Alex (7 page)

So, I’m not having the strongest of feelings for Brandon, but I most definitely should not be having
any
feelings about Alex Crossman. Not only was he a prick—the most valuable, if the rumors are to be believed—but I might have a chance to reconnect with a lost soul mate. No way am I going to ruin that over some silly celebrity crush.

Not a crush.

A definite appreciation of the male species, but not a crush
, I correct myself.

With Monica pushing and prodding me the entire way, we make it out of the arena and to Hoolihan’s in ten minutes. We’re able to get a booth in the back and order drinks, despite the huge crowd that has filtered over after the game. Monica is sipping on a beer, me a sweet tea, patiently waiting for Alex to show up.

“So, how long have you known Alex?” Monica asks, her head turning every two minutes to the door to see if he walks in.

“Just a few days. This is only our second meeting,” I tell her as I sip my tea.

“I cannot believe you are not going to tap that,” she says in wonder. “You already have a boyfriend?”

“No. Yes. I mean, maybe. I’ve reconnected with an old boyfriend recently and we’re working on things.”

“Ah,” she says in understanding. “First love?”

“First and only,” I tell her softly. “We’ve sort of been on a break over the last year.”

“Well, lucky for me because I swear I thought Alex would be taking you home tonight. The way he was looking at you from out on the ice.”

“He wasn’t looking at me from the ice. Just that one time to say hello and acknowledge me,” I say with exasperation.

“Girl, you are either absolutely clueless or absolutely blind,” she says while rubbing her finger along the rim of her pint glass.

“What do you mean?” I ask skeptically.

“That boy couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He looked at you every time he skated by, and half the time he was on the bench he kept looking over at you.”

“You’re mistaken,” I tell her confidently. Besides, I was watching Alex during the game. He didn’t look at me at all.

Except…the only times I was looking at him was when he had the puck, and then, there was no way he could have looked at me because he was concentrating on the play. But I didn’t look at him past that. I followed the puck and the game, not even thinking about staring at Alex the way Monica apparently was.

“Scoot over.”

I hear the man of my thoughts before I even see him, as I have been staring pretty intently at my sweet tea. Raising my head, I see Alex standing there wearing a charcoal gray dress suit paired with a crisp, white business shirt opened at the collar. I assume he dresses up for game days, but he must have forgone putting a tie on.

He is absolutely splendid, and my tongue seems to be tied up in a knot within my mouth. He just stares down at me, his eyebrows raised.

“Scoot over, Sutton,” he repeats, a tiny smirk gracing his lips.

“Oh, sure,” I say, my brain starting to fire up on all cylinders again. Pushing my purse aside and grabbing my tea, I move over close to the wall of the booth while Alex slides in next to me.

He’s a huge guy and even with me pressed over as far as I can go, his leg rests up warmly against mine, causing my heartbeat to start fluttering.

Alex stares at me a moment longer, then his head turns and he looks at Monica across the table.

“And who is this?” he asks me, even as he holds his hand across the table for Monica. She shakes his hand and giggles, twirling her hair around her free fingertip.

“This is Monica,” I mutter. “I met her at the game.”

“That’s right,” Alex says smoothly. “You were sitting next to Sutton. Hard not to notice.”

I want to roll my eyes and make a gagging motion with my index finger in my mouth, but yeah, that went out of style in the third grade, so I clamp my lips shut and stare at my tea while Alex and Monica make small talk.

Sutton’s leg feels fucking amazing pressed up against mine and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.

But then again, I can’t figure out a lot of things about this woman. For instance, why did I send her only one ticket to the game? If I’m honest with myself, it’s because she told me she had a date the other night and I didn’t want her to bring another guy.

Or, why was I compelled to pay more attention to her during the game than the actual game? Maybe it had something to do with the first time I saw her tonight, walking down the stairs toward her seat. I knew exactly where she’d be sitting and figured I’d catch sight of her at some point.

I didn’t figure there would be like a magical, magnetic pull of my eyes that caused me to look up at the staircase splitting sections 110 and 111 as she was walking down.

She looked amazing, dressed in a tight black sweater, with her gleaming red hair shining out like a beacon. Her eyes were wide as she looked around, taking in the sights of what was her first hockey game. I could almost imagine she would be feeling the excitement of the screaming fans and the bass beat of the rock music within her chest. It actually gave me a moment of excitement, knowing that she was probably in sensory overload as she took in the sights and smells of her first professional hockey event.

It almost knocked me to my knees as I realized that it was the first time—probably since I was a teenager—that something about a hockey game had caused an almost giddy rush inside of me. I tried to hold the feeling, tried to let it seep into my senses, but it was fleeting and then gone.

Then I just made do with watching Sutton whenever I could sneak a glance. I didn’t expect her eyes to be on me the entire time, and just as I expected, she immersed herself in the action. She was either on the edge of her seat or surging to her feet to scream out cheers, often jumping up and down with some blonde, their arms wrapped around each other.

I was not happy to see said blonde sitting at our table when I arrived at Hoolihan’s. I had been actually looking forward to talking to Sutton alone. I mean, I knew it would only be about business, but fuck if she hasn’t been plaguing my thoughts the last few days, and I know that there’s something to this girl that I need to pay attention to. A gut instinct, so to speak.

There was one good thing about Marissa…Melinda…no, wait, Monica joining us. It meant that I got to slide into the booth next to Sutton, and enjoy the warmth of her touch against me as I painfully withstood the flirting Monica was handing out.

Glancing over at Sutton, I see that she’s pulled her iPhone out of her purse and seems to be reading a text. Clearly we’re boring her, and I don’t like not having her attention.

“What did you think of the game, Sutton?” I ask her, noticing that she flinches slightly when she hears her name.

Putting her phone down, she says, “It was amazing. I’m unfortunately hooked.”

“I can get you tickets any time you want them,” I tell her. “That seat in particular if you like it.”

“Oh, that would be awesome,” Monica squeals in delight, clapping her hands.

I don’t even spare her a glance but keep my eyes focused on Sutton, repressing a laugh over the way she winces when that unholy sound comes out of Monica’s mouth.

“That would be nice,” Sutton says, “although I’d love to bring my little brother sometime.”

“I can get you two tickets anytime. Just let me know,” I tell her and I’m blinded by the smile she gives me.

“Thanks,” she says. “That’s really nice.”

Yeah…me and nice, that doesn’t sound right together, but if I can get her to smile at me like that just from offering a couple of hockey tickets, I’ll keep doing it.

“Oh. My. God,” Monica says dramatically, and both Sutton and I swing our gazes across the table to her. “I cannot believe I’ve been sitting here this entire time and haven’t even asked Alex for an autograph.”

She looks at me with expectation, but I’m not sure what she expects me to do. Whip out paper and pen from thin air? I feel Sutton moving beside me and look to see her rustling through her purse. She pulls out a small pad of paper and a pen, and pushes them across the table at me.

“Yay,” Monica squeals again, and this time I’m the one who winces. Then she leans across the table and says, “And I wouldn’t be averse to you putting your number on there too.”

Okay, that’s just awkward but I give her a chastising smile as I quickly scrawl my name and number—jersey number, that is—on the pad of paper. “Now, now, Monica, save the heavy-duty flirting for some other time. Sutton and I do have business to discuss.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice small and thin. Thank God the squealing seems to be done for now.

Ripping the paper off, I hand it across the table to Monica and she greedily snags it from my grip, her eyes roaming over my signature like it’s a prime piece of beef or something.

Seriously, woman, it’s just some ink on a piece of paper.

Monica tucks the paper in her own purse and then turns her gaze back to us, flicking her eyes between Sutton and me. We return her stare, neither of us saying a word until a heavy, awkward silence lies between us.

Finally, I say, “Hate to do this, Monica, but can you excuse us now? We really do have some important business to discuss and I’m running short on time.”

Monica’s mouth drops open, disappointment practically oozing out of her pores. But then she stiffens her spine just a bit, realizing that she’s effectively been dismissed from our presence.

“Monica…it was nice meeting you tonight,” Sutton says kindly. “And I hope to sit next to you again during a game.”

“Sure,” Monica says as she slides out of the booth, looking at Sutton briefly then turning her gaze back to me. “I’ll just be hanging out at the bar if you finish up and want to have a drink or something, okay?”

“Sorry, but I’m meeting some teammates a bit later and have to leave soon,” I tell her—which is an outright lie I feel no remorse for telling—and she finally takes the hint that I’m not interested. She nods her head and spins on her heel, pushing her way through the crowd until her blond curly hair is no longer visible.

Taking a deep breath, I let it out and say, “Wow. Just wow.”

Sutton giggles and I turn to look at her. “Sorry. I let it slip where I was going after the game and she wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“No worries. She’s gone now.”

“Want to move to the other side of the table?” she asks me, her hazel eyes looking almost a deep green in the ambient lighting.

I most certainly don’t want to move to the other side, already mourning the loss of her touch against me, but it would be silly to sit side by side in this booth and try to discuss the anti-drug campaign. So I slide out, take my suit coat off and toss it onto the seat opposite Sutton before sliding in behind it.

When I’m facing her, she places her hands on the table and pushes the pad of paper across the table toward me. Sutton nods her head at it and says, “Can you give me an autograph for my little brother?”

“No,” I tell her, pushing the pad back toward her.

Those eyes now light up, turning gold as anger flashes through them. “Oh, you’ll give an autograph to a sexy woman who will happily sleep with you tonight, but not to a little boy?” she snarls at me.

Chuckling, I hold my hands up in self-defense. “Easy there, tiger. I only meant no as to an autograph on a measly scrap of paper. How about a signed jersey instead?”

Sutton’s mouth flies open and her eyes go wide. “What? No, that’s too much. The paper is fine.”

“This is for your little brother, right?”

“Yeah,” she says softly, her mouth forming into a smile filled with tenderness. It causes tiny warm fingers to start massaging deep within my chest.

“And by that look on your face right now, I’m thinking the jersey is definitely not too much.”

“I…if you’re sure. I didn’t mean for you to give him something so extravagant. I can’t afford a jersey, but he’s such a great kid. And a huge fan, and I’d so get him a jersey if they weren’t so expensive, but maybe you could sign just a picture or—”

“Sutton, stop. The jersey is fine. I have dozens of them at my apartment. And you’re not paying for it. The team gives them to us to sign and hand out. It’s no big deal.”

However, based on the shine in her eyes and the way her eyes are moist right now, I’m thinking I’ve done something akin to offering her the world.

She blinks hard and her eyes dry up. Clearing her throat, she says, “Thank you. You can’t begin to imagine how thrilled he’ll be.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I tell her sincerely, because for some stupid fucking reason, the fact that I put that look on her face
is
causing me immense pleasure right now.

I know business is at hand, though, when her gaze loses some of the warmth and her voice comes out strong. “So…did you have something important come up this morning?”

She’s referring to our meeting that I cancelled by text message about fifteen minutes before it was set to start. “Nope. I was too hungover to get out of bed.”

Sutton’s perfectly arched eyebrows arch even higher and she quirks her lips. “At least you’re honest.”

“Always. Painfully so,” I concur.

“I suppose that’s a virtue, but I have to say—I’m worried that you were too hungover to come to a meeting at a drug crisis center to work on an outreach program for at-risk youth.”

I blink at her several times, trying to determine if the censure I hear in her tone is real or not. When she pins me hard with those eyes, that were just flashing all kinds of beautiful things at me a moment ago, I do, in fact, realize that she is disapproving.

And, of course, that gets my fucking hackles up. I’ve led my entire life with my dad criticizing my every move, handing out nothing but looks of disappointment my way. I’m fucking done with that shit.

“You’re not my drug or alcohol counselor,” I snarl at her as I lean across the table toward her. “So, you can keep your opinions to yourself.”

I expect her to back down, to maybe even shed a few tears over the venom in my voice, but she just holds my gaze, softly staring at me as if she can see all the way through to my soul. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, but I’m not about to back down.

“Look,” Sutton says with patience, her voice unassuming–nonthreatening, but still very serious. “I have the right to be worried about this. I told you, kids will spot a phony a mile away.”

“I’m not a fucking alcoholic,” I grit out.

“I never said you were an alcoholic,” she assures me softly. “But yet you let alcohol interfere with something that was important. I don’t know you, Alex, but what I’ve seen so far…I’m worried.”

Son of a bitch.

Her words cause anger to suffuse through me, and at the same time, a tiny thread of guilt filters in. It’s an emotion that I’ve felt plenty in my lifetime, my dad always making me feel terrible about myself. Rather than make me take stock of the fact that okay, maybe it wasn’t cool to cancel a meeting because I was hungover, it causes me to get even angrier. Because maybe the truth is hitting a little too close to home. If there’s one thing that will cause me to go apeshit, it’s making a comparison between me and my father. Suggest that we have anything in common, a tiny similarity, and I will tear you a new one.

“It is none of your fucking business what I do in my private time, as long as it’s not publicly hurting our work together. I went out with a teammate and I tied one on. I don’t do it often, but I won’t apologize for it and I won’t sit here and listen to you berate me for it.”

“I wasn’t berating you,” she says quietly…apologetically. “I’m sorry if you felt that way.”

Fucking great.

Her sympathetic words cause more guilt to pour through me, and now anger directed at myself because I let the baggage of my childhood mesh with my adulthood to create new baggage. My chest constricts painfully and I feel the sudden need to get some fresh air. Grabbing my coat, I slide out of the booth. Fishing in my wallet, I pull a fifty-dollar bill out and throw it on the table. “I have to get going.”

“Alex, wait,” she says, but I’m already turning away.

“Please,” she calls out one more time and I almost stop…almost.

Then I’m pushing my way through the crowd and out the door.

By the time I arrive home, most of my anger is gone but I’m left with a sea of culpability churning in my stomach. I briefly consider calling Sutton to apologize, but it’s late so I don’t bother. Besides, I’m not sure exactly what I’d say. It’s not in my nature to apologize, having long ago convinced myself that all the wrongs in my world are not my fault. It was the only way I knew how to protect myself against the monstrosity that was my father—by laying all
those
wrongs on
his
doorstep.

I slowly walk up the steps to my second-floor apartment, my suit coat slung over my shoulder. When I reach the top, the hair rises on the back of my neck, knowing immediately that someone stands outside my door. My eyes lift and anger flushes through me hot again.

“I told you not to come here again uninvited,” I tell Cassie, noting the confident way she stands leaning up against my door.

She pushes away and saunters up to me. “You don’t mean that and please don’t make me prove you wrong. It won’t help your self-esteem.”

I watch, almost in a daze as her hands reach toward my crotch, oddly disgusted by the long, red nails she sports. Sutton’s, I noticed, were short and clear, her hands looking as soft as satin.

Just before Cassie makes contact with my belt buckle, I snap out of it and push her hands away, taking a step back from her for good measure. “Get out of here, Cass. I’m not interested.”

She laughs hoarsely, taking another step toward me, completely disbelieving every word I’ve said. I’m sure that’s because every other time she’s done this, I’ve capitulated and lost myself in an orgasmic stupor with her. “Let’s go inside, baby. I’ll make you feel good. You know I will.”

Stepping past her, I walk up to my apartment door and unlock it. I push the door open and step inside, turning abruptly to stop her stride because I know she’s walking right behind me.