Alex (25 page)

Alex gives a deep groan and kisses me harder, for just a moment, just to make his point clear. When he pulls away, he says, “I can’t let you go. I don’t want to hurt you but I don’t want to be without you either. I’ve said it before…I’m a selfish bastard. I’ll risk hurting you just so I can have another day, another week, another month. Tell me I’m a bastard.”

His words are urgent and filled with need. He needs me to call him a liar and I’m going to do just that. “You are not selfish. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Is it my heart that wants you, Sutton?” he asks on a low murmur. “Or is it just my cock?”

“Only you can answer that,” I tell him breathlessly. “But my heart is involved, so whether you hurt me right now, or hurt me down the road, it’s going to hurt all the same.”

Alex pulls me into him hard and hugs me again. I never would have taken Alex for being much of a hugger, but he seems to find a measure of comfort in the intimacy of the act.

Placing his lips against my cheek, Alex tells me, “I’m so afraid of hurting you that I think it’s safe to say my heart is definitely involved.”

“So, try not to hurt me.”

“I’ll try,” he answers, and I’m thankful that his voice is sincere.

“Crossman…in my office…now!”

Garrett slaps a comforting hand on my back and gives me a look of sympathy as he walks out of the locker room, his game bag slung over his shoulder. “Call me later, dude, if you want to go grab a beer or something.”

“Sure thing,” I tell him, but I know after the ass chewing I’m about to be handed, I’m not going to feel like going out. Especially not on top of that miserable performance I just turned in for my team, and especially not after we lost our third game in a row.

Walking into Coach’s office, I take a seat and pick a nonexistent piece of lint off my slacks. When I look up at him across the desk, he’s looking at me with a mixture of anger and worry.

“What the fuck’s the problem?” he asks.

“No problem,” I answer, the smart-ass in me showing up early to the game.

“Try again, Crossman. For a guy who averages at least a goal or an assist per game, something is fucking wrong that you haven’t had a point since we got back from New York. Now, I want to know what the fuck the problem is.”

“Gee, Coach, you’ve really been working on your motivational skills,” I taunt.

Pretore looks at me for a moment, eyebrows raised at my audacity, then he gives me a sly grin. “What is it? Pussy you getting not good enough? Did they discontinue your favorite ice cream brand? Fuck, maybe your panties are too tight. It’s gotta be something.”

I can’t help it—I crack up laughing, even bend over and clutch at my stomach. When I look back up, Coach is smiling at me, but his eyes are worried. “Seriously, Alex. What can I do to get you back on track? You were playing so well…really had your shit together.”

The laughter dies and bitterness wells up inside of me. “I don’t know. My focus is off.”

“Well, no shit, Dick Tracy. How do we get you focused again?”

“I’ll work harder,” I tell him quickly.

“It’s not your skills and we both know it. Your slap shot doesn’t need polishing—your confidence does.”

“You think my confidence is gone?” I ask, surprised by his conclusion. I still feel as cocky and egocentric as ever when I step out onto the ice. Granted, I get frustrated easily, and that may take away some of my focus and drive, but surely I still have confidence.

I’m Alex Fucking Crossman…most valuable prick and all that.

“Look, buddy,” Coach says, really taking on the paternal tone with me. “You need to evaluate your life…figure out what is causing you stress and get rid of it. You get into a mental funk, it’s hard to break free. Don’t ignore it, okay?”

His words cause me immense discomfort because there are a couple of things stressing me out, one of which is my constant worry that I’ll hurt Sutton. It’s something that I think about every day. The other is my father. I’m worried he’ll quit rehab, start drinking and kill himself. If that happens, I don’t know if I can survive the guilt, because no matter what Cameron said to me that day at breakfast, I could have stepped in long ago and gotten him help.

That was proven by the fact that when I went to Canada last week, Dad easily rolled over on me when I suggested rehab. He cried when I told him I didn’t want him to die, and then I packed his bags and took him to a facility that Cameron had already arranged.

Shaking my head, I stand up and look down at Pretore. “I’ll get it together. I promise.”

“See that you do, kid. I expect great things from you.”

Great…more pressure. Now I’m worried about letting my coach down. Things were certainly a lot easier before…

Before I cared about the game.

Before I met Sutton.

Before I stepped in to help my dad.

All of it was easier and I find myself resenting the sudden burdens placed on my doorstep. It makes me wish for easier times when I could be a loner and, if I wanted to fuck someone, Cassie would be there to give me release and then leave quickly.

Leaving Coach’s office, I pull my cell phone out and see a text from Sutton.

Come over tonight.

That’s all it says, but it doesn’t need to say more. I didn’t need the invitation either, because despite my obsessive worrying about Sutton, she’s like my drug and there’s no way I wasn’t going to take a hit tonight. I need her to maintain some level of sanity, because just her voice coats me in soothing balm. Her touch makes me feel peaceful. When I fuck her, the world melts away and only she exists.

Making my way out to the players’ parking lot, I sign a few autographs for some of the fans still lingering. Then I get in my car and head for Sutton’s house.

When she opens the door and I see her for the first time today, I feel immersed in serenity. I forget about the shitty game and letting my team down. I forget about my dad, and my anger and my resentment. It’s so easy to let it go when she’s standing there looking even lovelier than when I left her bed this morning.

She smiles at me in welcome and doesn’t even wait for me to walk in before she’s wrapping her arms around me and giving me a hug. Standing on the threshold of her house, I let her comfort me for the shitty game, letting my team down and the mess that is my father. She doesn’t know that she’s comforting me for all of those things, but I’m taking it all the same.

Then she’s kissing me with such delicate care that my soul twists, and it only reinforces my desire to have her, no matter what the cost.

“Come on in,” she says softly and takes me by the hand.

Her living room is glowing with flickering light as the hearth crackles with a small fire and her Christmas tree—which she put up Thanksgiving Day—twinkles with multicolored lights. It looks magical and romantic, and causes me to want to just cuddle with her on the couch, which is odd because my first thought would normally be that I want to fuck her on the couch.

Leading me to the sofa, she releases my hand and I take a seat. She sits beside me and curls into my side, as I wrap my arm around her shoulder. Laying her hand on my chest, she strokes me softly through the material of my dress shirt.

“So what did you think of the game?” I ask her, curious as to how she will address the fact that I played like an amateur in a local rec league. Will she sugarcoat it or give it to me straight?

Idly running her fingertips over the center of my chest, she doesn’t mince words. “You don’t look focused.”

“I don’t feel focused,” I say with resignation, and also gratitude that she talks honestly to me.

Painfully so.

“Then that means you have something heavy weighing on you. Want to talk about it?”

Do I? Do I want to share my demons? Will she understand or will she make the same inevitable comparison that I made between our lives, and judge me to be unworthy because I can’t seem to get my shit fully together?

The mere fact that I’m worried over her reaction tells me that my confidence in general has taken a hit. At least the asshole that is Alex Crossman wouldn’t ever apologize or make excuses for his actions or reactions. Soft, cuddly Alex is a different story, and I mentally sneer at myself to man up and lay it on the line.

“When I went to Canada…it was to put my dad in rehab,” I tell her, letting the impact of my words sink in. This will hit close to home with Sutton.

She jerks in my arms and sits up straight, dislodging my arm from around her shoulders. Thankfully, her gaze is sympathetic, not piteous. She also gives me a small smile of appreciation, which I know is because I shared with her.

Raising up on her knees and flipping her leg over my lap, Sutton straddles me, resting the palms of her hands on my chest. The warmth of her touch seeps in with soothing effect, which helps to relax me marginally.

“Oh, Alex,” she says gently. “I’m sorry. That’s a very brave thing to do, but it’s also so scary.”

Exactly. Scary as shit.

“His doctor says if he doesn’t quit drinking, he’s going to die.”

“He’s had a long history, then,” she guesses.

“Ever since I can remember,” I say wryly.

Sliding her fingers up to just above my open button at the top of my shirt, she grazes her fingers over the skin of my collarbone. It’s not sexual, but speaks more of a need to have skin-on-skin contact—to promote more closeness, so to speak. I’d be lying though if I didn’t admit my dick twitched just a bit.

“Do you want to talk about it…tell me details? Sometimes it helps to share.”

My hands, which had previously been resting on the couch on either side of my hips, move up to grip her thighs. I rub my thumbs over her legs, pushing in so she can feel it through the coarse denim of her jeans.

Staring at the base of her throat, because I’m not sure I can reveal my story while looking in her eyes, I tell her all about my dad.

“My dad was a hockey player, but wasn’t good enough to make it out of the minors, and wasn’t even good enough to stay there for very long. When he had kids, he decided to have us live his dream.”

Maybe because she’s fully aware that this is hard for me, probably because I won’t look her in the eyes, Sutton leans in and lays her head on my shoulder, pressing her chest against mine. She then grabs on to my wrists and forcibly removes my hands from her thighs, directing them to wrap around her back and hold on to her tight.

With her plastered up against me, and my gaze now focused on the fire, I continue my story. “My brother, Cameron, is five years older. He had no talent, so Dad basically ignored him his entire life. But that left him to channel all of his energy into me—”

My voice breaks, not with any overwhelming emotion, because I’m pretty ice-cold when I confront these memories. Instead, I find my mouth to be dry merely because I’m getting ready to lay my heavy story on Sutton’s doorstep and I have no clue how she’s going to react.

As if sensing my hesitation, she murmurs, “Only tell me if you want, Alex. No pressure.”

Not quite realizing that my chest has been tight, my muscles loosen up a bit and I can breathe easier. Her insistence I go at the pace that I feel most comfortable with makes the fear lessen.

“He was abusive. Drunk most of the time, but verbally and physically abusive. No matter how good I was—and Sutton, I was fucking good—he always found fault with my play. And fault required punishment.”

I squeeze my arms a little tighter around her, for my comfort and maybe hers as well. “I’m sure it was to soothe his own conscience but my dad disguised punishment as ‘practice.’ He’d shoot pucks at my body and wouldn’t let me defend. I’d have bruises all over and it hurt like a motherfucker. Or he’d make me do drills, sometimes for hours on end, often into the wee hours of the morning. He wouldn’t let me stop to drink anything, and only after I’d collapse in exhaustion was the ‘practice’ over. He’d berate me…constantly, and in front of others. If I dared to talk back to him, or even plead with him for a break, he’d use his fists, or a hockey stick, or his belt…whatever was handiest.”

One of Sutton’s hands, which is still resting on my chest, digs into my skin in angst and she lets out a stuttering breath.

“He was a monster,” she whispers.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Most of the time, but not all. There were some good times.”

“I know,” she says simply, and she does. She said as much the other day, that there were some good times with Cosmo.

“He stole your childhood.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“He made you hate your career.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like your dad,” she says, almost petulantly, and it makes me laugh.

“I don’t like him much either,” I agree again, giving her a slight kiss on her head.

“But you’re worried about him. Just like I worry about Cosmo.”

“Yes,” I tell her, but I don’t tell her everything. I don’t tell her about the crushing guilt that I’m suffering under, because I think it’s my fault that he got to be this bad. I spent the last eight years of my adult life, out from under his ruling thumb, just watching him drink his life down the toilet. I ate dinner after dinner with him while he pounded double vodkas, almost wishing for him to drink faster so he’d pass out and forget about me. Never once did it cross my mind that he could be killing himself.

I enabled him to keep going, often wishing it so. Maybe subconsciously I wanted him to die, so he would be out of my life for good.

Those thoughts cause a violent shudder to run through me and bile to back up in my throat. Those thoughts are going to cause me to go to hell, and I’m not sure I can ever atone for them.

Sutton pushes up off my chest where she has been lying and when our eyes meet, I notice hers have a light film of tears coating them. She’s sad for me…crying for me, and that touches me deeper than anything ever has before.

Reaching one hand up, I sift my fingers through the hair at her temple and push them back. When I cup the back of her head, I give it just the gentlest of shakes so she knows I mean business. “Don’t you cry for me, Sutton. Don’t waste your tears on that story. You have far more important things to shed them over.”

Sutton’s own hand comes up and grips my wrist that’s holding her head. Her smile is tremulous. “I can’t help crying for you. I love you.”

Emotion such as I have never felt in my entire life wells up inside of me. It seems to bubble up from the center of my stomach, spreading outward…down my legs, my arms…up my spine. It blankets my skin with a warm tingle, and the center of my chest feels like it’s going to erupt in a fountain of released tension.

I urge the feeling on, waiting on the euphoria that I feel is ready to break free because of Sutton’s revelation that she loves me. I wait for it to expel my bitterness and fuel me with peace.

I wait for it, and wait for it, and wait for it.

But it never happens. Instead, the tingle dulls and while a light feeling of warmth remains behind, an ache centers in my chest, folds in on itself to a focused intensity, and throbs with drum-like precision.

It’s the pain of realization that I don’t love Sutton back.

At least I don’t think I do. Otherwise, why didn’t the joy leap free? Why did my heart become pained instead?

I search for the feeling again, will it back to life.