Alex (Cold Fury Hockey #1)(84)

"Is he drinking?"

The look Cameron gives me says it all, so I press forward. "Have you suggested rehab to him?"

"Yes and he won't do it. Maybe if you talked to him-"

"He'll never listen to my advice. Half the time he can't even stand to look at me," I snap.

"I think you're wrong," Cameron says. "He's proud of you. He admires what you've become. I think he'd do it for you."

I stare at Cameron as if he's just fallen out of the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down. Is he living in a dream world? Has he just buried his head in the sand, pretending that the first sixteen years of my life weren't traumatic? Has Cameron truly forgotten the ways in which my dad abused me, both physically and mentally?

The thought causes rage to build and I want to tear into my brother. From the corner of my eye, I notice a waitress approaching and I level a look at her that sends her scurrying. But that moment was enough of a reprieve that I bring myself under control.

With my voice as calm as I can make it, but still gritty and raw, I tell Cameron, "I know you didn't fail to notice the shit storm that Dad rained down on me for most of my life. I know you are aware of it, because you sat blissfully untouched while Dad focused all of his attention on me. And by attention, I mean using pain to forge me into a hockey machine."



       
         
       
        

"Alex-" Cameron says in a pleading tone, but I cut him off.

"No … you know what I went through, and you may not know it now, because we don't talk, but I go through it still with him. He's still to this day trying to control and manipulate me-that is, when he's sober enough to put the effort into it. So what makes you think, first, that Dad would listen to me, but, more important, what makes you think that I give a shit if he goes to rehab or not?"

Cameron jerks backward over the vehemence in my voice but his eyes look sad when he says, "Because he's your dad. And yes … I know he was a monster to you. I wish I could have done more … as your older brother, I should have-"

"You're fucking right you should have done something," I growl as I lean across the table.

Cameron just looks at me patiently, eyes still sad. When I lean back, he continues, "I regret I didn't do anything-step in, redirect his attention, whatever. I can't change it. But maybe you need to consider … my life with him wasn't all that great. You might have had negative attention from him, but you had all his attention. I had none. Once he realized I had no talent for the game, I was forgotten. I raised myself in that house, and you can spout all you want about how terrible he was … but there were good times too. I remember them. I remember you and Dad watching hockey together on TV, laughing and joking. I remember you getting extra presents at Christmas, and I remember Dad telling all of his friends about how proud he was of you. Not me, you. So don't think you were the only one who suffered, Alex. My suffering was just different."

My heart starts pounding over Cam's words and I flush heavy with guilt. Holy shit … is it possible I've been so mired in my own bitterness and self-pity that I failed to recognize that I wasn't the only one my dad warped?

"Cameron-" I say softly, unsurely, no clue what to say.

"Listen, Alex," he cuts me off. "I don't want to rehash the past. It wasn't pretty-enough said. But Dad is going downhill and I just really want you to be prepared for it. He's going to die if he doesn't stop drinking."

Taking a deep breath, I rub my finger around the base of my water glass. Lifting my eyes to my brother, I ask, "What do you think I might be able to do to convince him to go to rehab?"

"I don't know that you can," he says in resignation. "I just think it's worth a try. He won't listen to the doctor, he won't listen to me. Maybe he'll listen to you, maybe not. But at least we'll know we tried everything."

A terrible thought takes root in my brain, causing icy fingers of dread to squeeze my chest. Swallowing hard, I say quietly, "I should have done something sooner. Instead, I ignored him for years, letting him drink himself to death because I hated him. If it's too late now, then that's my fault." 

Cam leans across the table and grips my forearm tightly. I refuse to meet his eyes but I hear what he says next. "No way, Alex. This is all on Dad. Nothing you did or didn't do … nothing I did or didn't do, made him this way. This is not on your doorstep."

I look at my older brother and find no comfort in the intensity of his gaze. I know he believes what he just said, but I don't-not for a minute. Pulling my arm away from his grasp, I sit up straighter in my chair. Clearing my throat, I signal the waitress that we're ready and say, "Let's eat breakfast and figure out the best way for me to talk to him."