Alex (13 page)

“I’m serious, Alex. You won’t scare me…I’ve seen a lot of stuff.”

“I’m not worried about scaring you. I’m worried about hurting you,” he says with a haunted look on his face. “But not enough to warn you away. The bastard part of me is okay with you taking that risk.”

“Always painfully honest,” I murmur as he opens the door and steps across my threshold.

“Always,” he says as he turns toward me to shut the door. But he gives me a smile and a wink, and it lightens the mood. “Lock the door behind me.”

“Okay. Safe flight tomorrow.”

Then he’s gone.

I lock the door dutifully and shuffle my way back to my bedroom, checking my email briefly on my iPhone. I’m startled when my phone buzzes with a text from Alex.

Sitting in your driveway, wishing I hadn’t left.

My fingers type furiously back to him.

Me too. I’m so bad.

I don’t wait long for his response.

The wait will make it better. Promise. And I like you being bad.

Sitting down on my bed, I lean back against it, clutching my phone to my chest. I want to text him—no, call him—and tell him to come back inside. I’m not sure I ever wanted something this badly before…except there was a time in my life when I wanted so badly for my dad to quit using drugs. But then I realized that was beyond my control and was nothing more than hopeful wishing.

Running my thumbs over the phone, I text him back.

It will make it better. Agreed. And you can see my bad side some other time.

Alex’s text back is short.

Looking forward to it. A lot.

Smiling, I set my phone down on the bed beside me, and close my eyes…savoring this evening.

Then they pop back open with insight and determination.

Picking my phone back up, I dial Brandon and wait for him to answer. I’m going to tell him that he and I will never move past the friendship we have been trying to build again. I can’t let him go on believing that the possibility of something more exists. I can’t lead him on in any way. Because—after tonight with Alex—there is no way I could ever have something with Brandon. That is brutally clear to me right now.

Sitting on the bench in the visitors’ locker room, I contemplate sending a text to Sutton before I get dressed for tonight’s game. We’ve had a successful road trip so far, winning three of the last four, and tonight’s a very important game. If we win, we’ll take over the leaderboard for first place in our division. It’s a standing that didn’t mean much to me just shy of a month ago.

But now?

Now I want this win very badly.

And I think I want this win because of Sutton. When I talked to her last night, she wanted me to explain how the league was broken down and how teams earned points for the rankings. She got so excited when I told her that we could take over number one in our division, fuck if I don’t want to get that win for her.

I want to give it to myself too, because in a miraculous change, I’m starting to like the game again.

Do I love it? No.

And every time I get another voice mail from my dad following a game, it causes the loathing and bitterness to rise. The one I got just this morning is a prime example. He’s well aware of the importance of this game to the Cold Fury. So when he called this morning, I promptly ignored it and then was an immediate glutton for punishment by listening to his message.

Alex…tonight’s an important game. You need to rise above your petty differences with me. I know you don’t listen the way you should, but your old man knows a thing or two about hockey. I expect nothing less than perfection from you tonight. Don’t screw it up.

I really, really wish for the day that I can listen to these pearls of wisdom and just laugh about it, but that day is nowhere in the near future. I wanted to hurl my phone across the room and crush his arrogant, demeaning voice right out of the microchip processors inside. Instead, I did what I always do. I pushed delete, stewed on it for a few hours, and then let it go.

It’s a process, one that is only marginally easier now that I’m an adult and my father no longer has a say-so in anything I do. Right now, he is nothing more than hot air and a painful reminder of my awful childhood.

But maybe one day…if things keep getting better and better as they seem to be doing of late.

“Crossman…need a word,” Coach yells from the visiting coach’s office.

“Uh-oh,” Garrett teases in a singsong voice. “Someone’s in trouble.”

Picking my jockstrap up as I stand from the bench, I throw it at Garrett and snicker when it smacks him in the face.

“He shoots, he scores!” I yell with my hands raised in victory, and several of my teammates burst out laughing. I note with amusement that some of them are looking at me like I grew a pair of antlers out of my head or something, shocked that the most valuable prick actually might have some humor deep within his bones.

Walking over to the office that sits off the locker room, I enter and close the door. “What’s up, Coach?”

“Just wanted to pass on to you that the Board has been very pleased with your work of late.”

“Just doing my job,” I say, honestly not caring if they’re impressed with my game or not.

“It’s not just how you’re playing. They’re very impressed with your work on the outreach campaign.”

I stare blankly at my coach, because for the life of me I can’t figure out how in the hell they even know what I’m doing. Coach decides to fill me in.

“Seems that woman you’re working with over there sent an email to Walt Prestonwood, extolling your virtues or some shit like that. Even said something like you were a role model for other players,” he says with an amused smirk on his face.

I have to lower my head and bite down on my tongue so as not to snicker. God love Sutton and her attempts to make me look good to the brass.

When I raise my head, Coach is still smiling at me. “Seriously though, I’ve noticed a difference too. You’re actually ‘present’ during the games and at practice, and by that I mean your head is fucking present. You were a great player before, but you’re on fire now, Alex. Keep up the good work.”

I actually feel my cheeks get a little hot from the blatant praise and rather than roll my eyes as I normally do when I feel like someone is blowing rainbows up my ass, I actually feel a pleasant warmth creep through me. Standing up from my chair, I say, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Turning to walk out of his office, I hear Coach say, “Oh, and do me a favor tonight. Try to kick some ass out there and bring the win home for us.”

By the time I make it out of Coach’s office and to the locker room, I have no time to send a text to Sutton. I quickly strip down and start dressing for the game. Jockstrap, shin pads, socks, pants, shoulder pads, and elbow pads all firmly strapped into place. I put my jersey over my head and pull it down, securing the ends of the fight straps to my pants.

Sitting back down on the bench, I pull my skates on and start lacing them up.

“So, what’s up with you and Cassie?” I hear Kyle Steppernech ask from the bench opposite me.

Raising my head, I give him a cursory glance before turning my attention back to my laces. “Nothing’s up. I broke it off.”

“Why, dude? She’s a prime piece.”

“That’s all she is,” I grumble as I finish the first skate and turn my attention to the other.

“And what…the great loner, Alex Crossman, is looking for something more?” Kyle sneers. “Wake up, dude. You had it perfect. Free pussy whenever you wanted it and no nagging or bitching to go along with it.”

Shaking my head, I don’t respond but finish tying the second skate. When I lift my head and glance at Kyle, he’s staring at me with eyebrows raised, waiting for me to deny what he’s said.

“What’s the deal with you, Steppernech?” I ask, trying to keep the derision out of my voice. “You talk about free pussy and no-strings sex, yet you got yourself shackled to a woman who spends all your money and squirted a couple of kids out. You want to live vicariously through me or something?”

Kyle snorts and then throws his head back in laughter. “I don’t need to live vicariously through you, man. I get all the free I want when I’m road-tripping with the team.”

He says it with such pride, cheating on his wife, that it makes me a little sick to my stomach. I mean, I wasn’t monogamous when I was with Cassie, but I was up-front about that. I didn’t trade rings with her or even any promises I’d buy her dinner.

“The ladies must really love you,” I hear Garrett say from my left. He’s looking at Kyle with disgust on his face, and it’s certainly prevalent in his voice.

Steppernech turns his gaze onto Garrett and his eyes narrow. “You’re one to be looking down your nose, Samuelson. You seem to fuck a lot of strange.”

Garrett just gives an easygoing smile to Kyle. “Dude, I like it varied, no doubt, but I treat every lady I’m with with respect. Look it up sometime. I’m sure your wife might appreciate it.”

“You fucking asshole,” Kyle growls as he lunges from the bench. I immediately step in front of Garrett, I guess to protect him, and it’s fucking weird that I would do that. Just two weeks ago, I would have sat on the bench and played a game on my iPhone while they tore each other to pieces.

Luckily, a few of the other players near Kyle jump up and grab at his elbows. Luca Brassard, our team captain walks into the middle and shouts, “Knock it off and get your heads out of your asses. We’re here to play hockey, not have a fucking gossip session.”

Kyle shrugs out of his captors’ holds and walks out of the locker room. I turn to grab my gloves off the bench and Garrett claps me on the shoulder. “You stood up for me, man. I think I’m going to cry.”

Knocking his hand off my shoulder, I glare at him. “Shut the fuck up,” I say, but then I follow it with a grin. “You might make me cry.”

We laugh all the way out onto the ice for our warm-up.

She picks up after the first ring, as if she’s been waiting for my call, and that knowledge burns nicely right in the center of my chest.

“You. Kicked. Ass. Tonight!” she yells so loudly, I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

Yeah, I did kick ass. Two assists during regulation and I scored the tiebreaker in overtime, averting the need for a shootout. When the puck cleared the goalie’s left shoulder, I had my arms lifted in victory even before the red light went on. My teammates came hurtling out of nowhere, throwing their arms around me in celebration, the entire pile of us eventually crashing to the ice in a hodgepodge of arms, legs and hockey sticks. The smile on my face was a mile fucking wide, and I knew the camera was on me…showing Sutton that smile.

I don’t even know what to say about her praise, actually a bit embarrassed by her exuberance.

“You should have seen your face, Alex,” she murmurs into the phone. “After you scored that goal. It looked like the sun had just risen for you.”

Her words punch me in the gut and my chest constricts. That’s exactly how it felt: like a brand-new sunrise, and I know that’s exactly what my face reflected. That she understood that…that she got me. That’s what punched me in the gut.

“That’s about how I felt,” I admit to her. “It felt amazing.”

“I’m glad,” she tells me sincerely. “Someone as amazing as you deserves to feel that way about yourself.”

Wham!

Another punch…another painful squeeze to my chest. Is it supposed to hurt in this pleasurable way when someone shows care for you? I’m not sure, because this is all an unknown to me.

“How is it that you make me feel so good about myself? About what I do? Christ, Sutton, I think I’ve smiled more in the short time I’ve known you than I have my entire life.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then she says, “I think I’ve smiled more than normal too since meeting you. It’s a two-way street.”

I know it gets brighter in my room because her words make me fucking grin like an idiot. Settling back into the pillows on my bed, I say, “So…tell me about your day.”

“It wasn’t as exciting as your day, that’s for sure. Actually…I have a difficult case…a young girl who’s really struggling to stay away from meth. Her parents are both addicts and the drug is within easy reach. I spent a lot of time talking to her today.”

Whistling through my teeth, I say, “It’s just unfathomable to me, really. That parents would have that stuff in the house.”

“Hell, her mom offered to do it with her,” she seethes into the phone.

“What the hell? She needs to be removed from that home,” I growl into the phone.

Sutton sighs wearily. “She turned eighteen a few months ago, and as an adult, she’s beyond the help of social services. All I can do is counsel her, urge her to stay strong. I’m trying to get her to join one of our support groups, but she’s resisting.”

“Do you see this a lot?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer I’m pretty sure is coming.

“Unfortunately, I do. But I see a lot of happy endings too. I’ve been able to help some kids through.”

I think of my own craptastic childhood with an alcoholic father who abused his son under the guise of teaching him to play hockey. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like anyone could see what was going on. My father’s abuse was varied but well played. He bruised me only where it wouldn’t show, and no one ever saw his brutal drills that went into the early morning hours and had me collapsing from exhaustion and dehydration. No, there was nothing classic that would raise a single teacher’s or coach’s eyebrow when it came to me. In fact, John Crossman put on such an affable attitude around others, no one would believe in a million years he would run his young son into the ground in order to develop him into a machine.

What would I have done if I’d had a resource like Sutton when I was younger? Would I have listened to her advice? Her teachings? Would it have helped to have someone to vent to? To know there was someone who had my back?

I have to think the answer is yes. I think I would have responded well to someone like Sutton, because let’s face it, I’m responding pretty fucking fantastically to her right now.

“I have faith in you,” I tell her. “If anyone can reach her, it’s you.”

“Yeah? Why so much faith in me?” she teases.

“Because you reached this crusty bastard,” I tell her with a laugh. “You accomplished practically the impossible with me.”

“You’re such a sweet talker.”

“Yeah…so not a sweet talker, not normally. I guess you inspire the best in me.”

She laughs softly into the phone and I want to immerse myself in the sound. I wonder if she laughs like that just with me—that smoky, rich sort of laugh that comes from a true delight deep down inside of a sexy-as-hell woman. It makes me remember something that I had pushed to the back of my mind, but now surfaces again.

“I’m curious,” I tell her, waiting until her laughter dies all the way down. “What ever happened to that date you went on when we first met?”

I’m not sure what I expect her to say. Do I honestly think she’s going to say,
I canceled it because I couldn’t think of anyone but you?

Nice thought, but no, that’s not going to happen.

She’s silent a moment before she answers, and I think I might have struck a bad nerve with her. I’m on the verge of telling her to forget I even asked, when she says, “The date was good…it was fine. I even had a second dinner with him, but it’s not going anywhere.”

My interest is perked. “Why’s that?”

“Because you came along,” she answers me honestly, and I can feel my head swell to epic proportions and fuck, my chest may even be puffing out a little.

She continues on. “His name is Brandon and he was actually my boyfriend in college. We dated for almost four years and he broke up with me right before graduation.”

Her words are matter-of-fact, no bitterness, no hurt. Yet rage starts to build inside of me on her behalf. “Why the fuck did he do that?”

“Well, according to him, because he wanted to spread his love around a bit before he settled down with me.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “He actually told you that?”

“Yeah…I mean, I kind of respected his honesty about it,” she says. “You know…he was painfully honest.”

Painfully honest.

A term that has been thrown about between Sutton and me numerous times. It’s something she respects, this I know.