Chapter 11 #2
But watching him like this is its own kind of ache. He used to be a chaotic ball of messy sunshine and cat claws, now he’s glued to his phone when he’s not on the ice, hanging off whatever Alderchuck says to him next. And he’s quiet. Never really here, always in his head.
Dash’s eyes flutter, but he forcefully opens them.
“Get your ass in bed, Dashie. We’re having a much-needed nap.” I’m not a dominant type. I can turn it on because I can be switch-y, but it exhausts me.
“But—” His words cut off when he sees the look in my eyes. “Yeah, okay, Dirky.”
He scampers off to his bedroom, and I pull out my phone.
Me
Are we boyfriends?
I get a strange flush just typing that. Holy fuck.
Trav
What kind of a question is this? Again, how the hell did I get demoted from husband to boyfriend?
I can’t help smiling. A big bad wolfish ex-biker sending a broken heart emoji is fucking next-level precious. I change his name from “Trav” to “Husband” in my phone, take a screenshot, and send it to him.
Me
Better?
Husband
A little. Husbands should sleep in their husbands’ beds, and my bed is notably missing the husband that’s supposed to sleep there.
There’s an odd, warm surge. Trav wants me to be the one in his bed. And the Husband thing, it’s a joke, but the underlying meaning isn’t.
Okay, so we’re in an official relationship. Does that mean I tell him about Dash? Or will Dash consider that a betrayal? How the fuck did Stacey maneuver being beholden to Trav and Dash at the same time? Could not have been easy.
It hits me. At some point, I’m going to have to betray Dash to Trav.
Both for Dash’s sake and because Trav’s my man now.
I’m responsible to him first. I know everyone deals with that stuff differently, but that’s the way I’d want it if things were the other way around.
I just don’t see how a relationship can work if your partner isn’t first.
It’s not bad, just typical Dash missing Stacey stuff. I’ve got a handle on it, so, for now, I’m gonna ride the high of knowing that Trav’s all mine.
Husband
Missing the hell out of you, pretty boy.
Me
You’re my breath, baby.
The puck slides to Dash just over the blue line. C’mon, c’mooon, Nolan. Shoot it. You’re wide open, man. But he hesitates, staring too long before flicking a half-hearted wrist shot that dribbles toward the goalie. Easy stick save.
“Fucksake,” I mutter as we circle back for the face off. Dash’s wrist shot could put a hole in the net, but tonight, he’s got no steam, like all his hockey skills just fell out of him.
On the bench, he sits with his stick resting on his lap, gloves off, his thumb rubbing absent circles into the meat below his other thumb—the one he injured all those years ago escaping Robin—expression blank.
I don’t have to wonder what he’s thinking about.
Stacey, it’s Stacey. It’s gotten so bad that even Maverick’s cheering Dash on.
The other day in practice, Maverick called out, “Nice pass”.
Dash said, “Thanks, Stace. Ah, er, Maverick.”
We all moved past his slip-up, but we heard it.
Dash blinks fast, jaw tight, then shoves his gloves back on, jumping up for his next shift before Coach even calls. Does he think skating harder will burn the ghost of Stacey out of his system?
I’m antsy, skating back onto the ice like a demon. Maverick’s in my periphery, coming up the wing, as I catch a solid pass from Dashie—finally—just after passing the blue line. Steel bites the ice with every stride as I surge past the last defender, nothing between me and the goalie—
Except that same fucking defender’s stick blade.
It catches the side of my calf, and I’m sliding on my shoulder and thigh toward the net.
But my stick’s still in front, and I sight the whip of black in my right periphery.
Curving my stick back, the blade catches the puck, and I send it behind me.
My still-flying body sails toward the boards, but I’m able to turn my head in time to see Maverick grab the puck and shoot … scores!
Our team collides. I scramble to my feet, barreling my body into them. This is what it’s all about for me. Hockey. Teamwork. Celebration.
We win by a goal, that goal.
As soon as we get to the locker room, I’m about to pull out my phone to find out if Trav watched the game, but Maverick knocks into me.
“Whoa, Boulder. Look at you. Don’t tell me that smile’s because of the game. You’d better be fucking whatever makes you that happy.”
Shit. My friends might be too self-involved to notice my Travis joy, but Maverick—shockingly—isn’t.
“What do you want, Elkington?”
“Relax. Just wanted to thank you for that pass.”
“I’m not giving you information on Bryce. I don’t have any.”
The vein in his forehead seems to beat harder, his dark hair falling over his right eye perfectly, despite the fact that it’s been trapped by a helmet for three brutal periods. God, Elkingtons really are blessed with pretty privilege.
“It’s cute that you think I need your information on my man, Boulder.”
He does if he thinks Bryce is his man. They are soooo not dating.
“You keep denying my offers of friendship. Let’s grab a bite. C’mon.”
This isn’t the first time he’s asked, which is weird because other than his invites and practice, he’s kept to himself.
I’ve been turning him down. I don’t have the same hate for Rhett or his brother that some in our crew seem to have, but that doesn’t mean I trust them.
Still, he’s been relentless, wanting to hang out.
It’s a matter of when, not if. I should just get it over with.
I catch sight of Dash, wrapping a towel around his waist, that haunted look that’s been slowly darkening over the season. His spirit wilting like a daffodil in April.
“I’ve got plans,” I insist. “Some other time.”
He huffs, but he won’t stop eyeing me like he’s trying to extract all my secrets. He couldn’t know, could he? Nah. Even if he suspects me of having a secret boyfriend, he won’t think it’s Trav.