Alex (Cold Fury Hockey #1)(46)

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."