Page 21 of Forbidden Hockey
“New work dress code,” he says. “Shirts have to touch the top of your pants—tell the rest of the staff.”
I barely suppress my chuckle. “Whatever you say, Trav.”
Dirk, Age 20
Iwent to Kelowna, played hockey for a season, and came back. It was a lot of months away from Trav. A reset. It was good. I actually believed he was out of my system.
Until I saw him again.
Motherfucker. What’s wrong with me? Trav’s made it pretty damn obvious he’s not interested. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. Actions speak louder than words. So, I do what anysane person would do and keep my distance. For the first time, I question, really question if I should still work here. But I also heard through the Dash grapevine that Trav hasn’t been seeing Lana, or anyone, and I can’t help but think, what are the chances it’s because of me?
“Heya, Dirk, can we talk?” Trav says, one day after work.
“What’s up?” I sling the rag over my shoulder. I’m bartending. I’ll be bartending a lot this summer.
Trav sits at the bar top, hair falling over his shoulder. “I’m sorry about last year, before you left. What I did was weird. I don’t know what came over me. I think I got protective because you’re my son’s best friend. I had all these visions of you ending up in a shallow grave somewhere. That guy looked like an asshole, if I’m being honest.”
He was, but I knew that going into it. I wasn’t looking for love.
Relief hits me like a ton of bricks. Because all of that makes sense. Fuck, didn’t realize how much I needed that to make sense until right now, even if it’s not him telling me he reciprocates. He was being an overprotective elder type. I’d tested with my little strip tease, and there was a moment I thought that maybe … maaaaaybe he wanted me back, but he shut it down, hard. Man, I was fucking crazy to do that, in hindsight.
The ache for him fades into the background. And that’s fucking good, because I can enjoy his company without crossing any lines.
“He was an asshole,” I admit.
He gives a curt nod. “I’ve told you and Dash a bit about my past, and it’s too easy to let that part of me stretch its legs when I see glaring red flags.”
That description. Not “who he used to be”. More like he’s talking about a weapon he keeps oiled and ready for battle. Onethat was fashioned by his past, and something he’s never seen reason to let go of.
None of that helps my aching dick. A man who’s willing to throw hands for me is my kind of man. I’d do the same. But a little voice whispers to me. I’d do that in a hockey kinda way, Trav would do it in another. Like a predator.
God fucking damn you, brain.
“I understand,” I force out. The less words I say, the better. It’s bad enough I can’t stop the onslaught of filthy visions, and they do have to stop. Are there self-help groups for this kind of thing?
“Good,” he grunts.
Wait a sec, good? “Isn’t this the part where you apologize for overstepping and promise not to do it again?”
He looks around as if he’s hoping someone else will appear to answer that question for him. Then he scratches his palm over the rough five o’clock shadow I know would feel ooooh so good against my balls.
A laugh with undercurrents of incredulousness and something dark—very fucking dark—rumbles from his chest. “Never said I wasn’t gonna do it again.”
I guess this is the part where I tell him off. Where I tell him to mind his own fucking business. But the words won’t form. For three whole seconds, it’s just me, my pounding heart, and deadly silence. Trav’s right. Something woke up the version of Trav that was forged while he was in that biker gang. It’s not going back in the arsenal any time soon.
He taps his fingers on the bar top, standing. “Welp, glad that’s sorted. Get back to work.”
But there’s still a question on the tip of his tongue. I see it hanging there, waiting to cause trouble. He doesn’t ask it, and I don’t chase after it. I don’t plan to ever chase after it. Even my little bout of curiosity was dangerous.
Is that what triggered this?
A fucking lapse in judgment is what it was. I can’t do that again. I have to get that shit under lockdown.
We’re in the weeds. My bar top’s full. Drinks for the rest of the restaurant pour in as if the people of Vancouver heard there was a liquor shortage, and they’re trying to get their fill. The air reeks of sweat and panic. Being in the weeds means you’re already drowning. All you can do is call for a life raft.
“Trav, we need your help back here,” I snap, not even looking up. I’m on bar with Rhoda, but it’s not enough.
A second later, he’s behind me, his rough voice low and steady. “Where do you want me?”
