Page 117 of Forbidden Hockey

“No. You two are gonna sit in that fucking booth over there and wait for, uh, Hockey Daddy to bring you breakfast. Understand?”

A smile spreads onto the taller one’s face. The shorter one smirks.

“That voice,” he says.

“So,fuckingsexy,” the other one purrs.

My cheeks heat.

“Alex, you shouldn’t swear like that,” one says, but he giggles as if being naughty is fun. I sincerely hope they don’t get any more ideas.

“What did I just say?” I prompt them.

“To sit down,” they say in unison.

“Go.” I point to the booth; they launch over the counter before I can stop them. The taller one makes it over fine, but the shorter one’s foot catches on one of the tall-backed barstools. There’s aslap-thudas his hands hit the floor, followed by his knees. He yelps, the other one rushes to him, glaring at me from the floor as if it were somehow my fault.

Stacey’s out the kitchen door again, also with a dark look for me. What the fuck did I do?

“Want to make them breakfast instead?” he asks.

Part of me wants to respond that I can look after two grown men, who really should be able to look after themselves, but y’know? I don’t think I can.

“Please. Fuck,please.” I snag my still-hot coffee on the way by, to the tune of Stacey half scolding them, half consoling them.Bothof them, because if one of them’s hurt, both of them are, as if they operate on some sort of hive mind. So much for my peaceful breakfast, but around here? No one ever finishes a full meal anyway.

About a Week and a Half Later

Casey and Sutter return with a fucking flourish. They’re engaged. What an odd couple, though. Sutter’s all no-nonsense, while Casey’s the epitome of nonsense. Sutter dips gravy-loaded fries in ketchup, feeding them to Casey as if he’s something precious, glaring at anyone who dares to look upon their moment. He can’t see me, I’m kinda lurking in the shadows. There was too much shit going on for me.

Plus, yeah, I’m butt-hurt and not the way I wanna be butt-hurt. Trav’s back, and it had none of the private fanfare I was hoping for. I had fantasies of me waiting at the door of the restaurant as he hopped off his Harley with swagger that’s equal parts smooth, equal parts danger. He would have looked at me like he wanted to fucking devour me, and then all he’d do is curl his finger. I’d run, and jump, and he’d catch me. I’d wrap my legs around his thick-ass torso.

Fuck, okay. Maybe all that was a tad dramatic, but anything would be better than this—me, sulking in a corner while everyone gets to do fun stuff with him but me.

And, like, Hunt’s been working more hours lately. I assume because of all the renovations. Don’t really know, he works a lot. But this leaves me more time to do shit with Trav—no Hunter around to keep me busy with “chores”.

Everyone was there, and I mean everyone. Even Rhett and Logan, who don’t come to everything, appeared. That’s anotherclusterfuck. Bryce Meyer started working here on Dash’s say so, which pulled Maverick from the Elkington woodwork. Jack and Mercy somehow escaped the too-many Meyer family members, and Stace showed up with the disaster twins, which led to the whole “Cocktail” thing Stacey and Trav do.Cocktailis a movie from the eighties I’d never watched until Trav begged me to watch it with him, although there wasn’t much begging to it. This was before we got together, so I was dying to be with him in any way I could. I would have watched paint dry with him if he’d asked. Anyway, it’s a movie about bartending or something. I dunno, I wasn’t paying that much attention to the movie, but there’s a big scene where they do fancy tricks with the shakers as they pour drinks for people. Stacey and Trav have that scene down to a Flash Mob performance.

Everyone started heavily drinking after that, and I had no desire to participate beyond a shot or two and a beer to celebrate the newly engaged SutterChuck, who could go into the food porn industry if hockey doesn’t work out for them.

Ugh. Gross.

I look away until my gaze finds Trav across the bar, talking to a crowd of customers. It’s a group of women, all of them with lusty eyes and plunging necklines pointed directly at my man. Trav’s being perfectly cordial—they’re customers after all—but they want him. I’d never hurt a woman, but I would drag them out of here and toss them on their asses.

He’s finally here, but he’s not home.

My hand curls around my now warm beer instead.

A war cry roars across the crowded bar. I’d know that voice anywhere; it belongs to my best friend. My head snaps up, ripping me from my private melodrama just in time to see Dash forecheck one of the chaos twins with an invisible hockey stick.

He turns to grab the other one, twisting his fists into the guy’s shirt like it’s a jersey. Someone needs to remind bro he’s not on the ice.

“You Stacey-stealing hussy!” He drags the guy from the dance floor like he’s a rag doll, slamming him into a wall. “Keep your filthy, whore hands off of him. Do you understand me?”

Jaws drop, and people gasp so loud it rises above the music. Am I the only one who’s not fucking surprised? I saw this coming from a mile away. I mean, did I know he’d finally snap tonight? Not exactly, but the thought that maybe someone should cut him off after his fifth shot of tequila crossed my mind. I wasn’t stopping him. This needed to happen. Stacey needed a fucking dose of Dash reality.

“Okay, let’s go,” Stacey’s voice booms as he lifts an angry Dash over his shoulder. A swift gush of hot air waves with them as they pass me. Dash’s anger has dissolved into tears.

“You’re mine, Stace. Not theirs. Fucking mine.” He sobs into Stacey’s shoulder. But Stacey’s legs are too fucking long, and the only thing I catch from his response is a gentle “sweetheart”. He pauses as if he suddenly realizes he forgot something, spins around, and heads back my way.