Alex (3 page)

He unfolds his large body from the couch and when he reaches his full height, I hear Minnie behind me give a slight gasp and murmur, “Oh, my.”

Yup, Minnie. He’s definitely an
oh my.

As Alex walks toward me with those longer-than-long legs, his eyes run casually down my body and slowly back up again until he’s pinning me with a direct stare. Appreciation shines through loud and clear, and it makes me self-conscious as hell.

Spinning on my heel, I call out over my shoulder, “Follow me.”

As I walk through the locked door to the back area, my heels clacking on the tile floor, I can feel his eyes burned onto my ass the entire way. I’m only modestly thankful he’s probably ogling my body and not looking at the Sharpie-covered, scuffed heels of my shoes.

When I reach my office, I push the door open and motion for him to precede me in. He does so and I follow behind, closing the door behind me.

Walking past him, I say, “Please have a seat.”

Rounding my desk, I put Mara’s file over on one of my bookshelves and sit in my cheap office chair with uneven wheels that squeaks every time I move. When I finally look at him across the desk, he’s gazing at me in stunned disbelief. “You’re Sutton Price?”

“The one and only,” I quip.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sifting his hand through his long hair in a show of irritation. “I thought Sutton was a dude’s name.”

“Probably is,” I confirm. “Also happens to be my name.”

“Christ,” he mutters again, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why my name seems to bother him.

The more I’m getting to know Alex Crossman, the more I am definitely not liking him.

Son of a bitch!

The totally smoking hot woman sitting across the desk from me—the one I was imagining going down on tonight—is the fucking counselor I have to work with over the next year to build this outreach program?

This does not amuse me, because while I can actually be devastatingly charming when I want to be, I am loathing this whole charitable deal so much that I know I will probably be nothing but an asshole to this woman. I know she doesn’t deserve it, but that’s just the way it is.

Yes, I know this is a worthy cause, and yes, like I said, I’m all for worthy causes. But it is chapping my ass that I’m being forced to do this as punishment and as a means to bring me to heel. The mere fact that I’ll be benched if I balk at doing this enrages me beyond my normal surly attitude, and I have a feeling that this poor girl is not going to know what hit her by the time we’re through here today.

If it were just a matter of walking away from a career I hate, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I would have told Coach to blow me the other day and walked out. But unfortunately, this career that I hate so much is also very much needed, mainly because I have nothing else in life that I’m any good at. Good ol’ Pops made sure that I channeled all of my energy, efforts and talent into being one of the world’s best hockey players, so much so that I’ve never considered once what I would do when it was over.

As a result, I count every penny I earn and I sock it away for that day when this career is no longer there for me, so at least I’ll have some money to live on while I figure out what the fuck to do with my life. So that’s why I live in a small, two-bedroom apartment and drive a used Chevy Suburban, while my teammates live in mansions and drive luxury SUVs. Because my earnings are my ticket to freedom away from an overbearing and abusive father incapable of loving his son, and a career I’d just as soon vomit or piss on as I would anything else.

Looking at Sutton Price, I snarl inside over this unfortunate turn of events. I was hoping I’d get another crack at her before I left, fairly certain I could convince her to have dinner at my apartment. I’d even make something nice…certainly not Hamburger Helper. But no, this is essentially my jailer for the next year, which also makes her my enemy.

And I can’t fuck the enemy.

At least I don’t think I can.

“You’re actually one of the counselors here?” I ask, my voice dripping with skepticism, because I truly am not ready to believe this woman won’t be lying beneath me tonight.

She merely gives me a bland smile and says, “I can assure you, I’m a counselor here.”

“You don’t even look old enough to be out of high school,” I mutter.

“I’m twenty-two and just finished my master’s degree. I’m qualified.”

“Twenty-two and a master’s degree?” I ask skeptically.

“I started my master’s coursework while still in undergrad. It took me about a year to finish it after I graduated.”

I study her hard, pinning her with an icy look. It’s made many women cry and some men quake in their boots. She just cocks an eyebrow at me and returns my gaze.

“Look, you might as well know I’m here under protest.”

“Really?” she asks, her voice satiny smooth but filled with sarcasm. “I would never have guessed.”

“You’ll find out soon enough that I’m not easy to work with.”

“I’ve had experience with difficult people.”

“I probably won’t show up half the time you’re expecting me and the other half I’ll be a prick.”

“At least you’ve given me a heads-up.”

Christ. Didn’t this woman know when to be daunted by something?

Sighing loudly, I lean back in my chair and cross my hands over my stomach. Searching her face, I look for some sign of weakness that I can exploit. A trigger…an insecurity…something I can do to get under her skin the way she is apparently getting under mine.

I get nothing but a pleasant smile and an unbelievable pair of green-gold eyes that pop because they’re surrounded by a mass of copper-colored hair.

Fuck. I’m crankier than normal because I’m attracted to this woman, in a way I don’t quite recall being attracted to anyone in a very long time. That puzzles me, intrigues me slightly but, yup, mainly it pisses me off.

Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out an envelope and pass it across the desk to her. “This is from Walt Prestonwood—general manager of the Cold Fury.”

She takes it from me with curiosity and I watch as she takes a letter opener and breaks the seal. I don’t know what’s inside, but I have a very good idea. I watch her face carefully as she pulls out a single sheet of paper. I can see the Fury’s logo on the front and typed words, but past that the content is a mystery.

Her eyes fly back and forth across the page as she reads, her eyebrows tilting inward. When she gets done, she surprises the shit out of me and hands the paper across the desk. Grabbing it from her hand, I read it quickly and it’s as I thought it would be. A letter to her explaining that the team is hoping this outreach opportunity can be used to help clean up my image, that I am here under protest and that the team would like Miss Price to report weekly on my behavior. It’s basically their secret way to keep their thumb on top of me, and I am absolutely stunned that she would let me read it. Particularly because the last line says,
I would ask that you keep this letter private and not share it with Mr. Crossman.

“I’m not happy to have to be your babysitter,” she says and my eyes snap up to hers.

“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either,” I tell her honestly.

Then she looks at me, with her head tilted to the side. “So, what’s your deal? Are you the team’s bad boy or something?”

“Something like that,” I mutter, not willing to expound on the millions of reasons I’m sitting here. “Apparently I have a bit of an attitude problem.”

Then Sutton does something that I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live. She smiles at me, in a mischievous way, her eyes going more gold than green. She’s so fucking beautiful in this very moment, my breath actually catches.

“I can deal with attitude,” she says with a wink. “Makes things interesting.”

I start to open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but then she says, “But seriously, Mr. Crossman—”

“Alex,” I say.

“Alex,” she says with a nod of her head. “If you truly don’t want to do this, I think you’ll only do more harm than good. We’ll be speaking to kids about drug addiction. They’ll spot a phony a mile away. They need to believe us. They need to trust us.”

For the first time in years—many years—I feel something close to shame creep up the back of my neck. I’ve been an ass, a prick and an overall schmuck to many, many people in my life, because I act out my anger and daddy issues toward others. But never once did I feel shame or even the slightest bit of guilt for my actions.

Yet, here I am now, and Sutton Price is making me feel pretty fucking small.

The Alex Crossman who lives in Asshole Land would have come back at her with a snide remark, followed up with a punch to her self-esteem.

Instead, I say, “I’m here under protest because they’re making me do this. But given the opportunity to volunteer for a project like this, I would have done it in a heartbeat. I may have an attitude problem, Miss Price—”

“Sutton,” she says with a smile.

“Sutton,” I acknowledge, “but I do think this is a worthy cause. If I have to do it, you need to know that I’ll put the effort into it and it will be sincere. I wouldn’t do anything to fuck a kid over—ever.”

I watch in amazement as her eyes go warm and soft, and she gives me a humongous smile, causing my heart to start a mad tripping beat.

That’s an odd sensation.

“Awesome,” she says enthusiastically. “Because I have to tell you, I was so excited to get this project. It’s been my dream to be involved in an outreach program for at-risk youth, and to be able to do this at such a young age, and with the power of a professional hockey team behind me—”

I tune her out, not hearing a damn thing she says after that. Instead, I stare at her, enthralled as I take in her words thrown at me so quickly, because she’s excited like a kid at Christmas, which makes me focus on her mouth and how fucking sexy her lips are.

She’s beautiful, no doubt, but not in a classic way. More like in an earthy, casual way. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but then she doesn’t need to. Her skin is clear and soft looking, her eyes and hair her best features by far. When she smiles, I notice right away that she has one tooth that is slightly crooked, but for some reason it adds to her overall allure. The fact that she’s not exquisitely perfect makes her almost perfect. She also has a small scar just below her left eyebrow—yet again, that somehow adds to her overall unique charm.

Not gonna lie—her body is slammin’. When I walked behind her on the way back to her office, yeah, my eyes were pinned to her curvy ass that was molded by her narrow, gray skirt that just brushed the backs of her knees and her toned calves. Along with her flat stomach, it’s a no- brainer she works out. The only thing I couldn’t get a good read on was her breasts, but that’s because the silky cream blouse she’s wearing has ruffles down the front that don’t give much definition. They don’t look overly large but I’m betting they are a handful, which really, really makes me regret that she won’t be coming home with me tonight.

“…so, I think if we work hard, we could probably have something ready to launch in a few months, don’t you think?”

I tune her back in and nod my head up and down, having no fucking idea what she just said. “Sounds good to me.”

“So, how often do you want to meet? I mean—your schedule has got to be a lot more complex than mine, but I’m pretty flexible. I can do nights or weekends if you need.”

“My schedule varies week to week, depending if our games are home or away. We’ll have to play a lot of it by ear.”

“Sure,” she says brightly, but I can see that she is like a racehorse chomping at the bit to get out of the gate. Her enthusiasm is slightly infectious, and I find myself pulling my iPhone out of my pocket. “Tell me what days you have free over the next week and I’ll see what we can set up.”

She turns to her laptop, and with a few taps of her fingers, she starts to tell me her schedule. Within a few minutes, we have a meeting arranged for the following Monday morning.

Reaching down into a desk drawer, Sutton pulls out a thick binder and hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I ask suspiciously.

“Homework,” she grins. “It’s actually an outreach program they do out in California that I’ve been studying. I think it’s a good model and will save us a ton of work.”

Looking at the binder like it’s a bug in my hand, I can’t help the way my nose wrinkles up. “Why don’t you read it and give me the Cliff Notes version?”

Sutton laughs and my stomach clenches over the pure honeyed sound that pours out. Her eyes crinkle, her teeth show bright, even that little crooked tooth, and her voice is like music to my ears.

And what the fuck? When did I start noticing shit like that about women? I’m a tits–and–ass man. Although apparently I’m now an eyes, hair and voice man too.

With Sutton’s laughter still ringing, I shake my head and grumble, “I didn’t say that to be funny.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” she says while still chuckling, “but I’m not doing your homework for you.”

Sitting up in my chair, I lean forward, placing my elbows at my knees and clasping my hands together. I pin her with a direct look, all kidding aside. “You’re not going to cut me any slack, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Even though I’m a hotshot professional hockey player?”

“Especially not for that,” she says, glaring at me with mock disapproval. “Besides, I don’t know anything about hockey.”

“You should cut me some slack—I’ll be less of a prick.”

“Didn’t you know you catch more flies with sugar?”

“So, if I’m nice you’ll cut me slack?”

“Nope. Not even then,” she says with a smirk.

I stare at her a moment, then before I even know what the fuck is happening, my head tilts back and I start laughing.

Hard.

And it feels natural, and fun, and…right.

“So, you really know nothing about hockey?” I ask, chuckling.

“It’s played on ice, right?”

“Last I checked,” I tell her with a snort.

“Then that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

“Tell you what—I’ll get you tickets for tomorrow night’s game and you can start learning about it.”

“Oh, that’s really nice but I have plans tomorrow night,” she says, her cheeks turning slightly red.

“I can get you four tickets, so if you’re going out with friends or something—”

“Actually, it’s a date, so I’m not sure what our plans are.”

Oh, yeah—no way she is going to have dinner at my apartment tonight. I don’t know much about Sutton Price but I can tell she’s not the type to play the field. I’m oddly disappointed she has a date tomorrow, but no clue why. Past the disappointment that she won’t be writhing around on my bed, I shouldn’t have any feelings for her one way or the other.

“Well, tickets are available any time you’d like to give it a try,” I tell her with a smile.

Sutton watches me, her face full of interest. “I’m not sure why you were labeled the team prick. I’m just not seeing it.”

My laughter has completely faded and I’m sort of teasing, sort of serious when I say, “Get me closer to the ice and my jackass attitude will start shining through.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“You mean, you get grouchy when you play hockey?”

“I mean I fucking hate playing hockey, so yeah…I get a little grouchy.”

What. In. The. Hell?

Why I just told her that, I have no clue. I’ve never admitted that out loud to anyone in my entire life, although it’s a mantra I repeat silently to myself on almost a daily basis. If the press ever got hold of that, if the fans ever found that out, I’d be finished—run out of town faster than my very own slap shot, and every team’s door would be closed to me.

And yet, I can’t find it within me to care that I just told a complete stranger that little secret.