"I'm actually glad you didn't," he admits with a wince. "I … um, was sort of caught up in some family drama and just needed some space."
He doesn't want to talk details. I can tell by the look on his face and the tension in his shoulders, so all I ask is, "Are you okay? I mean, did everything work out okay?"
"Yeah, I think so," he says, then looks off across the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits his eyes and lightens them to a pale blue, which pop even brighter because of his thick, dark lashes.
When he turns to look back at me, he says, "I wanted to apologize again … for the way I acted in New York. I don't have any excuse."
I'm surprised by how bothered he still is by that. He already apologized to me, and clearly I accepted it, because I let him inside my body after that. I thought that spoke volumes, so I'm not sure why he still feels the need for forgiveness.
"Alex … it's okay-" I start to assure him but he cuts in.
"No … it's not. It's not okay because I'm afraid it will happen again. I feel like I'm on a tightrope sometimes, a balancing act that I'm constantly maintaining just so I can be with you. But I feel myself tilting off it more and more lately. It's a constant push and pull within me, and half the time I feel like I should break things off with you to avoid hurting you more down the road. Honestly … it's why I didn't call you the last few days. I was thinking of ending things."
I suck in a deep breath, trying to expand my lungs past the hurt that those words create. "Can you share with me what happened to cause this? I want to help you."
Releasing my hips and bringing his hands to my face, he peers at me intently. "The details aren't important, just some shit going on with my dad. I think I got it handled."
"So where do we stand?" I ask hesitantly, because for all I know, his next words are going to break my heart.
Still cupping my face, Alex leans in and kisses me. Soft at first, but then his mouth opens and he slips his tongue inside of me, causing all of my troubles to melt away. I step in closer to him until my pelvis is resting against his, and no matter that we are in a public high school parking lot, I grind against him slightly and feel him go hard. It's a desperate move on my part- hoping that my sexual allure will keep him pinned to my side.
Alex gives a deep groan and kisses me harder, for just a moment, just to make his point clear. When he pulls away, he says, "I can't let you go. I don't want to hurt you but I don't want to be without you either. I've said it before … I'm a selfish bastard. I'll risk hurting you just so I can have another day, another week, another month. Tell me I'm a bastard."
His words are urgent and filled with need. He needs me to call him a liar and I'm going to do just that. "You are not selfish. The heart wants what the heart wants."
"Is it my heart that wants you, Sutton?" he asks on a low murmur. "Or is it just my cock?"
"Only you can answer that," I tell him breathlessly. "But my heart is involved, so whether you hurt me right now, or hurt me down the road, it's going to hurt all the same."
Alex pulls me into him hard and hugs me again. I never would have taken Alex for being much of a hugger, but he seems to find a measure of comfort in the intimacy of the act.
Placing his lips against my cheek, Alex tells me, "I'm so afraid of hurting you that I think it's safe to say my heart is definitely involved."
"So, try not to hurt me."
"I'll try," he answers, and I'm thankful that his voice is sincere.
Chapter 25
Alex
"Crossman … in my office … now!"
Garrett slaps a comforting hand on my back and gives me a look of sympathy as he walks out of the locker room, his game bag slung over his shoulder. "Call me later, dude, if you want to go grab a beer or something."
"Sure thing," I tell him, but I know after the ass chewing I'm about to be handed, I'm not going to feel like going out. Especially not on top of that miserable performance I just turned in for my team, and especially not after we lost our third game in a row.
Walking into Coach's office, I take a seat and pick a nonexistent piece of lint off my slacks. When I look up at him across the desk, he's looking at me with a mixture of anger and worry.
"What the fuck's the problem?" he asks.
"No problem," I answer, the smart-ass in me showing up early to the game.
"Try again, Crossman. For a guy who averages at least a goal or an assist per game, something is fucking wrong that you haven't had a point since we got back from New York. Now, I want to know what the fuck the problem is."