Page 4 of Misconduct Zone

He lifts his water glass for a toast. “More power to them.”

I agree and clink my glass to his.

Von has been through terrible tragedies, and he deserves love and happiness in his life. The loss is a neon sign warning me against any feelings I have for Dylon. My heart did not get the memo that straight men do not enjoy their bi friends developing an attraction to them. Being an NHL player, I do not discuss my sexuality, so Dylon doesn’t know I am bi. If I keep that fact to myself, history cannot repeat itself.

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” I ask instead of demanding a detailed list of everything he did.

His lips pucker and pull to one side as he thinks. “The usual.” He drops his knife and fork. “Ace and Gray had to work at not twinning their fits when they came over, and Baby Benz tried to get a group chat going, but no one responded.”

“I saw the chat.” My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. It isn’t usual for me, but I am so happy to see Dylon again. “Is Baby Benz his official new nickname? I thought we agreed not to call him that after he saved the team during Liska’s concussion last season.” Caleb Benz stepped in as the starting goalie when our All-Star was out for a couple of months.

Dylon shrugs and cuts another piece of steak. “It has a nice ring to it and pisses him off, so when he’s annoyingly loud, I use it.”

“Få smaka sin egen medicin,” I mumble.

“Yeah, baby.” Dylon hits the table with his fist, and everyone near us turns to look. “All the dirty talk.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I am tempted to roll my eyes like an American. “It means you get a dose of your own medicine.” He stares, and I stammer. “W-w-with Caleb because…” My voice trails off as his dimple appears. “Oh, shut up,” I grumble, realizing he’s fucking with me.

“What do you expect when you say I’m annoying? You missed the fuck out of me. Don’t lie,” he teases, but it’s true.

“Let me guess what else you did with your time. I bet you hosted an all-day, all-night, and next-day game-a-thon,” I say lightly to hide another worry. Dylon has a habit of numbing his feelings by keeping busy and entertained. Reading and quiet time give him anxiety. It wasn’t a problem until his shoulder injury when he abused pain pills.

“You know it. You’re looking at the champ.” He points his knife at himself.

“Ace sent me pictures of him in my spot on the couch, taunting me as if I would fly home for a video game marathon.” Our team captain is one of the best men I know. He probably wanted to reassure me that Dylon was fine. The team doesn’t know about his overdose, and it’s not my story to share. They assume his hospitalization was related to his shoulder injury, but everyone noticed his mental health suffered too as a result.

I hope Dylon gets to a place where he feels comfortable enough to tell the team. They will be supportive, but he doesn’t want the added pressure of friends looking for signs of his addiction or checking up on his behavior. He understands I do it because I care, but he wishes it wasn’t necessary. More peoplechecking in would bring additional feelings of shame, and I will not push him to do something that could sabotage his success.

After we finish our meal, we are presented with crème brulée and chocolate cake. When the flustered server fumbles the explanation, Dylon’s hand closes around my forearm.

“I ordered your usual before we had dinner.” He winks at the server, who sets an empty plate by his hand. “He says he won’t share, but he always does.”

The server blushes and almost bumps into a coworker as he backs away.

“You are a shameless flirt,” I scold with no heat.

“Yes, but I only have eyes for you.” His knee bumps mine under the table, and he sneaks his spoon into my cake.

I almost spit out my water. Dylon says things like that for the shock value, and I’ve trained myself not to react. The bigger the reaction, the more outrageous his comments. The surrounding tables could assume we’re on a date with his flirtatious smile, casual touches, and the way we are sharing dessert.

From the beginning, I had to rearrange my life for him and pretend it was all in the name of friendship. We practice yoga and box breathing for clarity and calming the nervous system. He believes those things are part of my daily routine to keep fit, and they are now. But I researched ways to impact his daily life in a positive way. We tried meditation, but Dylon cannot concentrate or stay still for that long.

His health means everything to me. I wish I could dismiss his meaningless flirting so the tiny speck of hope’s wings wouldn’t flutter. They burn to ash with his next question.

“Did you find any Swedish models to hang out with when you were home?” His eyebrows lift suggestively.

Sweden has my heart, but it isn’t home. “Date one Swedish model, and it is all I hear about,” I deflect.

“Seriously, dude, I hope you indulged. Just because my program suggests I shouldn't start a new romantic relationship or that I need a sobriety plan for sex,” he rolls his eyes, “doesn’t mean you have to live like a monk. I appreciate the solidarity, but it’s time to get laid.”

“I am not living like a monk for you.” The lie sounds convincing. “I dislike casual relationships, and my ex was a friend from home.” Those statements are accurate. Dating is challenging and exhausting and not worth my time.

The whole truth is that I could never have a relationship with someone while wishing they were Dylon.

“Are you thinking of dating again?” I ask, unable to unclench my fist.

He notices and taps my hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t jeopardize my program before the season. And dating isn’t my thing.”

---