Alex (Cold Fury Hockey #1)(91)

"So what did you think of the game?" I ask her, curious as to how she will address the fact that I played like an amateur in a local rec league. Will she sugarcoat it or give it to me straight?



       
         
       
        

Idly running her fingertips over the center of my chest, she doesn't mince words. "You don't look focused."

"I don't feel focused," I say with resignation, and also gratitude that she talks honestly to me.

Painfully so.

"Then that means you have something heavy weighing on you. Want to talk about it?"

Do I? Do I want to share my demons? Will she understand or will she make the same inevitable comparison that I made between our lives, and judge me to be unworthy because I can't seem to get my shit fully together?

The mere fact that I'm worried over her reaction tells me that my confidence in general has taken a hit. At least the asshole that is Alex Crossman wouldn't ever apologize or make excuses for his actions or reactions. Soft, cuddly Alex is a different story, and I mentally sneer at myself to man up and lay it on the line.

"When I went to Canada … it was to put my dad in rehab," I tell her, letting the impact of my words sink in. This will hit close to home with Sutton.

She jerks in my arms and sits up straight, dislodging my arm from around her shoulders. Thankfully, her gaze is sympathetic, not piteous. She also gives me a small smile of appreciation, which I know is because I shared with her.

Raising up on her knees and flipping her leg over my lap, Sutton straddles me, resting the palms of her hands on my chest. The warmth of her touch seeps in with soothing effect, which helps to relax me marginally.

"Oh, Alex," she says gently. "I'm sorry. That's a very brave thing to do, but it's also so scary."

Exactly. Scary as shit.

"His doctor says if he doesn't quit drinking, he's going to die."

"He's had a long history, then," she guesses.

"Ever since I can remember," I say wryly.

Sliding her fingers up to just above my open button at the top of my shirt, she grazes her fingers over the skin of my collarbone. It's not sexual, but speaks more of a need to have skin-on-skin contact-to promote more closeness, so to speak. I'd be lying though if I didn't admit my dick twitched just a bit.

"Do you want to talk about it … tell me details? Sometimes it helps to share."

My hands, which had previously been resting on the couch on either side of my hips, move up to grip her thighs. I rub my thumbs over her legs, pushing in so she can feel it through the coarse denim of her jeans.

Staring at the base of her throat, because I'm not sure I can reveal my story while looking in her eyes, I tell her all about my dad.

"My dad was a hockey player, but wasn't good enough to make it out of the minors, and wasn't even good enough to stay there for very long. When he had kids, he decided to have us live his dream." 

Maybe because she's fully aware that this is hard for me, probably because I won't look her in the eyes, Sutton leans in and lays her head on my shoulder, pressing her chest against mine. She then grabs on to my wrists and forcibly removes my hands from her thighs, directing them to wrap around her back and hold on to her tight.

With her plastered up against me, and my gaze now focused on the fire, I continue my story. "My brother, Cameron, is five years older. He had no talent, so Dad basically ignored him his entire life. But that left him to channel all of his energy into me-"

My voice breaks, not with any overwhelming emotion, because I'm pretty ice-cold when I confront these memories. Instead, I find my mouth to be dry merely because I'm getting ready to lay my heavy story on Sutton's doorstep and I have no clue how she's going to react.

As if sensing my hesitation, she murmurs, "Only tell me if you want, Alex. No pressure."

Not quite realizing that my chest has been tight, my muscles loosen up a bit and I can breathe easier. Her insistence I go at the pace that I feel most comfortable with makes the fear lessen.

"He was abusive. Drunk most of the time, but verbally and physically abusive. No matter how good I was-and Sutton, I was fucking good-he always found fault with my play. And fault required punishment."

I squeeze my arms a little tighter around her, for my comfort and maybe hers as well. "I'm sure it was to soothe his own conscience but my dad disguised punishment as 'practice.' He'd shoot pucks at my body and wouldn't let me defend. I'd have bruises all over and it hurt like a motherfucker. Or he'd make me do drills, sometimes for hours on end, often into the wee hours of the morning. He wouldn't let me stop to drink anything, and only after I'd collapse in exhaustion was the 'practice' over. He'd berate me … constantly, and in front of others. If I dared to talk back to him, or even plead with him for a break, he'd use his fists, or a hockey stick, or his belt … whatever was handiest."