’s unfair. It would be a real dick move. Like I was playing with his heart or something. I can’t do that to?—”

“Spare me, dude. You’re fucking infuriating. Always with an excuse. What are you afraid of?”

“Of hurting him, okay? I can’t ever hurt him.” That would be unforgivable.

I don’t know why Mom comes to mind right now. It makes no fucking sense, but there she is. And it’s not her usual comedic self, she’s more like a warning beacon.

Casey freezes. Whatever he was about to say dies on his lips. But his expression is similar to the one that’s been on Jack’s face all week—utter devastation. As if the personal hell I’m doomed to for life affects him in some way.

He shrugs it off. “Then it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

My head tilts. “What do you mean by that?”

“You don’t know? Right, Dash probably leaves that out during all the heart-to-hearts you guys have.”

I turn, snarling, twisting my hand into his T-shirt like it’s a hockey jersey. Like we’re on the ice. “Tell me.”

He gets his cocky Casey look, the one that says nothing but trouble’s about to come out of his mouth.

“He likes it rough, Stace. Really fucking rough. Sounds like you couldn’t do that for him, though.”

So help me, he’s taking what’s left of my patience. I breathe slowly. And I shouldn’t ask questions, but I need to know.

“Rough sex?”

“Oh, yeah. Dude loves being taken, manhandled, all that shit. You should see the marks?—”

“I’ve never seen marks like that on him,” I growl. Even during games, I’ve done my best to prevent that.

“Like I said, he’s not gonna show you.”

I peel my fingers from my brother who’s got an annoying and permanent smirk on his face. I turn away from him because if I look at him any longer, I’m gonna wipe that smirk off his face.

“Know what I think? I think you’re the safest person for him to do that with. I also think he’s not gonna give a fuck about past rejection. He put your damn jersey on, brother. Dash isn’t stupid. Trust me on this one. Everyone knows he’s a manipulative little shit when it comes to you.”

That might be true. I might like it too much to stop him.

“As if you’re not trying to manipulate me by bringing up how he likes sex.”

Casey’s making me jealous on purpose because he knows that of all the things I have a hard time controlling, my dark possessive streak, specific to Dash, is the thing that hangs by a thread. Poking at it has triggered reactions out of me, ranging from half-naked cookie baking, to punching a guy’s teeth out.

He shrugs, bleeding with all the smugness in the world.

We’re interrupted. There’s a loud bang on the door. “If he’s trying to get out of an ice pack, you tell him to forget it. I’ll wait out here all day. Get your ass out here, Alderchuck.”

Casey puts his hand over his laughing mouth because he knows I’m gonna do what Dash says. I glare.

“I’m comin’ out, sweetheart. Please don’t hurt your hands.” I open the door, he balks at the sight of me, and I do my damnedest to look past my jersey still on his body. Maybe we just make this a new thing. He gets my old jerseys. See? Totally regular. Totally not me marking my territory.

Which, apparently, other men do. Other men put their marks on him.

Gah! Fuck it.

I don’t think, I just do. My hand circles his wrist, and I swoop and duck, slinging him over my shoulder. How’s that for caveman behavior?

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.

S tep 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?”

No. Not at all. No one tells you how much love ruins you. Slowly eats away all your sanity. There was the Stacey before Dash, and now there’s this after version. Just a shell of who I was, existing for him.

“I have to talk to you about something, but if you say it’s a bad idea, I won’t do a thing.” Even being here in this capacity isn’t my usual MO. I’m not the kind to ask for parental permission like it’s the eighteen hundreds, but this is different. Plus, I wouldn’t even be here if I thought it was a bad idea.

Dash and I are a good idea.

I’ve ruminated on Casey’s words for an entire week. I’ve watched Dash with different eyes. I don’t want anyone else touching him anymore.

He frowns. God, I hate that frown. The man’s become something of a father figure to me. His frowns have the ability to make me question all my life choices.

I’m standing, and he’s leaning back in his chair behind his desk. It’s all waaaaay formal. I’m never gonna get this out if I don’t just say it.

“I’m in love with your son. I want to marry him.” Okay, maybe that was a bit much, but it’s all true.

Then I wait.

I wait out the silence.

I wait out Travis’s contemplative stare and his fingers tapping the desk.

I wait out the fact that my heart’s threatening, with every beat, to pound out of my chest. I’m in real danger of a heart attack here.

“Shouldn’t you date him first? Or have you been this whole time? It’s hard to tell. You two are, uh, close. I don’t wanna assume, but?—”

“Are you saying me dating Dash would have been, okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it have been? If there’s anyone I want with my son, it’s you, dumbass.”

“What the fuck, Travis? All our conversations. You warned me not to date him.”

“Yeah, years ago. But he’s been dating men for a while now, and I’ve been cool with it. Why couldn’t you be one of them?”

“First of all, you have not been cool with it. Second of all …” I trail off, too furious to speak. I don’t know who I’m angrier with, him or me. I’ve been wrestling with this for so long, and Travis was a major part of that struggle, but at the same time, it’s not up to Travis to come to me with something like that. It would be weird for him to randomly suggest dating his son. It’s also not a thing Travis talks about with us regularly.

“Okay, I admit I’ve had a hard time with his choices in men. He has a type, they’re all big enough to crush him. But my kid smiles ninety percent of the time now. He’s a helluva hockey player for the Orcas’ farm team, and he’s living a healthy, joy-filled life.”

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. I broke Mom’s number one rule. I’m the one trapped in the past, only seeing Dash’s anguish. I’m such an idiot. Everyone’s moved on but me.

“Our relationship was rocky at best, but now?” he continues. “We’re best friends. So, I’ve done something, and I was thinking of you because I wanted to show you first. You’re a lot of the reason he’s okay now. You don’t know what a gift you’ve given me. Here, look.”

He pushes the document across the table. “You’re gonna end the conservatorship?”

“Yep. I only petitioned for it in the first place because I was afraid he’d … y’know.”

He can’t even say it. I get it. I can’t even think it. We had our own suicide watch going for him.

“I have enough faith he’ll be fine. You becoming his partner, that’s the best news I could hope for.”

My insides smile. “I, uh, haven’t asked him yet. I haven’t even told him how I feel.”

He laughs. “Good luck with that.”

S tep two. Let Dash know how I feel. Do I want to pull Dash aside and tell him he’s mine, the end? Sure fucking do. But that wouldn’t be fair. I spent a long time telling him we couldn’t be together, so much so that I may have missed my chance.

Fuck, I don’t know if he’s even into me anymore. Things are too muddled to tell. I need to test the waters a little.

During the off-season, we have an annual hockey boys Hibachi cookout at Kits Beach. We’re not the only ones. The beach is lined with various groups and families, taking advantage of the nice weather and finally able to bust out their trusty, portable Hibachi grills. It’s also why you gotta go early to get your spot.

So, I’m thinking, me and Dash. We’ll borrow Jack’s truck and take all the gear down to secure a picnic bench. And he’s been wanting to try the new sushi place on Cornwall, so we’ll stop in and get a few rolls to-go for an early lunch on the beach. We can set up, eat sushi, and be alone together while we wait for the others who will bring the rest of the food and drinks.

Dash loves the idea. “Can we stop at 49 th Parallel for the expensive coffee, too?”

I’m kinda in charge of money at our place. I can’t say exactly when it happened, but it wasn’t something I decided, nor was there a vote. Between living in Kits, and renting a condo in Kelowna together every season, shit got expensive and a little haywire. There were a few times we were left too close to the bottom of the money tin. Pretty sure Casey was the one to suggest we toss our tip money in a jar, and that it was Dirk who said someone should make a Google Sheets document of expenses. Organically, those jobs were pushed in my direction, and it worked for us. I’d tell everyone what kind of money we had for what and they went along with it with only a few minor complaints when I said we had to cut back on our beer spending. Dash came up with the idea for a party fund for days like today when beer is a must. We each get an allowance, but Hibachi Day’s a special day—great use of the party fund. In other words, I can use some of it to buy Dash the fancy coffee he wants. I’ll have to have one too—he’s not gonna want to drink one alone—but I’m not turning him down.

“We can swing it, sweetheart.”

Dash stands at the till, having a tough time making a decision. We don’t buy coffee from here as often as the rest of Vancouver does. We usually make it at home or, once in a while, we’ll stop by The Coffee Shop, which is close to The Wicklow and a helluva lot cheaper. This place has a wide selection of fancy-ass Frappuccinos and house-made donuts. Just the scent of this place spikes my insulin.

“Ugh, there might be too many choices,” he says.

“I’m getting chocolate and caramel for sure,” I tell him.

“Well, that I know.” He rubs my arm. Tingles erupt. It’s a small gesture that’s never lost my full attention or its significance— Dash is touching me . All of Dash’s touches are amazing. “Maybe I’ll go white chocolate raspberry.”

“You sure?” Dash thinks he likes to try new things, but he usually regrets it.

“Yeah. You only live once, right?”

With the cold drinks in hand, we trek back to Jack’s truck, and I pull out my phone to order the sushi ahead of time before I pull out of the parking spot.

“So, how’s the coffee?” If it can still be called coffee with how much sugar they add to these things.

“It’s…” He takes another sip. “Um, it’s okay.”

“Underwhelming?”

“No. It really is good but guess I’m not vibing raspberry as much as I thought I would.”

“Try mine,” I suggest.

“But you hate?—”

I pick up my drink and nudge it toward him. “Try it.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I shouldn’t watch him suck that straw into his mouth. Fucking hell. But I want to see his expression when he gets a taste. His whole world brightens.

“More your vibe today?” I ask, raising a brow.

“Fine, yeah. But these were ten bucks each, I can’t waste it.”

“So, we trade. I’ll take yours.”

“You sure? You don’t like?—”

I take a sip of his drink. Yeah, this is not my thing. But I’d rather drink pureed broccoli through a straw than see him disappointed. “Delicious.”

“You do not think it’s delicious. That look on your face is giving five out of ten at best.”

“I need the vitamin C from the raspberries,” I claim, taking another long pull. “Mmmm.”

He laughs. “The only thing you’re getting from the raspberry-like flavoring in that drink is a sugar high, but thanks, Stace.”

Dash leans against my shoulder. My body responds instantly, lighting up with a familiar happy buzz. Maybe this won’t be so hard.

Sushi is a similar event. We decided what we’d get last night online, but Dash ends up liking my picks better—things I knew he’d like better than what he chose for himself—so I use my chopsticks to feed him spicy tuna rolls, spider rolls, and sweet mango rolls dipped in wasabi-laden soy sauce and topped with slices of ginger. I eat the other rolls, which are good, but not as exciting. I don’t say a word about it.

“We’re not gonna save any for the others?” he asks when I pull out the second sweet mango roll I got just in case he was still hungry.

“Nope. This is just for us.”

A mildly uncomfortable sensation fills the air between us. Fuck. I’m giving “the best friend who’s trying to get out of the friendzone” from every sappy rom-com. Doesn’t matter that it’s exactly what I’m doing. I don’t know how to read him, and the panic is real, my heart breaking into a gallop.

Finally, he smirks. “Casey’s gonna be so jealous. He loves the spider rolls from this place.”

Wrong. Casey suggested I get those because he knows Dash likes ‘em too.

With the Northshore mountains as our backdrop, and the borrowed exhilaration from the caffeine still pulsing through me, I lift my arm and put it around him. This is where I’m keeping him all day. He doesn’t seem to object, molding against me as if the lines of my body were created with his shape in mind.

“This is the life,” he says. “You think we’ll ever be able to afford this stuff all the time?”

We. He said we. I’m reading too much into it for sure, but I love the fucking sound of we.

The chances of being pulled up to the Orcas decrease every season. There’s less of a chance we’ll all be pulled up. Hell, the fact that we all get to play for the Wildcats is a miracle. There’s a real possibility we’ll live out our careers on the farm team. But I still have hope.

“I like to think so.”

“I don’t know if I’m ever getting pulled up, Stace. But you could.”

“Hey, now. Why you thinkin’ that way?”

“Honestly? I’m okay with it. I love where I am. I dunno if I could handle the fame like Rhett does.”

Rhett finally left us for an NHL team in the east in a trade that suspiciously—if you ask me—happened just before he and Jack broke up.

I softly graze Dash’s chin with the back of my knuckles, an affectionate gesture I’m not sure I’ve ever used with anyone but him. We’re on a hard wooden bench in the shade, but our skin’s slick with sweat. A shivery breeze blows off the water, breathing relief into us. Cool sand under the table is the perfect respite for our always-tired feet.

“Please don’t worry when I say this, but I just don’t think it’s for me. That’s all. And, yeah, maybe my past is the reason—it’s hard to say for sure—but no matter what it is, it is ,” he stresses. “But you, you could. And then you could be my sugar daddy.”

He winks. The mounting concern that was about to slide like an avalanche disappears. Because when he says shit like that, I tend to go off like a lion protecting its territory. I hate all the things Robin’s taken from him forever.

And even his mom sometimes. I do my best to exercise as much understanding as I can with his mom. She was addicted to drugs, and no one ever asks to be addicted to drugs—especially in her case—but it was still her neglect of him that broke pieces of him. Having to watch what it did to him makes my heart fucking ache, and I can’t help that my anger’s directed to her from time to time.

I make myself focus on the fun thing he said.

“It’s like that, is it?”

“Yeah, huh. I want fancy coffee every day, sushi at least once a week, and a surprise every other week. You’ll just have to explain to your future husband that I come with the Stacey package.”

My bones turn to liquid. That was a lot he just said. The “my future husband” part stands out.

Of course, he’s only teasing. He doesn’t mean it. I told him—in no uncertain terms—that there was never going to be a Stacey and Dash. But at least I know how far I have to go to bring us back to a place where we could happen.

My tongue seems to have swelled for no other reason than to prevent me from saying anything at this juncture. What would I say anyway? Profess my love? That’s a sure-fire way to ruin Hibachi Day. I’ve got to say something, though. Something flirty. Something that says, “the only man I’m ever gonna marry is you.”

“Come hell or high water, I’m breaking into the NHL. I’ll hand deliver your fancy-ass coffee to you, sweetheart, every day of your life.”

Boldy, I kiss the top of his head with the sweet summer sun baking our skin, and the salty sea air fresh on my lips.

H ibachi Day is a success on the flirting front. I pull Dash into my lap a few times. I make sure to put my arms around him from behind while he flips burgers and toasts buns. We stay until the stars come out, and he watches them from a blanket on the ground, half curled around me. Jack and Casey drink enough beer to convince themselves that inventing hockey-themed folk songs is a good idea. Their singing is shit, but their lyrics are funny as hell. Even Dirk—who’s usually a tad on the somber side—can’t stop smiling.

The five of us sit around a propane fire, drinking beers, and eating hot dogs. Casey stuffs his with mac and cheese.

“How the hell are we gonna marry you off, eatin’ hot dogs like that? That sort of behavior should come with a fine,” Dash says, sitting up. I sit up too and plant my back against a large Arbutus log, dragging Dash with me, settling him between my legs, his back against my chest. He’s the little fish I’ve captured today. I’m not letting him go tonight, and he’s not objecting.

“Don’t you worry, Dashie. Jack here has agreed to accept my dowry if a man doesn’t ask for my hand by the time we’re thirty,” Casey informs us.

“Shouldn’t a proper dowry have, like, a goat or somethin’?” Dirk asks.

“I am the goat, motherfucker,” Casey says, bleating like a goat for good measure.

Dirk downs half his beer. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“Yep, I’m gonna marry him,” Jack confirms, stuffing his mouth with the last of his hot dog, making his cheeks puff. He gets down on one knee, taking Casey’s hand in his greasy one. “But I think we should make it official. Will you be my backup, bud?”

“Yeah, for sure, bud.”

Most Canadian proposal ever.

Jack and Casey erupt with exaggerated glee, meeting in a lover’s hug, jumping up and down, beer spilling over the sand. They kiss on it, making out crudely.

“Okay, we get it,” I say.

“No one told me we were picking back ups,” Dash snaps, leaning forward as if he’s about to attack someone. I trap him with my arms, pulling him back to me.

“Easy, sweetheart,” I say into his ear.

“Well,” he shrills. “I feel left out. Dirk, do you have a back up?”

He takes another long swig of his beer. “I have someone in mind.”

“What the fuck? Who?”

He shrugs. “Not telling.”

“Who are you even friends with besides us?”

Dirk rolls his eyes. “No one.”

“Then it has to be a Benduovr hookup. C’mon, spill, Boulder.”

“You four fuckers are the last people on earth who’re gonna know.”

“But—”

“I regret saying anything. Look, there’s only one man I’d even consider marrying, but it’s never gonna happen, and I don’t want to fucking talk about it. Capiche?”

“Fine. Capiche.” Dash’s brown fire-filled eyes snap to me. “You’d better not fucking have one, Alderchuck,” he threatens.

My heart almost lunges out of my throat. I’ve never seen him like this about anything. He was less murderous about the things he told me about Robin. So, yeah. I don’t know what possesses me. Can I blame the beer? I’ve had quite a few over the course of the day. He has, too. It buzzes in my head, thick and foggy, lending me the confidence of a charging bull.

“I do,” I answer with every intention of antagonizing him further. Just a little. I wanna see that fierceness in his eyes for as long as I can. I want to see him burning for me.

I don’t know what I expect him to do. Hauling off with a fist flying toward my face, isn’t it. My reflexes haven’t been severely affected by the alcohol yet. I catch him by the wrist. He shakes loose, bolting up, standing over me. My stomach flip-flops.

“You do not. Whoever it is can kick rocks. Tell me who it is.”

“What if I said it was you?”

“You ass?—”

“Dash Nolan, will you be my back up? Ooaf!”

He shoves me and freezes. There’s a long cold second. Did I misread that situation? Maybe he was only mad that everyone had one but him?

“Terms,” he says, plopping down in the sand in front of me, inserting himself backward between my legs. He leans against my chest, looking up. My heart takes a second to calm the fuck down. “When are we throwing in the towel on love?”

Is that what he’d be doing? I’d marry him right now if … dammit. Baby steps, Alderchuck.

I wrap my arms around him, trapping him against me, just in case he gets the outlandish idea that he’s going anywhere.

“Same as them, when I’m thirty.” Though I have my sights on much sooner.

“So, I’ll be twenty-nine. Works for me.” He makes himself comfortable, shimmying his ass into the sand, leaning his head onto my shoulder. His hair tickles my neck and the underside of my chin.

I run gentle fingers through his hair. I know it’s a silly thing, planning your back up, but I’m not ready to stop talking about it yet. “Other terms?”

“Matching tattoos.”

Wasn’t expecting that.

“Are we that couple?” I ask.

“We sure fucking are. If you’re mine, everybody’s gonna know it from here to the moon.” He closes his eyes, and I try to recover from the bolt of lightning that just went through me. Is he being for real? “What are your terms?”

That he never leaves my sight, but I know that’s unrealistic.

“We don’t leave the other—even if it’s just to walk into the store for five minutes—without saying I love you.”

“It’s funny that you think I’d let you walk into a store without me, Alderchuck. If you marry me, you do it knowing exactly how needy I am. Say goodbye to your independence.”

“Never needed my independence anyway. But what if I’m playing for Vancouver—so I can buy you unlimited fancy coffees—and you’re playing for Kelowna?”

I love it. I love talking about this so much. My heart swells with the most hope it’s ever had.

“I-I don’t know.” His breath hitches. “I’ve been thinking about it since this morning. Remember when you left me that one season?”

“I didn’t leave you. I went to play hockey.”

“Potato, potahto. That was hard, but now we’re…”

“We’re what?”

“Best friends. It would be worse. I’m not sure I could function without you anymore.”

He couldn’t function without me? No. It’s not supposed to be like that. He’s better now. All healed up with maybe a few battle scars like Casey said. “You don’t mean that, Dashie.”

He’s quiet. Might even be pretending not to hear me. I pause the stroking I was doing in his hair.

“ Dash. ”

“I mean it, Stace, but it’s not as dire as you’re making it sound. Can we please forget what I said? I want to go back to daydreaming.”

I huff a sigh and resume combing my fingers through his hair. I can’t forget it, though. And it’s not even because I’m worried about him, well, not only because. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that, but it is the first time I’ve liked it.

Loved it.

I love that he needs me.

And that’s a lot for me to unpack.

The night spins off into more beer, barbecued kabobs, and laughter. The twinkling stars make for a mystical backdrop to a fireworks show that succeeds—once again—to strike the five of us with awe. But even with summertime magic swirling around us and through us, a little prickle crawls inside me, too. I recognize what it is.

Change.

Change is upon us.

A whisper tells me that our moments like this, just the five of us, are ending. We’re in the midst of the last ones.

It’s one of the best nights of my life, but as it leaves, merging into the twilight before the dawn that will become tomorrow, I can’t help the constricting sadness around my heart. I can’t help already missing this era of our lives.

T he next night as we’re winding down from dinner, I get the news via a text.

“Holy shit. Coach Cannon had a heart attack. He’s gone.” I stare at the words on my phone. If I stare long enough, they’ll rearrange themselves to say something else. Or maybe the rest of the message still hasn’t come through. It’s an awful prank. It’s gotta be.

“Fuck, Stace. I’m so sorry,” Dash says when I break the news to all of them. I don’t think I’ll ever forget this moment. The kitchen window’s open, letting the night air prickle my arm hairs, lifting our weird curtains with the space cowboys on them.

All the lights in the house must be on. It’s too bright in here, but it’s not bright enough to combat the darkness, threatening to snuff me out.

“He was your coach, too,” I say softly. In a voice I don’t recognize.

Everyone exchanges a look. It’s about me.

“What?”

“Can I take this, guys? I feel like I should take this,” Dash says. I don’t have time to figure out what that means. Dash takes me by the biceps and drags me to my room. I let him guide me onto the bed. I look around, but I’m not seeing anything. Apparently, I don’t need to. Dash sees through me. Dash sees me. “He became a mentor to you.”

I nod. At least, I think I do. I’m telling my head to nod, but I can’t feel anything. A hand pushes against my chest. I fall into the puffy duvet like I’m Alice falling into Wonderland. I land with a muted thud. “It’s not like I knew him better than anyone else.”

Fingers dip under the cuff of my socks, igniting tingles, peeling them off. Dash doesn’t think socks should be worn in bed.

“Otherwise, how do you slide them against the sheets?” he’d said. “Or over someone.”

Thinking about the suggestive look on his face when he said that has me reaching for him.

There’s a chuckle. “Just a second, big guy.”

He tries to drag me up the bed by pushing under my armpits. I don’t budge. Instead, I grip his shirt and pull him on top of me.

And close my eyes.

It’s as if he knows he should be quiet. He doesn’t say a word, letting my hand slide over his cotton T-shirt, stopping when I find what I’m looking for.

Thump! Thump!

Heartbeat. Dash’s heartbeat. The heartbeat of my world.

It thrums under my hand, and I can breathe again. My eyes sting behind my eyelids.

“Aw, Stace. I hate seeing you like this,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. No sorries. I can handle it.” He puts his hand over the one I have on top of his heart. “C’mon. Tell me about it. I won’t tell a soul.”

“I looked up to him,” I admit as if it’s some great secret. It’s about all I can say while a hundred memories of Coach play out for me. “He shouldn’t have died so young.”

“Agreed. It’s not right.”

I don’t say anything after that, but I don’t need to. Dash gets it. He gets me. He lets me cry and he lets me keep my hand where it is.

I ’m not myself for the rest of the summer. I put my plans to do anything with Dash on hold—I don’t want to start anything with him while I’m feeling like this. I urge him to go out with the others even when I’m not interested. Sometimes he stays, but other times he doesn’t. I pick up extra shifts and work through my grief. Dash and I get into stupid fights about nothing—we call them nothing fights at the house—and I ask for space because I don’t have the energy to fight with him. He doesn’t listen, of course. Dash can be a real brat when he has a mind to be. He likes picking fights sometimes. It’s his way of testing that the people in his life are gonna stick around. But this has a different flavor.

Almost like, well, almost like he’s worried I’m checking out. Is this how it started with his mom?

He’s sitting at the kitchen island, pretending to eat a muffin, eyes flicking to me every now and then. I forced myself to come out here. What I really wanna do is rot on my bed, scrolling for dopamine, but it’s my only day off, and it’s best I make an appearance before the crew stages an intervention.

I’ll be fine. I will.

I’m mindlessly watching TV. Don’t even know what this show is that I’m watching. Watching is a loosely used term. I’m only looking at the screen, thinking about all the stuff Coach did for us. He had some of the best advice in the league. I remember his smile when he was proud of us, and even the way his forehead wrinkled when he was pissed at us. The man subsidized gear for little league teams in the lower mainland.

A chair scratches the surface of the linoleum and then a warm body presses against me.

“Please don’t tell me to go away,” Dash begs. “I know I’m a fucking selfish prick, but I need you.”

He said that the other night. No, he said more than that. He can’t function without me. Another troublesome thought I haven’t had time to process, pick apart, make decisions on. But my brain’s just not in the fucking building right now. I do the thing I wanna do instead of the thing I should do.

I grab Dash like he’s mine, molding him to my body. Ahhhh. Sweet relief from at least one of the many persistent agonies that ail me. Wanting Dash and not being able to have him is a constant anguish I live with. He clings to me like a koala, and we breathe in sync. This. This is the fucking life.

“I need you, too,” I admit. And maybe … maybe I don’t function right without him. It’s a truth that rips through me. Wrenches open the core of me. Somewhere along the way, I came to need Dash more than air. Is it so wrong if he needs me too?

There’s nothing he needs to say, nothing he needs to do. His energy alone sews together the broken bits within me.

“Oh, thank god,” he breathes. “I thought I fucked things up the other night. I thought I undid years of convincing you that I’m fine.”

Convincing me? My heart rate speeds to the standard level of panic it does for any and all things Dash.

“ Dash. ”

“Fuck. That came out bad.” He exhales, fluffing the longer locks of his hair upward. “You know I’m not good with words. I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I am fine. I am, Stace. But you don’t believe that I am, so I’m forever trying to convince you.”

“You shouldn’t have to convince me of anything.”

“I know. If I were fine, I’m sure you’d see it, right? But I think it’s just me not knowing how to act right.”

Is this what I’m doing to him? Making him think he doesn’t know how to act right?

“What I mean is, it’s not fair that you feel like you have to convince me. I’ll do better, Dashie.”

He huffs. “This isn’t what I wanted either. I want to be here for you today, the conversation wasn’t supposed to be about me again. Fuck. I’m such a?—”

I shove my hand into his hair, hard. Rough. Aggressive. Running on instinct instead of conscious thought. A soft cry falls from his lips and my heart beats a predatory rhythm. Fuck, I wanna eat him.

“I know what you came over here for. You wanted to soothe my broken heart. Mission a-fucking-ccomplished. You don’t need to say anything. You being here does that. Okay?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him—no demand—that he never say whatever it was he was gonna say about himself. It was gonna be bad. But I think my hand is saying that for me. I release him.

Dash moans.

It’s involuntary. Soft. Barely there. But it’s still a goddamn moan, and it goes straight to my dick.

Dash likes rough. He’s said it. Casey’s said it. I’m fucking seeing it.

Am I prepared to do that with him after everything?

Yes.

No.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Fuck.

Someone needs to take me as far away from Dash as possible. But even that’s never gonna happen. I won’t allow it.

His cheeks heat and he buries his face into my chest. His arms tighten around my torso.

“I’m not gonna send you away. Not for any reason, sweetheart.”

It’s stuff like that. That’s how Dash’s scars show up. Fear of being sent away.

He takes a shaky breath. “I know. I mean, I want to know. I mostly know? I know most of the time,” he says going with that one. “But just because I’m not perfect at it, doesn’t mean I’m not okay. But anyway, you just said you need me, too. It’s okay to need each other. I’m not letting anyone—even you, Alderchuck—tell me differently.”

I press a kiss to the top of his head.

“I shouldn’t have said I couldn’t function without you,” he says. “I mean, I meant it, but not literally. More, metaphorically. Like, I’d get through the days, sure, but there’d be a gaping hole. Something forever missing.”

“Well, you’re never gonna find out what that’s like.” I take a deep breath, inhaling his scent. “You smell like a tropical breeze.”

“Sunscreen. I was gonna sit outside, but I didn’t want to do anything without you today. Stace, this might sound fucking weird, but it’s like I can feel your pain inside my body. You’d think something like that would get worse the closer I am, but the opposite is true. It gets better when I’m near you. I can’t figure out why.”

Well, fuck. I laugh. It starts as a low chuckle and grows to a rumble big enough to shake him.

He gives me a withering glare. “I don’t see how that’s funny.”

“There’s a good reason the pain’s worse when you’re far away from me.”

“Get to the point faster, Alderchuck.”

“Because everything’s less painful when you’re with me.”

He freezes under my arm, but it’s not long before he melts into me. “Acceptable.”

“C’mon. Let’s get some vitamin D.” I tug, pulling him off me and off the couch. He groans as I unstick us, his greasy sunscreen having leaked onto my skin. That gives me an idea. “I’m gonna need help with the sunscreen, though. Will you get my back?”

“Don’t I always?”

Yeah, I guess he does.

Stacey’s Sixth Season With The Wildcats

T raining camp is wild this year. Our new coach, Mercy Meyer, was Jack’s one-night stand. The same one-night stand he talked about obsessively. Naturally, our beloved brat Jack has switched gears, and his new reason for living is to antagonize Mercy and get in his pants. At least Rhett seems to be mostly forgotten.

“You’re gonna get your ass handed to you,” I warn him.

“Um, yeah. If all goes according to plan, I sure fucking hope so.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Fine. I warned him. I’ve got bigger problems.

Well, it’s just one. Syd. This guy Dash likes. He’s so much older. Talk about a plot twist. The oldest Dash crushed before Syd was Hunter. Is that a sign of something? What do I do?

Jack shuts the door loudly behind him, off to antagonize Coach again. I stall what I’m planning, adjusting my hat—which is actually Dash’s hat—and repositioning it over my sunburnt hair. Summer’s long over, but the sun stayed this year, and I’ve been getting lots of it in between practice and games. Coach doesn’t want us partying, but sunbathing by the pool hasn’t been banned yet.

I take a breath. Syd and Dash aren’t exclusive. They’re not anything, yet.

A cursory knock on the door is all I give before entering. He’s in the room with Dirk. They said they’d be playing video games, and they are. Dash is tucked between Dirk’s thighs, his back rested against Dirk’s chest, each with a console in their hands.

Not unusual. So why do I suddenly hate it?

I smile at Dash, and he smiles back. There’s something there. Something. And it’s the something that’s always been there. It gives me the courage I’m looking for.

“Was gonna run some errands. We’re short on food. Wanna come with?”

“D’awww, thanks for asking me, bud, but I don’t run grocery errands,” Dirk says.

I glare. “My invite wasn’t for you.”

He smirks. “I know.”

Dash trips over himself and the controller he’s dropped, climbing off the bed. “Yeah, I’ll come.” We don’t send Dash alone on errands either, not if we actually want what’s on the list, but he’s great company.

“Thanks for checking to see if you could dip on our plans, jackass.”

“It’s video games, Dirk. We need food, and it’s not fair that Stacey always has to go on his own.”

“That’s never happened in his life, not with you around,” Dirk says.

“You’re welcome to come, Dirk-y,” I say.

“Noooo thank you. Dash, get your ass back here when you’re done. I’ll put our plans on pause, but I’m not canceling them.”

“Yeah.”

Dash takes his hat from my head and puts it on. He frowns. “Who has yours?”

“Not sure. Maybe Jack?”

“I’ll get it from him.”

“He’s gone.”

He twists his lips. “I’ll get it back later. Where to?”

Grocery shopping isn’t the most romantic of places, but he’s comfortable doing it. Dash turns into a chatterbox at the side of the cart—I love seeing it. It’s a bit of a selfish venture, maybe, but it relaxes me. I don’t think Dash understands how much him being him is my ultimate source of contentment.

He’s done it for me so much over the years without realizing he’s doing it. Like when he “helped” me pack for my first hockey season, or when he stayed near me while I was grieving Coach. Even simple things like organizing all of Mom’s belongings so that I didn’t have to, mean a lot and stay with me forever.

It’s official. There isn’t a Stacey without Dash.

Dash rests a hand on the side of the cart, babbling away as I select items and add them to our growing bounty. When I pause to ponder over the best selection of meat, he takes the opportunity to peruse the shelves.

“Do we have enough money for this?” He holds up a package of bacon. I haven’t been buying it because of Coach Meyers’s rules. They’ve saved us a lot of money. Bacon’s gone up in price. Used to be seven or eight dollars a package, now you’re lucky to find it for under fifteen.

“You know that’s a forbidden item.”

“Yeah, but the team’s been seeing what we can get away with while Jack distracts Mercy, and I’m craving a BLT like you wouldn’t believe. Man. On an everything bagel, with cream cheese—oh! Can we get cream cheese? And the crispy lettuce, it’s gotta be crispy lettuce. Do we have enough money for all that?”

As if I’m saying no to any of his wishes. Screw the rules. If we get caught, I’ll take full blame.

“We have the money, and we should get those tomatoes still on the vine. Can’t have a truly epic BLT without properly ripened tomatoes.”

D ash helps me load everything in the car. Our arms brush and my favorite tingles erupt, making the hairs stand on end. With all the touching we do, you’d think that would have worn off by now.

Am I a dreamer for thinking he feels it, too? He jumps. It sparks a smile. My cheeks heat.

“Um, sorry,” I say. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never apologized for brushing arms with Dash in my life. But something’s different.

My intentions are different.

It’s a replay of the first day I saw him and walked into a wall. My tongue won’t cooperate. It won’t ask him what I want to ask him.

You can do this Alderchuck.

“What are you doing later?”

He rolls his eyes. “Video games with Dirk, apparently. All he’s been doing lately is playing video games, have you noticed that?”

I don’t notice much other than Dash these days. Should I say that? Can I say that? “Maybe he’s missing you. You two used to hang out a lot more than you do now.” Because of me, I don’t add. Dash spends a lot of time with me.

“You might be right.” He sighs. “I guess I won’t complain, but I wish he’d do something other than video games. After that I’ve got plans, though.”

“Plans?”

“Yeah, uh, remember Syd?”

Unfortunately.

“He’s taking me for dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll stick to Coach Meyer’s team menu—which is gonna suck—but yeah. That’s what I’m doing. Raincheck?”

My stomach falls out of my body. I thought, fuck. What did I think? That he should turn his dating life on and off for me? That would be a real dick thing to expect.

I don’t see him offering to cancel or pause plans like he did with Dirk, either. Clearly, he wants to go.

“Of course, raincheck,” I say, doing my best to keep all the heartbreak out of my voice.

I ’m adjusting my, no wait, Dash’s hat, raising it, repositioning it on my head. A familiar sensation prickles the back of my neck. I look up, catching Dash’s pretty doe eyes gazing at me as he attempts tree pose. He smiles in a way that’s subconscious. Automatic. Like his insides are smiling too.

Like my insides smile.

He falls over.

And flushes.

Damn he’s pretty when he flushes.

T he best part about a practice that turns our bones into liquid? Dash falling asleep on top of me. I went to bed alone, out before my head hit the pillow, roused later by something moving on my chest—sleeping Dash. He musta crawled in with me. Now that he’s here, I can’t stop looking at him. Pouty lips closed, breathing sweetly, soft hair fluffed over his eyes. I push it back and plant a kiss on his forehead.

Casey barges in. I glare. “Sorry,” he whispers. “But we need you out here. Jack lost his hat again. He’s losing his mind.”

Jack and that hat, I swear.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

He disappears, leaving the door slightly ajar. I begin the process of extracting myself from Dash without waking him. His hands tighten into my T-shirt. I halt, lying back down.

“Dash? Dashie?” No answer, so I try again.

His hands tighten a little more forcefully this time.

“Dash?”

Nothing. Is he doing that in his sleep? Or is he refusing to let me go? I raise a brow at his sleeping form. To test him, I move, keeping my eyes on him this time. He’s faster this time, suggesting it’s not reflexes.

“Dash?” I use my stern voice.

“His hat’s in the secret-not-so-secret junk food cupboard next to the Cheetos.” His eyes remain closed.

“Do I even wanna know how it ended up there?”

“Probably not.”

“Am I allowed to get up and tell him?”

“Absolutely fucking not. You’re my prisoner, Alderchuck. Go back to sleep.” He rubs his face into my chest, and I get those tingles again, the ones I only get when Dash touches me. He clings to me tighter, trapping me under a leg just in case I get any ideas.

Well then, my keeper has spoken. I close my eyes. Those fuckers are on their own, and the world can crumble for all I care. I’m not going anywhere.

D ash can’t think everything I’m doing is friendly, can he? We’re always cuddly, I always find ways to do things for him, we’re always together, but none of it means anything unless he feels the more underlining those actions. But he can feel me, that means he should feel things have changed, right?

But then I walk in on him and Casey talking.

“Yeah, Syd says he’s gonna try to come into town to see me. That must mean something, right?” Dash asks. His face is doing that thing it does when he’s anxious, but hopeful; his lips pinch at the corners, his eyes get round as toonies.

When I say my heart sinks that doesn’t begin to cover it.

“Syd? You still pursuing the guy from Rodney’s?”

Dash smiles. “Yeah. I think he likes me, Stace. And he’s older, I feel so grown up.”

The room spins, but I fight to maintain balance. I know he’s seen me looking at him. It doesn’t make any sense. I sneak a hand over my heart, hoping it can do something to keep it from falling out of my chest.

“And you like him, too?”

Casey frowns, looking between us.

Dash flushes. “Yeah. Kinda.”

Yeah. Kinda. Two words that haunt me for the rest of the hockey season.

T he Calder Cup run has made this season last a thousand years. Normally, it’s what I live for, but I’ve let my Dash obsession wear me down. Tonight’s game six in the final round with Boston. We’re two games away from winning, hence Coach’s early as fuck impromptu practice. He’s pissed at us for being extra during the last game. It doesn’t help that there’s trouble in Jack-and-Mercy paradise.

I’d like to help, but I have my own issues. All the extra testosterone from these high-octane games is going straight to my dick, and guess who it wants? Pair that with the fact that I’ve been celibate all season. So long as celibate includes my hand—my hand doesn’t count as a person, does it? Anyway, it’s been me and my hand since the off-season.

I’ve participated in the limited socials Coach Meyer allowed this season, but it was for show. I didn’t sleep with anyone, didn’t take anyone home. I’m serious about Dash, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I’m not interested in anyone but him.

There’s just one problem. I’m still a man. My cock’s demanding something. Anything. It’s playing fucking mind tricks on me. Everything Dash does on the ice is sexy as fuck. Things that shouldn’t be sexy like practicing puck handling control, backhand to forehand, and between the legs drills. Backhand skating should not look that erotic.

I’m panting like a dog by the end of practice, and it’s not just the exhaustion. I need him in a way that supersedes rationality.

We’re not there yet, though. We’re so far from there, it’s laughable. All this time, I thought anything I did could give the wrong signals. Now that I want to give those signals, the end goal seems chasms away.

Maybe it’s time to take things up a notch.

As soon as we stumble in the door from practice, Casey, Jack, and Dirk are hellbent on a long nap. My libido hasn’t diminished in the least. If anything, practice was just one long edging session for me. Have these boxers always been this tight? And the rubbing— god , the rubbing. Sweat-soaked cotton teasing my cock just enough to send a current through my groin.

I’ve got to get a fucking grip, and out of these clothes.

“You gonna sleep too, sweetheart? Or would you be interested in a shower? To, uh, to save water,” I tack on at the end. That’s gotta be obvious without saying it, yeah? Dirk says it to him all the time, though, so he might not take me seriously.

Dash smirks. “Sure, Stace.”

“If you two are saving water, make sure it’s clean in there afterward, eh?” Jack says.

Oops. Guess he wasn’t quite out of hearing range yet. Fuck it. Jack can think what he wants to. It’s not like I’m gonna go from nothing to suddenly railing him in the shower, but Jack watches too much porn and probably thinks that’s exactly what’s about to happen.

Circling Dash’s wrist, I drag him with me to the bathroom.

It’s not the first time we’ve showered together. We’re dudes on the same hockey team. I don’t always wait till we get home and often use the showers at the rink. He’s washed my back, I’ve washed his. But this is the first time since my personal green light.

But fuck, am I a douchebag to think it’s okay to do this just because I’ve finally decided we’re good to go on more? I take a breath. There’s only one way to find out. Casey’s right. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering “what if”. I know they’re words he stole from Coach Meyer, but they’re true.

Besides, this is really gonna be just a shower with maybe a little extra caressing—if he’s okay with it. I’m not gonna suddenly attack him with my dick.

Although, attacking him with my dick is what I’m craving. What I’ve been craving for a thousand years.

I let him undress himself beside me, even though I would have loved to have been the one to pull the sweat-dampened clothes from his body. I work on my own clothes with the tingle of gooseflesh lighting up my skin, and that feeling that someone’s watching me. Is he?

I spin, hoping to catch him. That would work well for me here. Give me the added confidence I need. His back’s to me when I turn around, though. My heart sinks. His lack of interest isn’t helping, but maybe that’s because he thinks I don’t want him to be interested?

Man, I’ve fucked this up.

I catch his eyes in the mirror. They’re on me. On my hard dick to be exact. And is that a flush in his cheeks, or am I imagining what I want to be there?

Dash whips his boxers off and, fuck, have I ever made a huge mistake. We’re talking “I bought a ticket for the Titanic’s maiden voyage” kind of mistake. I didn’t account for the fact that all the blood in my body was gonna divert to my cock.

Why wouldn’t I, though?

More importantly, how could I forget that this is how a dick works? Especially my dick at the sight of Dash Nolan’s perfectly peach-shaped ass. The most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen. My cock’s not all the way hard yet, but it’s gonna be. Is it weird if I keep my boxer shorts on? Don’t know, but that’s what I’m doing.

Dash turns around. I can’t help but notice that his dick’s the opposite of mine. Totally one hundred percent flaccid. What the fuck? So, he’s not even attracted to me anymore? Have I landed in the friendzone for real?

Even that’s not enough to flag my growing erection. But I do feel like a creeper in a shower. I avert my eyes from Dash’s creamy skin.

“Uh, you’re not gonna take those off?” he says. “C’mon, Stace. It’s not like I’m worried you’re gonna attack me with your dick—only Jack thinks that way. He probably thinks we’re filming something for Benduovr right now. Did you know that app has an option for uploading videos now? If I don’t make it in hockey, I can upload images of this sweet ass for money.”

My hand lands a smack on his bare ass outta nowhere. I didn’t plan it. I fucking swear. “Over my dead body, Nolan.”

A soft ouch -moan falls from Dash’s lips.

It makes my dick so much harder than I thought was possible.

Picturing Dash—my Dash—filming himself and putting it online for everyone to masturbate to has me seeing red.

“Take it back,” I demand, not recognizing my own voice.

“It’s my ass, I can put it on the internet if I want to.”

That’s Dash for, “What are you gonna do about it?” He’s such a fucking brat sometimes.

I crowd him from behind, desperately wanting to grab him by the throat, only the smallest sliver of control stops me. “Then your viewers are gonna be looking at a very sore, red ass.”

“Bet they’d pay extra for that.”

My hand lands again in the same spot. Hard. My ears love the crisp smack and the residual echo off the tile. This time, there’s a puffy red imprint. My palm, written on his ass surrounded by the outline of each of my fingers. I swear it’s pulsing.

“No. Forbidden, indefinitely.”

He smirks like he’s won something. “Take your shorts off, Alderchuck,” he says.

“Are you enjoying this?”

“Um, yeah, dude. Spanking’s my top fetish.” Spanking’s my top fetish. How has this never come up? “Now, c’mon. Lose ‘em.”

“I have a boner,” I admit. “It’s, uh, it’s been a while for me.” That’s the truth. I’m committed to this Dash and me thing. However long it takes.

I hate that he’s unaffected while I’m the most affected.

“This might be TMI—I dunno, I’m bad at judging that shit—but first the playoffs were making me so horny I had to beat it several times a day. Yesterday and today, it’s switched. It’s like my dick went on holiday or something. Fuck, maybe I’ve used up so much blood during practice, there’s none left for my cock.”

A laugh bubbles from my chest. What a fucking relief. Just too tired.

“Hey, don’t laugh! What I’m tryna say is, I don’t give a fuck. Off with the boxers, Alderchuck. Here, let me.”

Dash is gonna strip me? I can’t breathe. I’m gonna pass out. His fingers slip under my boxers and pull them down, lighting a trail of electricity over my skin as he goes. Out pops my one-helluva boner. Thank god it’s not leaking, but the skin’s so tight it hurts.

Dash—the center of my world Dash—leers at my dick. The one that’s hard for him.

“Wow, what’re you thinking about, Stace? Kevin Bieksa. It’s Kevin Bieksa again, isn’t it?”

I kick the boxers away, step past him into the shower, and turn it on without answering his question. I’m in hell now, I might as well enjoy the fire. Steam rises around me, fogging up the glass. “You coming?”

“Hell yeah, I aaah?—”

There’s just enough time to spin. My slick arms slide around his torso, his feet slip and slide a few times before he gains purchase. I hold onto him for dear life, heart hammering against my ribcage. Dash’s unique man-sweat smell hits my nostrils, sending my arousal into orbit.

“My hero,” he teases.

I might die in this shower.

His skin is hot. My cock’s pressed against his cheeks. How fucking good would it feel to rut against him?

Goddammit.

A jolt of pleasure goes straight to my nuts. Holding back is utter agony.

Letting go, I give him a stern look.

“I know, I know—slow down, Dash,” he says, imitating me. “But I’m excited. This is new for us. I like this new thing.”

“It’s not new. We’ve showered in the locker room a hundred times.” I don’t know why I’m arguing that. This is different. It’s all kinds of different. Okay, so I’m downplaying it. Can you blame me? Dash is slippery and naked. Naked Dash is terrifying.

Turning away, I head back under the spray, wetting my coif of hockey hair. Dash—naked Dash—slides his arms around me from behind.

“What are you doing?” It’s almost a shriek.

“It’s cold. I’m not standing in the cold, Stace.”

Well, if he’s cold, I guess this is okay.

He hugs me close, every ripple of his bumpy abs imprints on my skin. “I think you’re better looking than Bieksa, did you know?”

His dick doesn’t think so. It’s still showing no signs of life. “I didn’t know.” I hold his arm around me and wet my hair under the showerhead at the same time. Dash gets wet by default. I’m keeping him warm. Just keeping him warm. This is already way further than I intended to go. I’m not mad about it, but this is it.

Completely it.

But fuck would I love to see what his mouth feels like around my cock.

“Would it be weird if we did this more often? I really like this. It feels like when we cuddle on the couch. Or in your bed,” he says.

I shake my head. “It wouldn’t be weird for me.” Huh. Maybe this is going well. Maybe he’ll forget about Syd.

Make a move. Do something, Alderchuck.

What would I do if he were mine?

Besides push him against the wall and ram my cock deep, deep inside.

Dash’s love language is being taken care of. That’s PG enough. I can do that.

I forget about what my dick’s doing, that we’re naked and slippery. I forget about the thumping in my ribcage. Spinning him, I place him under the showerhead, facing me, and run my fingers through his wet hair, trying to imbibe all the love I have for him into every touch.

Did I choose my shampoo because I wanna make him smell like me? Yeah, maybe. Definitely. I take my time, massaging his scalp until his pretty head’s a helmet of foam.

“Mmmm, feels so good. Barely feel the sting on my ass cheek anymore.” He laughs with his eyes closed.

“Tilt your head back, smartass.”

He smirks, behaving himself, and I direct the water, rinsing the soap away. He’s sexy with his dark hair slicked back.

“Please tell me I get to wash you,” he says, opening his eyes.

I stare for too many heartbeats, not-so-subtly raking my eyes over his body before finally nodding. Something’s changed. Shifted.

His heated gaze never leaves mine as he reaches for the loofa and bar of soap. He drops to his knees so fast, I don’t register he’s done it until his hands grip my left thigh. It’s like I’ve jumped out of a plane. My stomach drops, flips, and lands pressed against my diaphragm.

Dash gets close, unbearably close to my special places. If only his fingers would walk just a little higher. Is he waiting for permission? Or trying to show me he can be trusted? I’m paralyzed; feet rooted to the tiles while my dick cries in silent agony.

“Lift,” he says. I shift to one foot, and he painstakingly washes every toe, in between and under the sole. I didn’t know I’d like my feet washed so much, but it might be because it’s Dash. A soft moan falls from my lips, and my cock jerks and a faint ache makes itself known in my nuts. He sets my foot down and repeats the same to the other side.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Now you know why I’m always moaning and groaning when you massage me. Hope I measure up.”

“Your hands are fucking incredible, Dash.” My voice comes out all croaky.

Careful fingers wash behind my knee and then he works his way up, prodding around the bottom of my ass where cheeks meet the backs of my thighs. Did I swallow my fucking heart earlier? Cause that’s where it fucking beats as his finger pads press into the sensitive skin under my ass cheeks.

C’mon. Just a little further north, sweetheart. Sink those fingers inside …

He doesn’t dip inside where I’d like him to, and his loofa-clad hand swipes over my abs, missing my cock completely. I let out a groan of sheer agony when he stands, rolling my forehead on the shower tiles where it seems to have landed. When did I do that?

He gets to my shoulders, abandoning the loofa—which he barely fucking used, for the record. And that’s a sign, right? You’d only use a loofa if you actually wanted to wash someone, but it’s a great pretense because a loofa is a barrier between my skin and his. Using fingers and palms is a thousand times more sensual than that scratchy-ass fucking thing. His knuckles dig into the meat of my shoulder, and I moan again.

“Why do we have a loofa?” I want to burn all the loofas. Just his hands touching me from now on. I don’t care if I never get clean again, let me stay dirty with his hands.

“One of Jack’s dads sent ‘em in a care package. We have every color of the rainbow stuffed in that cupboard over there.” He bends over to snatch up the one he abandoned. He waves it at me. “Pink.”

His favorite.

“I love these things,” he says unaware of my vendetta against them. “I love the way they feel over my skin.”

Ugh. Dammit. Guess I can’t burn ‘em. But then maybe it wasn’t the signal I thought it was? This is what it’s come to for me, reading Morse code via loofa.

Hurts my fucking head.

It’s bad enough that all I’m gonna think about from now until forever is Dash in here, soaping himself up with that loofa. I don’t miss that the pink one was here when we stepped into the shower. He already does it, doesn’t he?

Does he like the way it scratches over his cock?

I return my forehead to the tiles. For once, I let Dash give me whatever he wants without restriction. He drags that pink loofa over my body, leaving trails of soap the shower rinses away. I don’t know if worship’s his intention, but that’s what bleeds into me. I have a weird reaction. It’s the equivalent of a thread pulled loose. Something crawling under my skin.

It hurts, but it’s welcome.

Because it’s him. Dash.

It’s welcome because it’s Dash.

Holy shit. He’s the only one I’ve let in since Mom died. Yeah, my brother to some degree, but I keep him at least an arm’s length from anything about me that has even a whiff of vulnerability attached to it. So I don’t worry him. I almost let Coach Cannon in. I thought about it anyway. That was scary enough and then he was gone, proving why keeping hidden beneath the layers is imperative.

But I can’t keep Dash out. Don’t want to. He’s the keeper of the other half of my soul.

A few hidden tears stream over my cheeks, nicely meshing with the waterfall from the showerhead. But they’re a release rather than a tightness around my heart.

Dash’s hands fall away, his arms wrap around me. Can he tell what just happened?

He feels you, dumbass. Of course, he can.

Like when I was grieving over Coach.

“Should we, um, should we see if anyone’s started breakfast?” I ask.

“They haven’t. We start breakfast—we always start breakfast these days. We should, though.”

“Okay, wait.” I spin us, crowding him against wet wall and god, I want to kiss him so bad. Keeping my lips off his is the worst kind of agony. But setting eyes on him after not looking at him for a whole minute, it’s as if my brain forgot just how fucking beautiful he is. What was I gonna say again?

“Whaaa…oh.” He smiles. “Love you, too, Stace.”