Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
Late January
Dirk
On the Ice
The air tastes like iron, sharp and metallic, and I can’t tell if it’s from my split lip or the storm of violence happening around me.
It’s war with a fucking scoreboard tonight.
But this is how it is when we play Boston, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
This is the thrill I live for, why I always stay thirsty for hockey.
Dash’s stick cracks against the ice—pass the puck, Boulder—and I’m fucking trying. If only this goddamn moose on skates would get off my ass. Time to spin-o-rama. I turn like I’m heading into my own zone, then one-eighty around and pass to Dash.
Ha, ha, sucker!
The puck lands sweetly against his blade, and there he fucking goes toward the goal. Boston defense moves in, and he passes back to Sweeny, one of our defensemen. Nice, Dashie. But that’s all the celebration I get.
Wham!
Someone accidentally-on-purpose side checks Dash, shoulder ramming him in the fucking head. Oh no, he fucking didn’t. I’m gonna kill that asshole. Dash drops like a bag of rocks, and so does my stomach.
“What you waiting for? Let’s get him, Boulder.
” Maverick’s a quarter of a second in front of me, the first to pile onto that dickbag, slamming him into the boards.
Another Boston player glides in at the speed of light with the hope of being the first to attack Maverick, but my gloves are already gone, and I grab him.
It ignites a frenzy. More guys move into the fray, pounding on each other.
The refs have moved in. There are whistles.
No one cares. They have to pull us off, but Maverick’s clobbered the guy, Braxley, who railroaded Dashie.
For some fucking reason, it’s Maverick and I tossed in the box together, but at least the clown that started it’s in the box across from us.
Speaking of Dash, he’s already up and ready to go again. Buddy’s lucky, or he would have been the first face I smashed after leaving this box.
“Awww, look, it’s Romeo and Juliet side by side,” he chirps.
“Jealous because pigeons can’t have hockey stats like mine?” Maverick shouts.
“There’s a reason you’ve been traded four times, Braxley,” I say. “Go home, hockey doesn’t want you.”
Maverick and I high-five. “That was awesome, thanks man.”
“Don’t mention it. Getting hit like that’s bullshit, and I know you protect Nolan on the ice.”
Yeah, it’s resulted in me beat up a lot more and more penalty minutes this season than my entire career.
Braxley’s still beaking us off from his box.
Maverick and I burst out laughing, then he lobs a sports bottle filled with some kinda sports drink.
It bursts all over Braxley’s face. Somehow, no one clocks that shit, and Braxley’s left fuming.
We laugh harder. Serves him fucking right. That’s called justice, motherfucker.
Man, it’s good to be a hockey player.
Just call him,” I insist. Dash decided to go on this stupid “I’m not calling Stacey” ban. So far, he’s made it a grand total of two days, and it’s killing us both.
“Can’t you call him? Or call Casey. See what he’s up to through Casey.”
I don’t involve myself in other people’s love lives, but Dash is the exception. Dash is the exception to every rule I have.
Well, and maybe Trav, too. Might be a Nolan thing.
But anyway, I know I want to meddle, I’m just not sure which way I go here.
I already know that, as nice as Syd is, he’s not what Dash needs in a long-term companion.
But if Stacey wants him, and I know he does, he should have done something by now.
The fact that he hasn’t pisses me the fuck off.
The only reason I haven’t beaten on Stacey is that he actually does have a positive effect on Dash, and Dash fucking needs him right now.
Me doing recon isn’t gonna be good enough.
The bags under Dash’s eyes are too dark; he’s not eating as much as he should be.
He’s gonna get injured. I know one phone call from Stacey will brighten him right up.
I want to tell him how stupid I think his phone ban thing is, and I do, but while I can be a crass motherfucker, I won’t go that far. I need to get Dash to call him. It’s for his own good.
“Just remembered, he could be out. I think he was dating some new guy,” I say. I don’t know if he is or not, but the way to get Stacey or Dash to take action is to make their claim on the other feel threatened.
And I know—if they’re that territorial of the other, why aren’t they together? It’s the same question that’s been drumming a beat against my skull for too many years, but I guess it’s a long story, that I guess raises some good points.
Still. I reserve the right to complain and intervene when I deem it necessary.
Dash instantly transforms from “sad boi” to murderous raccoon. “New guy? Fucking Alderchuck.”
He picks up his phone, and Stacey answers immediately, the only way he answers Dash’s calls when he’s not playing a game or in practice. He’s available at Dash’s every whim—doesn’t Dash see that?
“Hey … Stace?”
I don’t know what Stacey says on the other end, but whatever it is, Dash melts. The years he’s aged in the few months they’ve been apart fall away until he’s renewed. He softens. His spirit returns.
“Find your way to each other, knuckleheads,” I whisper under my breath.
My phone pings with a text, and I light from the inside, hoping it’s from Trav, but it’s not. It’s Maverick Elkington. What does he want? As much as he can be a terror on the ice, he usually keeps to himself.
Mav
Meet for a bite?
If I didn’t already know how obsessed he is with Bryce Meyer, I’d think he was trying to come onto me with all the special attention I’m getting.
He’s trying to find an in, a connection to Bryce—that’s gotta be it—but if he thinks I’m the “in” he needs, he’s not as smart as I thought he’d be. Either that or he’s desperate.
I give Dash a once-over—serene smile, feet practically kicking, and is he biting his damn lip? Jesus, what’s Stacey saying to him? In any case, he’s fine. At least for an hour.
“Going out for a bit, Dashie.”
“Just a sec, Stace.” He turns his attention from the phone. “Hot hookup?”
Actually, that works in my favor. “Yeah, something like that,” I lie smoothly.
He gives me an air high five, and I grab my keys and head out the door.
As much as Elkingtons have a penchant for pissing me off, I can’t deny they’re beautiful. All of them. It’s hard to look Maverick in his face and not get lost in his eyes. I don’t even have a thing for him; it’s pure intoxication from being pulled into his orbit for too long. I shake my head.
“What do you want, Elkington?”
“Just a friend. Can’t a guy want a friend?” He takes a long pull of his non-alcoholic beer and then fiddles with the label.
The man looks like he could use a real beer. Underneath all those good looks, something’s stewing. I sip my soda water.
“I already have friends.”
“Right, your codependent group of clowns.”
“If that’s what you think of us, why do you want to be friends? They come with the Dirk package.”
“Like I said, codependent.”
“It works for us, so you can fuck off. Now tell me why you’re here, or I’m leaving.”
He heaves a sigh. “Fine. Bryce won’t talk to me. I’ve tried everything and he still won’t return my texts.”
An Elkington’s definition of “everything” is a lot different than the rest of the population. I need to approach this carefully.
“What have you done?”
“I text him my love every morning and every night, regardless. He’s ghosted me completely since moving to New York, but I know it’s a test. He wants to see if I’ll give up on us—I won’t.
I send him gifts. I’m a little limited as to what I can send, because I’m worried Father’s going to cut off my funding any day now, and Rhett’s told me he’s only giving me a third of what Father was, but every spare nickel goes to Bryce and our future. ”
Where do I begin with that? It’s hard to tell if he’s actually head over heels, or if he’s fixated like a damn psychopath on his next victim.
My first instinct is to hate him. What a spoiled fucking brat. Relying on Daddy’s money and then big brother’s money is pathetic. Some of us have to work hard for a living. Some of us can’t buy our boyfriends.
“What kind of gifts are you sending him?”
“I started with the usual, flowers, his favorite treats, and Bryce has a weird fascination with mugs, so I try to find ones I think will stand out in his collection.” He laughs. “I found him one that says ‘cup of fuckoffee’, because he’s such a grouchy Gus in the mornings.”
Grouchy Gus? I’ve never heard him talk all cutesy like that. And he’s smiling like it makes his fucking world. Man, maybe his feelings are real?
“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t stop there?”
“Because you’re perceptive, which is why I selected you as a potential friend.”
“Selected me?” Does this guy know how friendship works? Probably not. I don’t bother asking.
“How else would I go about the process? I measured our likes against our dislikes and sorted through our values. There’s an app—it’s never wrong.”
“Well, if an app said we should be friends, guess that’s it, then.”
He nods. Was I not sarcastic enough?
“Anyway, I bought him a brand-new Lexus. He was furious, which was something. At least I finally got a text message, even if it was just him threatening to cut my nuts off and bury them on the moon.”
He smiles at the memory as if it was one of the best days of his life.
“Have you tried, I dunno, respecting his boundaries?” That’s rich coming from me. The way I’d be on Trav’s ass if he even tried to reject me.
Maverick squints. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Give it a rest. Give him space.”
“That’s horrible advice. He’ll think I don’t love him anymore—I never want him to think that.”
“What if you … kept up the texts, but halted the other stuff, just for a little while,” I add when I can see that his brain’s about to implode.