Alex (5 page)

“Sutton?” I had heard Brandon’s voice when I answered my phone, a tad tentative but clear as a bell.

“Brandon? Is that you?” I asked in disbelief, because in a million years I had not expected his call.

“Yes,” he said exuberantly. “I was watching our movie last night before I went to bed, and it made me all nostalgic, so I told myself when I woke up today I was going to give you a call and check in on you.”

Our movie? He was watching
Zombieland
and it made him nostalgic for me?

“So, tell me what you’ve been doing with your life,” Brandon urged me, and then blew me away when he said, “Knowing you, I’m sure you’ve been extremely successful.”

I can’t lie…his words of pride and confidence in me are what got me sidetracked. The way he sounded so happy to hear my voice, and the way he had been thinking about me just from watching a movie. It’s as if our time apart melted into nothingness, and we chatted away like old friends.

Yes, we had promptly fallen into old times, talking about this and that, and all the things that each of us had been doing over the last year while we had been apart.

Yes, apart.

Brandon had been the love of my life…or so I had thought. We met our freshman year in college at N.C. State University in a mathematics study group that he helped tutor. He was in the engineering program and was pretty freakin’ brilliant when it came to math. I was pursuing an arts degree—sociology—and I basically sucked at math.

It took less than two months for Brandon to go from tutor to friend to good friend to boyfriend to lover. We clicked right off the bat and spent a lot of time together. There was an underlying mutual attraction that just kept getting stronger and stronger the more time we spent with each other.

By our sophomore year, we were in love and making plans to spend the rest of our lives together. He was everything I had desired in a boyfriend and potential husband. Smart, kind, caring, considerate, attentive, successful, upstanding…all the things antithetical to my birth dad.

The list could go on and on. Brandon was made up of one long list of commendable virtues and it was just so easy to love him. Hell, even when he broke up with me, he was fucking commendable and lovable.

Now, I’d heard of the old “I want to sow my wild oats” speech before. Even met a few girls who had suffered through it. I just never thought I’d be the one to get it, though. And Brandon, when he laid it out to me—told me he wanted to be with other women—did it in such a kind and caring way, I was nodding my head in agreement with him by the time he was finished.

“Sutton…I am so, so sorry to be hurting you this way” were the first words Brandon said after he dumped me. He held my face gently in his hands so I would look at him and he could look back at me.

So I could gauge the truthfulness of his words.

“I love and respect you too much, though, to cheat on you. I could never go behind your back, so I want to be honest with you as to why I’m doing this.”

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked quietly, searching his eyes for the reason behind his crazy actions.

“God, no,” he said, with such ferocity in his voice and conviction in his eyes I had no choice but to believe him. “In fact, I’m betting this may be the singularly most stupid thing I’ve ever done, and I’m sure it may eventually be one of my biggest regrets, but I can’t keep going forward with you when I have these doubts and these curiosities.”

I nodded in agreement with what he was saying, because it did make sense the way he was laying it out to me.

Sometimes, when I think back to that day—just three weeks before we graduated with our bachelor degrees, I want to go back in time and slap myself on the back of the head. Sometimes I think I must have been the biggest loser to ever look at a man I loved, a man who was breaking up with me, and be thankful and love him that much more for the way in which he did it. I didn’t even have one bitter feeling against him. I fucking congratulated him for the great job he did.

Gah, I was so pathetic back then. I think I’ve changed a lot in the past year, though, in a good way, and much of it thanks to Brandon breaking my heart.

Yes, Brandon felt that in order to be absolutely honest and candid with me, he had to let me know that he was thinking about what it would be like to be with other women.

“You are the most incredible woman I’ve ever been with, Sutton,” he had told me, almost begging me to believe him. “But lately, I’m just wondering all the time what it would be like to be with someone else.”

“Sexually?” I asked in bewilderment, because I was still shell-shocked at what he was telling me.

His head hung low, almost in shame, and he admitted, “Yes…sexually. I want to be free to have sex with other women. I want to know if I’m missing out on something.”

Oh, how those words had hurt, slicing and gouging at my heart. Yet I didn’t cry and I didn’t argue with him, which is odd because I am not a passive woman.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Sutton,” he said as we sat in my dorm room. “I’m asking if we can take a break…explore the world apart for a while, make sure we have no doubts before we get married and have kids.”

It seemed to make sense to me. It seemed to be the psychologically healthy thing to do at that point, even though I wasn’t having doubts about spending my life with him. I wasn’t looking at other men, wondering if their dicks were bigger or if they were better lovers. Well, okay, that’s not exactly true. My best friend and roommate Shelley and I would often gossip and secretly lust after hot guys we would see on campus. It was all in good fun, and so while I might have looked and wondered, I definitely never wanted to act on it.

So Brandon said he wanted to take a break—no specific time period, though—and I just nodded my head in agreement, even though my heart was broken. I trusted that if Brandon and I were meant to be together, it would happen one day.

And now maybe that day was here. Brandon and I were meeting for dinner tomorrow night, because he said that he wanted to talk to me…catch up with me…tell me about all of the things that had been going on in his life. It had sounded to me as if he’d had some sort of epiphany and it made me wonder if I was a part of that.

I filter through my feelings, wondering what it is I truly think about Brandon entering my life again. I don’t have a rush of excitement like I thought I would. I have some curiosity, for sure, but remember that broken heart I had? Well, it healed pretty damn fast. I didn’t sit around and pine after Brandon. I moved on with my life and while I had many days of disquieted sorrow, Brandon became just a fond memory a lot faster than I would have thought possible if I was so in love with him and ready to spend the rest of my life with him.

I bring forth Brandon’s image in my mind, trying to rekindle some sort of feeling. Light brown hair, soft brown eyes, lean build, just slightly taller than me.

I try to remember back to the last time we made love…what it felt like to have him inside of me. An image comes to me, Brandon’s face tucked into my shoulder, his hips pushing and pulling as he slides in and out. It felt good…always good with Brandon. In my memory, I mentally will Brandon to lift his face, to look down at me so I can try to remember what was in his eyes that last time we were intimate—just before he broke up with me.

His head lifts, the stubble from his chin abrading my shoulder. He gives an extra hard push of his hips, and he slams in me just a bit harder. Definitely not Brandon’s style but I find that my body likes it—at least in my mind.

Pulling out and slamming back in even harder, Brandon lifts his head as I watch him above me. When his face is fully revealed, I’m stunned to find crystal blue eyes staring at me and full lips tilted upward in a triumphant smile. Black hair framing the face of an angel as he looks down at me with lust-filled eyes.

Alex Crossman inside of me, pulling back out with exquisite control, only to slam back in hard, causing a groan to tumble out of my mouth.

My eyes fly open, seeking reality. I take in a water stain on the ceiling just above me and try to banish all fantasies of Alex Crossman from my mind. I mentally take a scrub brush and rub it hard over my brain, desperately trying to call back the image of Brandon, or Barney the Dinosaur, or sick starving children. Anything but Alex Crossman.

I tentatively close my eyes again, and that gorgeous face is still hovering over me front and center, causing my heartbeat to pick up its pace. I pop my eyes open again and stare at the water stain, worrying my lower lip with my teeth.

What in the hell?

Sitting up on my couch, I reach over to my coffee table and grab my cell phone. I send a quick text to Shelley. She’s still my best friend, and I’m not sure if it’s lame or not, but really my only
good
friend. I’m actually quite an introverted person and don’t do well in crowds, thus I was never the kind of woman who had a large core group of girlfriends. But four years as college roommates and my bond with Shelley was sealed. Even when she got married this past summer and moved to Pittsburgh, the bond couldn’t even be dinged. We talked, texted and Facebooked several times a day.

My fingers fly over the screen.
Remind me again why Brandon wasn’t the love of my life?

I don’t wait long. It’s almost 10
P.M.
but I know she’ll answer me.

Because he didn’t excite you enough. The most you did when he broke up with you was give a strong sigh and then you moved on.

Right, I think to myself. There wasn’t as deep a connection as I thought.

Still, Brandon and I had four years together. That’s a long time, and in those four years we made many, many wonderful memories. We were compatible in so many ways. It’s something I can’t neglect to consider, and maybe the second time would be the charm. Maybe we’ve both grown in ways that would add depth and excitement to the existing bonds we had.

Yes, I definitely should keep an open mind about this.

I text Shelley back.
Thanks babe. Love u. Night.

Then I head to bed myself and hope to God that Alex Crossman isn’t going to star in my dreams. I don’t know if I can handle that type of excitement.

It’s Sunday afternoon and here I am—once again serving at the beck and call of the Cold Fury. Tucking the birthday present under my arm, I start walking up the driveway to the modest, two-story brick house of our trainer, Leo Getts. It’s his youngest son’s birthday today, and the entire team has been invited.

I, however, was mandated to attend. I had an email Friday evening from Coach telling me if I failed to show, it would be a $5,000 fine. Now, this just made me want to stick my chin out and take the fine, because I don’t like being molded into shape. But the problem was, I really like Leo. He’s a wonderful trainer and has done an amazing job working me through some minor and major injuries. I decided I was coming to the party weeks ago when I first got the invitation because it was the least I could do for Leo.

So I asked Cassie to buy the kid a present from me a while back and wrap it, and in return I gave her a couple of orgasms. It was an even exchange.

Cassie wanted to go to the party with me, had even tried to talk me into it while I was fucking her from behind, but I just fucked her harder to make it more difficult for her to talk. No way was she coming to this party with me. That screamed too much like a date or a relationship, and I didn’t ever want her thinking that she was entitled to that from me.

Here’s the thing about Cassie. She’ll talk out of one side of her mouth, assuring me that she’s all about the sex. I can’t tell you how many times she’s assured me she doesn’t do relationships. This worked out well for me, because I sure as hell don’t do relationships either. Never have—probably never will. But then she’ll talk out of the other side, trying to subtly push her way into my life outside the bedroom. That’s the Cassie I don’t like very much.

When I met Cassie at a Cold Fury party last year, it took us only about twenty minutes after we were introduced to leave the party together, heading back to her apartment and fucking like champions all night long.

In that respect, she was the perfect woman.

Except now, she’s changed. I see it in her eyes, I hear it in her words, I know it by her actions. She wants her claws in me permanently and she’s been coming on strong lately. It’s something I need to put a stop to so she doesn’t think this will ever go any further than orgasmic release.

Walking up to the house, I can hear the sounds of kids squealing and adults laughing from the backyard, so I don’t even bother with the front door, choosing instead to walk around the house.

As I come around the east side, I’m brought up short by a small orange ball flying at my head. Luckily, my reflexes are good and I’m able to duck in plenty of time.

“Shit—sorry, Crossman,” I hear and see my teammate Sergei Annikov standing there with an unapologetic grin on his face. He’s holding a small, plastic hockey stick, and I see a little boy of about five standing up against the brick exterior of the house. The kid is wearing a goalie mask, decked out with a goalie glove and stick.

Walking over a few feet, I pick up the lightweight plastic ball from the ground and toss it back to Sergei. “No problem.”

Sergei drops the ball to the grass and says, “Okay, Darius, keep your eye on the ball.”

Putting the small stick to the ground—which looks ridiculously minuscule in his large hands—he flips the orange ball gently to his son. At least I think that’s his son. Fact of the matter, I know virtually nothing about most of my teammates.

The little boy tries to raise his glove to catch the ball but it bounces just off the tip and ricochets off the brick wall behind him.

“Good try,” Sergei says in affirmation at the boy’s attempt. “You almost got it.”

My head swirls and I feel faint, a memory clawing its way up to my consciousness and I try desperately to tamp it down. It’s too strong, though, and it assaults me hard.

“I’ve never been so embarrassed,” my dad snarled as we pulled into the driveway. He took out a small flask from the inside of his jacket, angrily twisting the cap off and slugging back a huge gulp of liquor. Putting the flask away, he turned ice-blue eyes my way and glared at me. “Drills. Get suited up.”

“Dad…it’s late and I’m tired,” I complained. It was something I knew better than to say, but I was so tired I just didn’t have it in me to play any more tonight.

“Get your fucking gear on and get your lazy ass in the driveway,” he screamed at me.

Sighing, I pushed open the car door and slouched my way into the house. I didn’t even bother going any farther than the mud room, where I reached into my equipment bag—which I had been carrying—and put on my pads, still wet with my sweat from the game I’d just played. I didn’t bother putting my jersey over them, but I did put my helmet on with full face guard. I needed that protection for sure.

My older brother, Cameron, stuck his head in the doorway of the mudroom and whispered, “Bad game?”

He was fifteen years old, and Dad didn’t mind him staying home alone while he took me to my hockey games; Cam never wanted to come watch.

“I guess,” I replied, even though I thought I’d had a pretty great game. Two goals and an assist. “Dad wants to do drills.”

Cameron just stared at me, his eyes sad. He watched me put on my helmet, grab my stick and head back outside. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t come outside to watch, didn’t offer words of encouragement. There was no way you could ever paint a good picture over what was about to happen.

When I stepped out onto our driveway, softly lit by the two lights flanking the garage door, my dad already had his stick in hand and the driveway lined with hockey pucks. He pointed to the position he wanted me to take and I went to stand in front of the garage.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked, his voice still tinged with anger.

“Because I messed up,” I answered woodenly.

“And how did you mess up?” he asked, toying with one of the pucks on the ground with the blade of his own stick.

“I didn’t make the sacrifice,” I said tiredly.

“You didn’t make the fucking sacrifice,” he affirmed, his voice filled with disgust. It didn’t matter that his son scored two goals. Didn’t matter that his son got an assist. Didn’t matter that his son was the best player on the team. Didn’t even matter that we won the game. The only thing that mattered to him, at that moment, was that when one of my opponents shot a blistering slap shot at our goaltender, I dove out of the way so that my goalie could see the puck coming. I was standing directly in front of him, blocking his view.

It’s true. It never crossed my mind to let the puck hit me. It was aimed in the general direction of my right thigh and it would have hurt had it hit me. Fear of getting hit with the puck played no part in my split-second decision to throw my body out of the way, though. No, I wasn’t afraid of pain, because God knows I’d become almost immune to it. I was just thinking of our goalie, and hoping to give him a split second of reaction time to make the save.

I made a bad choice. The puck sailed past me, sailed right past our goalie’s glove because he couldn’t see it coming and right into the net. Had I just stayed still—let the puck hit me, I wouldn’t be standing out here getting ready to do drills.

“I think twenty should do it,” my dad said quietly. “You’re not to defend and you sure as fuck better not move out of the way.”

Swallowing hard, I gripped my stick tight and tried to relax. My natural instinct was going to be to try to deflect the puck when it came my way. But that would have earned me further punishment.

Yes, punishment. My dad called it drills, but it was punishment. Fucking abuse was more like it.

He wound his stick back, legs crouched. Didn’t matter that he’d been drinking. My dad had played in the minor leagues and he knew how to make a slap shot. The blade made contact with the first puck with a resounding crack and it came hurtling my way, so fast I could hear the whistle of it against the air.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, letting out just a small ooph when it caught me in my chest pads. It wasn’t exquisitely painful, because my dad didn’t have the strength he used to, but, more important, the drinking had made him a bit clumsy with his shot. But it still hurt like hell.

The next puck came on the heels of the first, and I took it in the right thigh. My dad raised his arms in victory and yelled, “He shoots, he scores!”

The fucker was proud he hit his ten-year-old son in the right thigh—exactly where I would have taken the puck tonight had I just stood still.

My dad was having too much fun tonight. I was betting twenty turned into fifty before it was all said and done.

“You okay, Crossman?” I hear Sergei ask, almost like he’s in a tunnel of some sort.

Giving my head a small shake, I look at Sergei and he comes into focus. His face is worried and I wonder how long I just zoned out while I took a trip down memory lane.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say gruffly and walk past him and his son.

Rounding the corner to the house, I immediately take in the color and sound, all of it causing a momentary flare of panic to well up inside of me. Kids run around everywhere, screaming and laughing. There’s a clown wearing the brightest, most horrendous lime-green outfit I’ve ever seen. It actually hurts my eyes to look at it. Multicolored balloons are tied to everything, floating and bobbing on the early fall breeze. Classic rock music blares out from speakers set up around the yard, and the babble of adults partying slams into me.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a flashback like that, and I’ve often found that a quiet, dark place will help me come down from the terror of the memory. Instead, I’ve walked into a fucking circus filled with so much color and sound that I feel disoriented and woozy.

No doubt seeing Sergei and his kid knocked me backward in time, but I was primed for it. On the way over to the party I listened to a voice mail from my dad that he had left last night. I saw his number on my iPhone screen but didn’t answer. I don’t ever answer when he calls, but it doesn’t stop him. He calls, does his duty and leaves a voice mail, then I won’t hear from him until my next game.

This particular voice mail he complained about my line changes. Said I looked sloppy and slow coming off the bench, wasting precious seconds that could be detrimental to the team. I did what I always do, and deleted the voice mail while anger surged through my veins. It stayed with me, even as I was walking up to Leo’s house.

“There you are,” Cassie purrs from behind, and I feel her fingertips slide up the back of my shirt. While ordinarily I would rebuke Cassie for any type of public display, the mere fact that someone I know is touching and talking to me is helping to ground me somewhat.

I knew Cassie would be here. She’s at every Cold Fury party with her sister and Kyle. I can’t stand that fucker. He’s a pompous ass who thinks the world was built to serve him. His wife Allie is a bitch, and takes pride in spending every bit of Kyle’s money as soon as it’s earned. Can’t feel sorry for the dude, though. He screws around on Allie every chance he can get, bragging about it in the locker room. They are a fucking travesty together, and the worst part about it is that both Allie and Kyle have it in their heads that Cassie and I would make a beautiful couple.

“So tense,” Cassie murmurs as she stands behind me and it kills me that her voice and touch are helping to calm me. I don’t want to depend on her—or anyone for that matter—to help me battle my demons. But especially not her. I will never see her as anything but a hot fuck and the more she tries to be otherwise, the more it pisses me off. We had an understanding about the way things were between us, but now she’s pushing past the boundaries I set and I’m not liking it one little bit.

Taking another deep breath, I step forward and her hands fall away from my back. Turning to look at her, I try to make myself appreciate something—anything—about her that will let me see her as something more than just a diversion.

I come up empty. It doesn’t matter how beautiful she is or how talented her mouth is, I see nothing within this woman that would do a damn thing for me other than to relieve sexual pressure.

Cocking her head at me, she assesses my mood. “What’s wrong, Alexander? Not in the mood for me?”

“I’m never in the mood for you,” I snarl, hoping to push her solidly away.

She just laughs at me, smoky and deep, running a fingertip down my chest. “Now that’s a lie, Alex. You needed me on my knees just a few days ago.”

“Yeah, well…wasn’t going to say no to those services freely offered. But I would have paid you if that’s what it took.”

She flinches from my barb and rather than make me feel better, it makes me feel worse. It hits me suddenly that the reason I tolerate so much of Cassie is because her feelings have seemed indestructible to me in the past. The mere fact that she always takes the shit I dish out to her and keeps a smile on her face alleviates my conscience…makes it okay for us to fuck with no other strings attached and for me to be an ass about it.

But now there is a flash of hurt on her face and it causes my gut to churn.

“Look…I’ll catch up with you later,” I tell her, making my voice as gentle as humanly possible. It’s a tone she’s probably never heard from me so far in this fucked-up existence we live in, and I immediately see I’ve made a huge mistake, because now hope fills her eyes and she gives me a radiant smile.

Shit, I need to cut ties with this girl for good. It’s a pathetic mess of a relationship and neither one of us is getting what we truly want. She wants a hockey husband and I want…I want…

I don’t know what in the hell I want but it’s clearly not a casual sex-only relationship with Cassie.

Just then, an image comes slamming into my brain and I almost reel backward from the glorious nature of it.

Sutton Price, with her copper hair flowing all around and her hazel eyes shining bright. She’s smiling at me and it causes warmth to swirl in my veins.