Cameron stares at me a moment, his eyes searching deeply to see if I'm carrying the guilt. I've tamped it down deep but it's still there, though I know he can't see it. I show him assured, calm and in control Alex Crossman. I'm used to this facade and I find it falls back easily into place.
***
I'm exhausted and for the first time in weeks, I don't have a thrill of anticipation running through me at the prospect of seeing Sutton. Tonight's game was brutal, I fucking played like shit and I can't stop thinking about my deadbeat dad, whom I'm feeling compelled to save to alleviate my guilt. For the first time that I can ever remember, there is a certain appeal to getting shit-faced drunk and letting my worries drown along with my misery.
Opening the room door, I anticipate Sutton will greet me with a hug and a warm smile, and I'm not wrong. There she is, wearing one of the robes and smelling like fresh rain from the shower she just clearly had.
"Oh my God, are you okay?" she asks as she runs her fingertips lightly over the eight stitches in my left temple. "I saw you get injured."
I jerk back slightly, not because it hurts but because I don't want her care right now. Stepping out of her arms, I walk over to the minibar and pull out a beer. Twisting the cap off, I toss it in the garbage can and take a long pull. After swallowing, I say, "I'm fine."
And I am. Sutton preferred to stay at the hotel and watch the game on TV, so I know she got a close-up, slow-mo view of the stick that I took to my temple from one of the Wildcats' defensemen. Head wounds bleed like a bitch and mine was no exception. But it didn't stop me from launching myself at the fucktard, immediately dropping my gloves to the ice so that he knew it was on.
He dropped his just as quickly and we circled each other on the ice, our arms held in a fighting stance, fists curled tight for maximum delivery of pain. Even though blood was pouring down the left side of my face, it thankfully stayed clear of my eye and I had good vision, plus I had anger. I was pissed off and I made the first move, grabbing hold of his jersey with my left hand and landing three solid jabs to his jaw with my right.
That's all I got in before both of his hands were gripping my jersey, grappling to get leverage against me. I tried to jerk loose to land some more blows but both of our skates shot out from under us and we were on the ice.
It was all over then as the officials swarmed in and pulled us apart. We both landed five-minute majors, but I went off the ice and headed back to the locker room so our team doctor could stitch me up. We still had another period and a half of play left and a small cut wasn't about to stop me.
I should have just stayed my ass back in the locker room. Once back out on the ice, I played some of the crappiest hockey I've played since I was about ten years old. I couldn't make a clean pass, my shots were wide and my skating was hesitant. Some viewers would blame it on my injury but that didn't have a damn thing to do with it. I had just lost my focus, plain and simple, and I'm sure it had everything to do with my meeting with Cameron this morning.
Walking over to one of the large armchairs that grace the room, I sit down with a heavy sigh. Sutton watches me cautiously. I must be giving off some bad vibes, because she isn't moving any closer.
"What's wrong, Alex? Is it the game?"
I can't help the snort that comes out or the wry smile that I give her. "Sure, we'll say it's the game."
I take another deep pull on the beer and watch her. She's so fucking beautiful, and I know she's naked under the robe. But the thing that I focus on-right this very moment-is the look in her eyes. They are filled with such worry and care for me, that it physically hurts to receive it. It's alien to me, a concept I don't understand. It makes me feel weak and small, and I don't want any part of it.
"Drop your robe," I order her, my voice low and gruff. I take another sip of beer.
"Alex?" she says, uncertainty ringing clear, but her hands go to the belt to undo the knot. My pulse quickens when she pulls the belt away and I get just a peek of her skin underneath.
"Come here," I tell her, and I know she's not hearing the normal sexual rumble of passion that fuels me. I know I sound cold and controlling. It's the same tone I've used on Cassie time and again, and that thought makes my stomach curdle.
It doesn't deter me, though. When she reaches me, her feet stopping just short of mine, she just stares down at me, not understanding what I want or need. Hell, I don't know what I need. But I do know I want her.
I want her to make me forget for just a little bit.