At the rink, he gets out to help me with my bag. “Try not to linger too long after practice. I’ll have just enough time to get you to school before work.”
“What are you gonna do until then?”
“Sleep, I hope.”
I’m speechless. Hunter’s doing all this for me, even though I was a shithead? Mom was right about me, and I’m kinda less mad that she said it. Her delivery sucked balls, but what she said was true. I need to treat Hunter better.
“I think this is too much. You work with heavy equipment, Hunter. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” My throat clogs as I picture the worst things. Losing Dad was hard. Losing Hunter would fuck up my world.
“It’s only for a few months until you get your license. A buddy of mine has an old truck he’s selling. We’ll get it fixed up, and you can use it to drive you and your boyfriend to practice and then school.”
“Dash isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Whatever you say.” I don’t push it. I can see why people think we’re boyfriends. “Go play hockey, kid.”
I nod. “Thanks, Hunt.”
Walking toward the arena doors, there’s a pep in my step that hasn’t been there in a long time. Things might actually be going our way for once. I’m so giddy, the large hockey bag on my shoulder jostles, and the stick on top clatters to the ground. At the same time, a man walks out of the large sliding doors, a big one.
The world comes to a halt.
Not only is he big, but he’s rough. He looks like he’s the leader of a motorcycle gang. There’s something familiar about his face I can’t place. Fucking Christ. Look at this guy. He’s also got the kind of swagger to his step I’d imagine one to have if they’d just hopped off their horse, and there’s a floppy bun tiedatop his head. Shit, the tattoos. So many of them climbing up his massive forearms.
Correction, he’s like some kind of biker cowboy who was taken in by hipsters. I’ve never seen anything like this guy.
“Oh, here, kid. You dropped your stick.” It’s a dark voice—of course, it is—clashing with the kind act of picking up my fallen stick.
I’m still frozen when he hands it to me. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem.” He salutes me.
Dash races out the door, and I think he’s coming toward me, but he’s not. “Dad? Dad, wait. I forgot my water bottle, too.”
Dad?Is that Dash’s frickin’ dad?
“Yeah, kid. G’on inside. I’ll bring it to you. That’s what I’m here for.”
Dash lays eyes on me. He throws his arms around my torso, knocking my bag and stick—again—to the ground. “Dirk! You’re here. I saw your name on the roster, so I was pretty sure it was you, but your brother didn’t say anything to me, so I worried it was a different Dirk Boulder.”
“Probably because he knew you woulda told me.”
“I totally would have told you.”
The change in my friend is noticeable. His grin doesn’t stop at his mouth, like it’s searching for more room than his face will give it. It pushes into his eyes, his posture, the way he leans forward. I’ve never seen him this joyful, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m here.
“Bro, is that your dad?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Your dad is whoa! He looks like he walked straight outta Sons of Anarchy,” I whisper.
“I know, right? He was in a biker gang,” Dash whispers back. “He’s really awesome. He let me ride on his Harley.”
“He’s allowed to bring you to practice now?”
“Yeah, he somehow convinced Mom. Robin doesn’t like it, but he didn’t say too much. Dad’s not planning to do it all the time, or anything, but he wanted to be here today. He’s gonna try to make it to our games, too.”
I pick up my fallen bag. “Perfect. We’ll all get to know each other,” I tease.
