Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
THEN
Stacey
T he first thing I do—after kissing a lot of ass the next day via a video call—is get that tattoo, but with my own twist. I have one in honor of Mom, and one for my twin, now I have one for Dash.
I haven’t shown him—I haven’t shown anyone. I’ve been careful to keep it from Casey, too. Dash will be the first one to see it. If he doesn’t get how gone for him I am when he finally sees it, he never will.
Getting the chance to do video calls with our schedule is tough—tougher than I expected. It’s not just being too tired to keep our eyes open, it’s time zones and practices at different times. It’s worse moving into the second part of the season, leading up to Christmas. I can see something I haven’t before, though, and it keeps the dream alive. Dash is possessive as fuck, and after what Casey did, he’s on guard, asking me what I’m up to via text message more often, even outright asking me if I’ve been seeing anyone.
Ninety percent of me feels like shit that he’s become paranoid, but ten percent of me relishes in it. I’m only a man. I need some form of hope. Right now, hope is wrapped in morsels of Dash’s constant text stream.
… If you marry me, you do it knowing exactly how needy I am. Say goodbye to your independence.
“Never needed my independence anyway,” I recite out loud. I said it when we made our pact, it’s still true now. He can have every piece of me.
I’ve got so much confidence that I find a realtor and visit the bank. Casey and I talked about buying a house. Knowing my brother, he’ll be relieved if I do all the work. I’ll build a portfolio of ones we can afford and bring Casey and Dash in on it before I buy.
Dash
I think something’s going on between Bryce Meyer and the Elkington.
Me
The Elkington?
Dash
Fine, Maverick. What kind of a prick names their child after a character in Top Gun?
Me
You have to admit that it’s a very Elkington thing to do. Also, kinda cool if I’m being honest.
Dash
Yeah, you’re right. But urrrrrrgh. I’m gonna sound weird for a second, but I had this ridiculous dream about you two fucking. He’s not even your type—I know—but could you just tell me you’ll never fuck him?
He’s adorable.
Me
Never. It’ll never happen. And while I’m at it, I promise never to fuck any Elkington.
Dash
Agreed—I wouldn’t either—but it’s okay to think Maxwell’s hot in a villain-y sort of way, right?
Me
Hundred percent, but also not my type.
Dash is my type. Dash is my only type.
December
W e finally get a video call. It’s just before Christmas, so we chat about that and make plans. There will be what we’re calling A Very Meyer Christmas this year and since we’ve been absorbed into the family because of Jack, we’ll go there this year.
Dash looks … well it’s not good. Bags around his eyes, pale, almost gray skin, his hair’s not brushed, but he could have just woken up. It’s such a contrast to his demeanor—jovial, upbeat, excited—that I talk myself out of it being anything other than a little bit of missed sleep.
“You haven’t mentioned plans with Syd for Christmas,” I say, but it’s a question. And, yeah, I’m an ass, but I hope it means trouble in paradise.
A sleepy smile finds its way to his lips. “Syd promised he’d be with his family in Whistler this year, and I already had my plans, so we’ll see each other for New Year instead and spend Christmas together next year to make up for it.”
Next … next year? Did I hear that right?
“Stace?”
“Uh, yeah. Wow, things are serious, huh?” It’s the second nail in the coffin. What have I done?
He nods. “Really serious. I think he might be the one.”
My brain tries and fails to make sense of it. His words don’t match his actions. How can he be so jealous of what I’m doing, but talk about Syd being the one?
I know Dash. All of him. The deepest parts, the tarnished parts, the best parts. Even his worst parts. He can be a fucking brat, but he’s not cruel. Never. He’s a gentle soul, except when he’s on the ice. He’d never toy with me.
What was going on with us could only mean one thing: Fear of losing his most familiar safety net. The jealousy and possessiveness wasn’t because he wanted me, it was because he was afraid of what would happen if someone else had me.
Dash gets everything he wants—that’s my vow. If he wants Syd as his—fuck—as his husband, and me as the dependable bestie sidekick that’s what he’ll get.
Suck it up, buttercup.
I force my brain to get back online, disconnecting it from my heart completely. My heart’s a landmine, liable to explode from the smallest of touches.
“He’s the one who makes you happy, Dashie?”
“Yeah, he…”
Dash spins off, gushing about Syd. My stomach churns. It feels like I let Dash go, but I haven’t. This was always the inevitable conclusion. I’m the one who got caught up in a fantasy that I always knew was just that—a fantasy.
N ow I’m a bozo with someone’s name tattooed on my body. Guess I’ll have to get it removed at some point, but I’m too busy with hockey to even think about shit like that right now. I’m finally grateful for Sutter’s obsession with my brother’s ass. Casey’s so distracted by Sutter, he doesn’t have to witness my downfall.
I’m delusional. Or at least my brain is. The reticular activating system, I think they call it, is on high alert. Casey pointed out Jealous Dash and now my brain finds all the instances of Jealous Dash it can to torture me with.
But he definitely was jealous of Sutter—yeah, Sutter for some reason—at Christmastime, and he didn’t talk much about Syd. He didn’t ask about the tattoo either, though, so he couldn’t have been too serious about it, which makes me feel all the more like a fool for taking him seriously and inking it on my body.
Fuck, I’m an idiot.
Stanley Cup Playoffs - Final Round
T he puck is mine. At least that’s something I can still chase after and claim with acuity. The scuff of my blades carving down center ice reaches my ears despite the many other louder noises in this area. It’s my meditation, my new heartbeat. It focuses me.
I shoot. The puck leaves my stick. It’s all in slow motion to me, but the crowd clenches around me, their anticipation flavors the cool and sweat-soaked air. Bam! He scores. Alderchuck scores again.
Casey told me that Sutter called me a hockey terminator.
Am I? I hope so. I hope Dash is watching with Syd. These are for him—every goal for him. It’s the only thing in my control at the moment. I’ve had to watch with a smile on my face as Dash falls more in love, hiding my descent into madness.
Know what the wildest thing is, though? My foolish heart’s still over here hoping. They’re getting married. I had to look at the ring, my stomach in my throat, and tell him how much I loved it. Soon as I was off the call, I cried. I cried until I gagged. Until my eyes hurt. I didn’t know one human could cry that much.
I thought the agony I lived in before was pretty bad, back when I still had hope. Nothing, nothing is as painful as this—and I watched my mother wither into oblivion. I get it now. All the books about love. Even the batshit crazy books from the eighteen hundreds we had to read in high school with characters like Heathcliff who went off the deep end, driven to revenge because of a broken heart. I get all of that now. I’ve already had several revenge fantasies. But unlike what Heathcliff did, all my revenge would be on Syd, not Dash. Syd’s lucky I’m a law-abiding citizen.
And yeah, I know what I sound like, which is why I keep these thoughts to myself. Time heals all, right? The only hope I have left is that this exhausting, gut-wrenching pain will subside. That I’ll stop waking up in the middle of the night, calling for him.
That I’ll finally be able to breathe right again.
“We’re getting married.”
Swish-crack!
Slam!
I’m bulldozed into the boards but get to watch the tail-end of what becomes of my slapshot. Off the crossbar. So close. If that one had gone in it might have changed the whole game. Did you know that? One goal can change a game. One goal can give a team enough momentum to pull up from a four-goal deficit.
What if I had spoken up? Would that have changed the course of me and Dash?
“Will you be my best man?”
I grab the jersey of the guy who’s been riding my ass all game. You wanna ride my ass? Take me to fucking dinner first. I swing— crack! —knocking his helmet off in one go. He whines and bitches but swings with just as much fervor. We’re sent to the penalty box, but well after I’ve kicked his ass.
“Of course, Dashie. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Stace. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Every time I replay the conversations about the wedding—which is a lot because my brain’s a fucking masochist—a sharp pain lances my insides. The first time, I physically doubled over. Every time after, it’s like I’m on the ice being run over by skate blades attached to two-hundred pound men. Everything hurts. Everything aches. My sleep is so shoddy, I’m running on pure adrenaline and heartbreak during games.
Maybe I’ll get an injury, maybe I’ll never play hockey again.
Or maybe hockey is all I’ll ever have.
From inside the penalty box, bile rises, but I choke it back down. Did you know you could cry so hard your stomach hurts in the same way muscles do after a workout? That your eyes could burn like they do when they’re dry, even though they never stop being wet?
It’s a choking, suffocating nightmare. As if someone carved away a vital chunk of me. Or maybe I puked it out. The universe is purging me of Dash, but it’s my body fighting against the forces, trying to keep some part of him with me.
“We’ll get married at home. Dad even said he’d help pay, can you believe that? I think he actually likes Syd. Didn’t think he’d like anyone I married. He hated all my boyfriends.”
I’ll never tell Dash, but Travis tolerates Syd. He’s got nothing against the guy, and so long as there’s a smile on his son’s face, he’ll have no beef with him either, but he still hasn’t pulled out the good scotch for him. That’s how I know. That and the little wrinkle in his forehead whenever his name’s mentioned.
I survey the ice. A chill bleeds through the polyester, to fan across my slick skin. I know Dash isn’t out there. I mean, he’s likely watching, but we’re in Boston. I still see him, though, an apparition on the ice just in front of me, flying like he’s Gretzky.
Vancouver loses the cup that night, and it’s just as well. I’ve already lost everything else. My heart, my soul, my purpose.
I can’t get away fast enough.
1st Off-Season (Orcas)
T ruth be told, I didn’t have sex with New Guy. I only tried anything at all with New Guy because things with Dash and Syd were getting serious. The pain was mounting. Once again, I tried to stop loving Dash by loving someone else, but as usual, it just made me miss Dash more.
And curiously—or maybe not so curiously—Dash didn’t like him either. Dash hasn’t liked anyone I’ve dated. Ever. People made comments before, but I brushed them off, seeing what I wanted to see.
Things are different now. Now, it’s like I’m in sudden death overtime. But, like, back when it didn’t go to shoot-outs, when you played until someone scored a goal, even if that meant six full periods. It’s been a long game, I’m tired as fuck, but the game’s not over till it’s over. I could still score that final goal and win it all.
I drove up to Kelowna, acquiring a Hummer along the way. Casey’ll think it’s cool, right? He won’t care that I sold our car, will he? I’m not Mr. Impulsive. This is not something I’d ever do, which is why I had to do it. Then I rented a motel room in the area, and I intend to just be for as long as I need to. Until I find the answer to a question I can’t articulate.
I need to go cold turkey on Dash, too. He’ll be mad, but surely Syd can soothe him till I get my head on right. I’m not much good to Dash now anyway. He knows I’m gone, and he knows I’ll be back. Okay, fuck, I feel hella guilty about switching my phone to silent, screening in case of emergency, but I can’t talk to him.
Don’t think I’ve ever taken time for me. This is my time for me.
The motel isn’t much, I can afford something a lot snazzier, but being on the ground level appealed to me as well as the simplicity. I got here at dawn, and I loved the way the sun began as a burst of orange over the backside of the building, leaving the front cool. It’s the way I remember summer days starting when I was a kid, and it’s the exact kind of nostalgia I need right now.
I unpacked my clothes, planning to stay awhile, and from the bottom of my bag, I pull the eleven-by-nine manilla envelope Auntie Annie sent me. Inside is a letter, and a journal.
Dear Stacey,
Your mother wanted me to send this to you when the time was right. It was a particularly lucid moment, as if she returned from wherever her mind was abducting her to deliver this message. It’ll tell you about your father so beware. It was a painful memory for her, this was the only way she could tell you.
I’ll leave it up to you as to whether you think you should tell Casey.
Key’s taped to the back.
Love,
Auntie Annie
I haven’t read it yet, and I don’t know if I should. Maybe it’s better to leave the past alone.
T here’s nothing better than the Kelowna sun to blaze a new perspective into you, so I drag myself to the beach. I don’t want to do anything other than mope about Dash. Replay every action and every word over to see if I was missing something. Each time, I come up with nothing but more heartache.
I spread out my oversized towel, one big enough for my large hockey body, close my eyes behind a pair of shades, and enjoy the tropical whiff of sunscreen.
Even the fucking sunscreen reminds me of my Dash. My heart squeezes. I want to die.
Wham!
A soft, air-filled something makes contact with the side of my head. It bounces and lands. I assume it’s a beach ball until I sit up. It’s a giant inflatable unicorn.
Like Buddy. Buddy was a unicorn. Goddamn. This “forget Dash” thing isn’t going so well. He’s invaded every memory I have.
Two thin blond men race toward me. One’s shorter by at least five inches. The tall one has a less prominent nose and a sharp masculine jawline. The shorter one has softer features. They both have sparkling green eyes.
A large barrel of a man is quick to follow. He’s big. Even taller than me, closer to Rhett’s height. Bet he could carry each of these men over a shoulder at the same time. He’s got a dark, neatly trimmed beard and a swell of dark hair on his head to match. He’s shirtless. Hell, what does he do to put on muscle size like that? Must be genetic.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
“Yeah, we’re really sorry. Need us to make it up to you?” the smallest man says.
There’s no question what he means by “make it up to me”.
“Uhhh,” I sputter.
“Trent,” the larger man scolds. He extends his hand. “I’m Philip. They’ve been pretty excited to get here all day and their exuberance got away from them. Can we buy you lunch to make up for the intrusion?”
“Not necessary. Trust me when I say I can take a hit much harder than this guy gives it,” I say, handing them their toy.
“Then how about, have lunch with us because we think you’re sexy as fuck?” Philip says.
I swallow. I don’t get propositioned often. I’m usually the one doing the propositioning. The immediate no is on my lips. I’m in no fucking state, let me tell you. Not for conversation, not for lunch with strangers, definitely not for sex with anyone.
But it’s obvious there’s a dynamic going on here. He takes care of them. They’re grown men with a unicorn inflatable. Maybe I’m stereotyping because I once bought a unicorn nightlight for a grown man in an effort to look after him, but it’s like the secret universal bat signal of caretaking or something.
It says we know you. It says comfort.
Fuck do I need some comfort. Anything to alleviate this hollow ache, even if it’s just for lunch. It’s the kind of distraction I was looking for without knowing exactly what it was I was looking for.
“Sure, I’d love to get some lunch.”
L unch turns into dinner, which turns into, “Spend our vacation with us, Mr. Alderchuck.” Maybe it’s weird to cling to three people you just met, but that’s what I do, and I’m not sorry or ashamed. It’s easy to forget about my problems, my aching heart, when I can get so into them.
Philip is Daddy Philip. They’re American. Members of the kink community in Seattle. It’s easy to see what links me to them in such an immediate way. I may not be a kinkster, but I’m a caretaker, though Philip insists that it could be a bit of a fetish of mine.
“Fetish sounds so bad,” I say.
“Does it make you hard?”
Whoa. His voice. No wonder Trent and Alex constantly drape all over him—in his lap, over his shoulder, around his neck.
“S-Sometimes,” I admit. “Not always.”
He shrugs. “That’s all a fetish is—something that makes you hard. Some schools of thought believe we’re born with them, and some believe they come about because of a life event. Either way, you don’t have a whole lot of control over what makes you hard and what doesn’t.”
Don’t I know it?
But it’s fascinating to watch them, learn about them. I’m a week into my escape when it dawns on me, I’ve barely thought about Dash at all.
I’m not fooled into thinking I’ve recovered, or that I’m over Dash. Philip, Trent, and Alex have become the equivalent of a drug I’m using to escape him.
“I have to come clean,” I tell Philip. It’s early evening and we’re at the condo they rented on the beach. Philip and I are beside each other. Trent snoozes with his head on Philip’s lap, and I’ve got Alex’s blond head resting on mine while I gently run fingers through his hair.
I couldn’t resist their advances any longer, and I don’t mean the sexual ones. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind. I was craving this kind of interaction—the one where someone needs comfort, and I give it.
Maybe it wasn’t Dash who had the addiction, maybe it was me all along.
Or could it have been both of you?
Addictions are bad.
Then it’s a good thing all of that nonsense is over.
“Oh? Is this where you tell me you’re not a sexy hockey player from Vancouver? Too late, I’ve already looked you up. We’ve already ordered posters for our room.”
“Har, har.”
“You think I’m joking—that’s the funny part.”
“Am I supposed to ask permission to get my confession out?” I tease. I told them not to pause their dynamic on account of me. I’ve been given a rare window into how they are twenty-four-seven. Watching them heals something inside me. Makes me feel normal.
“Alright, let’s hear your confession.”
I pour my heart out about Dash, telling him as much as I can without disclosing Dash’s private information. I tell him how it ended.
“The three of you have already done so much for me, given me enough of your time, I can’t use any more of it for selfish reasons.”
He clears his throat. “Then I suppose I should admit that our inflatable didn’t hit you by accident.”
“Some kind of kismet thing?” I ask.
He smirks. “If kismet is the same as I threw it at you, then yes.”
We break down in quiet laughter. Fuck, I’m laughing. If only Casey were here to see this, he wouldn’t believe it.
“To be perfectly honest, we haven’t given up on absorbing you into our triad. I think you’d fit with us, and I don’t say that often, but we’re big on consent, so you’re safe from me keeping you against your will.” He winks. “But I would like a big favor that I think would also be good for you.”
“Oh?”
“One of their biggest kinks is me lending them out, and they’re dying to be lent out to you. They also wanted to see Vancouver on our vacation, but I’m going to have to fly back for work. You don’t even have to be with them sexually—though I highly suggest it for ultimate relaxation—even looking after them will soothe a bit of that ache in you. Maybe help you see that you can look after someone else like you looked after Dash. That it’s okay to meet that need.”
My hand pauses in Alex’s hair briefly, before I resume combing the soft tresses. I can’t even imagine sharing Dash. If he were mine, he’d be just mine.
“Wow, I don’t know what to say. You hardly know me … you’d really trust me to look after them?”
He nods. “They’re fully capable of telling you to go fuck yourself if you do anything to hurt them.”
“I’d never.”
“I know or I wouldn’t have suggested it.”
I don’t think it would be just them telling me to go fuck myself. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. We still have another six days. There are a few things I’ll have to tell you about them if you decide to take them with you, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“ A nd, and, can we call you Hockey Daddy? Just for while we visit?” Trent asks from the back seat.
“Yeah, you can call me Hockey Daddy—hey, Alex, you’re gonna … spill that,” I say after he’s already spilled his bottle of water everywhere.
They’re adorable, but they’re a damn handful. They wouldn’t put their seatbelts on because they were distracted, poking around in all the nooks and crannies of my new vehicle. Trent played with the windows so much, I had to turn on the child locks. He wanted the window down, which was fine, but he stuck his head and arms out so far, I had to make him move to the middle seat, or else I was rolling the damn window up.
Philip warned me not to let them sit together on long car rides. “They get restless and restless boys get into trouble,” he said.
I wasn’t gonna find out what that meant, so Alex is in the passenger seat.
“Sorry, Hockey Daddy,” Alex says.
“That’s okay, it’s just water.” Thank fuck. “Pick some music, eh?” I hand him my phone. That’ll keep him busy for a few minutes.
Yeah, so I’m taking them with me. I couldn’t let this feeling go. I feel fucking great, and them being delightful menaces goes a long way to keeping the pain at bay.
“What kinds of things do you guys want me to show you when we’re in Van?”
“I’ve always wanted to go to the Vancouver Aquarium,” Alex says. “Do they really have sea otters there?”
“They do. How about you, Trent?”
“I’d like to check out a hockey game,” he says. “I’m not built for playing, though, just watching men chase other men around with sticks.”
“Hate to disappoint you, bud, but there’s no hockey in the summer. I do, however, know some guys, and we could probably arrange something.” There's enough between us, Meyers, and Elkingtons for two teams, and we could rent the ice at one of the local rinks. Or we could arrange another street hockey battle.
There’s no one home when we get there, but there doesn’t need to be. I’m hit in the face with the smells of us—our unique home smell. There isn’t one thing our house smells like, it’s the combination of me, Casey, Dirk, and Dash. I get an electric shock of pain that takes my breath away.
It’s as if they can tell. “C’mon, Hockey Daddy. Let us make you feel better, okay? Or at least watch us have fun. You could tell us what to do to have fun!” Trent says.
“Or just cuddle us. Either way,” Alex says.
I'm thinking about it for the first time in the two weeks I’ve known them. Dash isn’t going to be mine. I have to accept that. If I really love Dash, I’ll let him move on from me. I need to take a step, however small, to move on from him, too.
I lean into the dynamic with Alex and Trent a little, smacking Alex’s juicy round ass. “I’ll think about it, darlin’. You two head to the bedroom and unpack. I’ll be right there.” I point out where they should go, and they bound away like happy bunnies.
From my bag, I take out Mom’s journal. I don’t know if I can read this. I don’t know if I ever want to read this. I slip it into one of the storage bins in the garage. Dash labeled and organized these bins for me when he moved in.
Fuck. It’s a punch in the gut all over again. I can’t think about him. I toss the bin back where it belongs, the still-locked journal sealed inside.
I was proud of myself for about twenty minutes. For every second of those twenty minutes, I let myself believe that, yeah, I can move on. It’s fucking essential that I do. If it were just heartache holding me back, I’d shut the hell up forever, but there’s something else, and I saw it on Dash’s face last night.
Trent and Alex drive a hard bargain. They know about the Dash situation, and they want to help me.
“You be our director, Hockey Daddy. Just watch us, tell us what to do, and maybe let us kiss you a little? Try us. We’ll make you feel good,” Alex had said.
I wanted to feel good. Fuck, I needed it. I was beyond my breaking point, and last night I broke. I let them try. It wasn’t bad, but that doesn’t mean it was good either. Nothing to do with them, I’m just not ready for anything beyond a little friendly cuddling. But I was glad I’d tried. Then Dash came home.
I reached for my robe to cover up. Trent stopped me, shaking his head. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Know what?” I said.
“We haven’t even known you that long, but we know what that man’s done to your heart.”
I frowned. “Not his fault.”
Alex sighed. “No, but trust us. Go out there without a robe. You need an answer. This is how you’ll get it.”
The question I can’t articulate. The one burning for an answer. The one that without it, I’m in fucking limbo.
But something else flared up, too. Indignation. Why can’t I enjoy a little sex? He’s getting married, I’m the one getting left behind. We’re going to have to let each other go. What better way to start than to show him I’m trying?
I walked out and immediately regretted it. His face was enough to convince me I needed to find a monastery to join, like, fucking yesterday. Sex isn’t worth that look on his face. Another partner isn’t worth that look on his face.
So, fuck it. No more boyfriends. No more trying to hook up.
I’m his, however he’ll have me.
Trent and Alex were right, I did get my answer, and my question.
Question: How do I move forward with Dash?
The answer: However he fucking tells me to.
But I’m also laying it on the table for him. I won’t hold onto this feeling anymore. If I’m his, I’m gonna live that, even if it’s unrequited. But in order to do that, he has to know how I feel.
If there’s ever an opportunity, even the slightest window open for me to reach in and snatch him away from Syd willingly, I won’t hesitate ever again.