Page 142 of Forbidden Hockey

“No, babe.” Dash stands up, but he’s trembling, and Stacey frowns. “I’ve gotta do this. It’s important that it’s me.”

Stacey’s body clenches, a hair away from charging me. That’s good. I always wanted the guy who married my son to protect him from anyone, even me. Not that he needs to protect him from me right now, but I get why he feels that way.

“You have five minutes, Dash. If he doesn’t cool down in that time, we’re leaving until he does,” Stacey says.

Dash inhales the weight of everything he’s carrying. “Okay, so I’m not all the way fine, Dad, but I’m as fine as I’m gonna be in this era.”

“This … era?” In my defense, I’m working on calming down, it’s just not coming all that easily. It feels like I’ve fallen off a cliff and there’s nothing to grip onto.

“It’s something Billy and I cultivated—you know, Billy? The super awesome therapist you found for me?”

My chest puffs up a little. Stacey talked Dash into a new therapist, but I was the one who found Billy after a few more trials and errors.

“Anyway, when I get frustrated that I haven’t ‘grown enough’ yet,” he says with air quotes around the words “grown enough”. “She reminds me of the different eras of my life. Like, the ‘when I slept with a night light’ era, I thought I’d be doomed to always sleep with a night light. It took a while to get rid of it—even with Stace around,” he adds, because, yeah, I was gonna point out that he’d switched his night light for an Alderchuck.

“Right now, it’s this.” He pushes up the sleeves, I coil on the inside. I can look at all kinds of grotesque shit, but not my boy self-fucking mutilated. “I’m in my nightmare era. It happens in my sleep.”

“You can’t stop him?” I plant my gaze on Stacey.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “All the other times, he made sounds. He thrashed. This time, he was quiet and subtle enough that I didn’t feel him in my sleep until the damage was done. I’ve threatened him with oven mitts and duct tape if it happens again.”

“It won’t,” Dash insists.

“You don’t know that, baby,” Stacey murmurs.

“Yeah, you don’t know that, Dashie. I vote for the oven mitts,” I say.

“Dad.”

“Why? Is this because of him? Robin? Dammit, I thought you said you felt good about the precautions we were gonna take?”

“I do, but…” he trails off. “Yeah, I’m also fucking terrified. I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to worry. Worrying isn’t gonna help.”

Those words zip through me, electrifying my veins. He doesn’t feel safe. He should get his safe era. He’s right, though, worrying’s not gonna help, but I know what would.

Robin gone for good.

I can do that. I can make it happen.

“I repeat, this hasn’t happened in a long-ass time. Stace and I have handled this before; we’ll do it again.”

“I don’t like that you didn’t tell me, Dashie.”

“I’m sorry about that, and maybe I should have told you, but that’s what felt right at the time. Our relationship wasn’t what it is now. Do you feel better now that you know?”

“Better’s not the word I would use.”

“Kinda proves my point. Now you’re gonna worry, and you really don’t need to.”

He’s right on all counts except for the part where I don’t need to worry—of course, I need to. That’s what dads do. I’m not consoled, but I’m calmer.

“That was a shock and a half, kid.” I open my arms for him, and he collides with my torso.

“In my defense, you weren’t supposed to see.”

I grip him tighter. “Does not make me feel better, Dashie.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Please trust me?”