Page 140 of Forbidden Hockey

“You’d have to get off my cock first.”

He sighs, resting his head on the crook of my shoulder. “Later then. I’m staying right here.”

Alittle over a week passes, and the summer that was the equivalent of a chokehold settles into something manageable. There are family barbeques, Meyer family street hockey games, and nights where they go out, but meet back at The Wicklow to end the night. They’ve always done that, like it’s some sort of home base. This place has seen it all. The night Jack and Casey climbed on the bar and belted Bohemian Rhapsody until Mercy shut the power off. Dash falling asleep against Stacey, Dirk watching me from the bar, pretending that he’s not watching me.

Dash stumbling over the threshold behind Dirk and Hunter, the night he found his way back from Robin’s basement, his hand covered in his own blood.

This place knows all our secrets.

Someday, the walls will echo with their ghosts, and yeah, that’s morbid, but I like that thought. As if we’ve all imprinted here.

I took action on the tattoo, but it needs a couple of appointments. Gonna have to keep it from Dash until it’s done, or forever. Not that Dirk would let me get away with that. Fuck. Why did I do this? Dash will hate it. He’ll be embarrassed every time he looks at it.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I head out to the restaurant to see if anyone needs my help during the rush. I’m not surprised to see that Stacey’s up from his spot at the bar—where he’s been a barnacle during Dash’s shifts—and is helping servers like the pro he is. Guess I’m not really needed, but I hang back, near the bar, in case they need me to jump back there. Dash is on the floor today.

Man, isn’t he hot in all that flannel? At least roll up your sleeves, kid. Stacey and I are dressed similarly, in our own black and red checkered shirts, but we’ve got the sleeves rolled up, and they’re open to the thin tanks we’ve got on underneath. That way, we air out some. Is he cold? Sure, it’s raining today, but it’s been warm. The air conditioning’s cranked up … but he’s been running around. Is he coming down with something?

Get a grip, Nolan.

I’m being a worrywart dad, aren’t I? But something about the picture of him’s off. Makes me wanna scoop him up and drag him up to the apartment where I know I can keep him safe—just like in the beginning.

I huff out an exhale, pulling out my phone to check my last message from Maxwell, so that I can remind myself not to becontrolling the way he is. He hasn’t been in, and his texts have finally slowed to the occasional meme. The last one is of two faux skeleton Halloween decorations with the caption, “when you find someone who is just as dead inside as you are”.

When I got it, I … chuckled. Yeah. Didn’t like that. I don’t want to find the shit he sends me funny. It implies we have the same sense of humor.

Still, Maxwell Elkington sending memes. So normal. Normalseeming. Maxwell is far from normal.

But I’ll admit I got curious as to whether things worked out with him and Eddie—not curious enough to text him. If I do that, it’ll encourage the idea that we’re besties. Instead of replying, I open the chat between Dirk and me.

Dirk

Good news! Hunter said UBC was okay. Means I don’t have to move somewhere.

Is that good news? I don’t wanna see him giving up hockey to make his brother happy, but he’s an adult and my partner. I’m not gonna force him into doing what I think is best for him.

Even if what I think is best is clearly the right fucking answer.

Okay, so the darker part of me wishes I could make him, but I’m not sure I can watch him give up hockey when I know he doesn’t want to.

Me

If you wanted to go to school out east, I’d move with you, baby. Just putting that out there.

The restaurant can run itself now. I’d have to return to check on things, but not so often that it would take me away from him more than necessary.

I look up from my phone just in time to see Bryce collide with Dash, and a whole tray of wine takes flight. It’s not even an exciting tumble of glasses; they tip over like bowling pins, drenching the pair of them just before the ear-splitting crash. Shards skitter across the wooden floors, and Wicklow guests snap their heads in the direction of the calamity.

It’s quiet for exactly three seconds, all I can hear is the drag of air in and out of my lungs, then the bussers descend with brooms, a mop, and a “wet floor” sign. The restaurant moves on as the staff power cleans. Maverick, the guy hanging around here like a bad smell, appears out of nowhere, his shirt already coming off.

“If I find out that was because your floors were slippery, Nolan,” he threatens on the way by.

It’s a restaurant, the floors are always slippery.

I follow behind toward Dash, even though Stacey’s already there. Nobody’s hurt, just wet, but Stacey’s eyes scan him, looking for damage.

“Put this on, Meyer,” Maverick says.

“Maveri—”