Alex (Cold Fury Hockey 1)

Right, I think to myself. There wasn’t as deep a connection as I thought.

Still, Brandon and I had four years together. That’s a long time, and in those four years we made many, many wonderful memories. We were compatible in so many ways. It’s something I can’t neglect to consider, and maybe the second time would be the charm. Maybe we’ve both grown in ways that would add depth and excitement to the existing bonds we had.

Yes, I definitely should keep an open mind about this.

I text Shelley back. Thanks babe. Love u. Night.

Then I head to bed myself and hope to God that Alex Crossman isn’t going to star in my dreams. I don’t know if I can handle that type of excitement.

Chapter 5

Alex

It’s Sunday afternoon and here I am—once again serving at the beck and call of the Cold Fury. Tucking the birthday present under my arm, I start walking up the driveway to the modest, two-story brick house of our trainer, Leo Getts. It’s his youngest son’s birthday today, and the entire team has been invited.

I, however, was mandated to attend. I had an email Friday evening from Coach telling me if I failed to show, it would be a $5,000 fine. Now, this just made me want to stick my chin out and take the fine, because I don’t like being molded into shape. But the problem was, I really like Leo. He’s a wonderful trainer and has done an amazing job working me through some minor and major injuries. I decided I was coming to the party weeks ago when I first got the invitation because it was the least I could do for Leo.

So I asked Cassie to buy the kid a present from me a while back and wrap it, and in return I gave her a couple of orgasms. It was an even exchange.

Cassie wanted to go to the party with me, had even tried to talk me into it while I was f**king her from behind, but I just f**ked her harder to make it more difficult for her to talk. No way was she coming to this party with me. That screamed too much like a date or a relationship, and I didn’t ever want her thinking that she was entitled to that from me.

Here’s the thing about Cassie. She’ll talk out of one side of her mouth, assuring me that she’s all about the sex. I can’t tell you how many times she’s assured me she doesn’t do relationships. This worked out well for me, because I sure as hell don’t do relationships either. Never have—probably never will. But then she’ll talk out of the other side, trying to subtly push her way into my life outside the bedroom. That’s the Cassie I don’t like very much.

When I met Cassie at a Cold Fury party last year, it took us only about twenty minutes after we were introduced to leave the party together, heading back to her apartment and f**king like champions all night long.

In that respect, she was the perfect woman.

Except now, she’s changed. I see it in her eyes, I hear it in her words, I know it by her actions. She wants her claws in me permanently and she’s been coming on strong lately. It’s something I need to put a stop to so she doesn’t think this will ever go any further than orgasmic release.

Walking up to the house, I can hear the sounds of kids squealing and adults laughing from the backyard, so I don’t even bother with the front door, choosing instead to walk around the house.

As I come around the east side, I’m brought up short by a small orange ball flying at my head. Luckily, my reflexes are good and I’m able to duck in plenty of time.

“Shit—sorry, Crossman,” I hear and see my teammate Sergei Annikov standing there with an unapologetic grin on his face. He’s holding a small, plastic hockey stick, and I see a little boy of about five standing up against the brick exterior of the house. The kid is wearing a goalie mask, decked out with a goalie glove and stick.

Walking over a few feet, I pick up the lightweight plastic ball from the ground and toss it back to Sergei. “No problem. ”

Sergei drops the ball to the grass and says, “Okay, Darius, keep your eye on the ball. ”

Putting the small stick to the ground—which looks ridiculously minuscule in his large hands—he flips the orange ball gently to his son. At least I think that’s his son. Fact of the matter, I know virtually nothing about most of my teammates.

The little boy tries to raise his glove to catch the ball but it bounces just off the tip and ricochets off the brick wall behind him.

“Good try,” Sergei says in affirmation at the boy’s attempt. “You almost got it. ”

My head swirls and I feel faint, a memory clawing its way up to my consciousness and I try desperately to tamp it down. It’s too strong, though, and it assaults me hard.

“I’ve never been so embarrassed,” my dad snarled as we pulled into the driveway. He took out a small flask from the inside of his jacket, angrily twisting the cap off and slugging back a huge gulp of liquor. Putting the flask away, he turned ice-blue eyes my way and glared at me. “Drills. Get suited up. ”

“Dad…it’s late and I’m tired,” I complained. It was something I knew better than to say, but I was so tired I just didn’t have it in me to play any more tonight.

“Get your f**king gear on and get your lazy ass in the driveway,” he screamed at me.

Sighing, I pushed open the car door and slouched my way into the house. I didn’t even bother going any farther than the mud room, where I reached into my equipment bag—which I had been carrying—and put on my pads, still wet with my sweat from the game I’d just played. I didn’t bother putting my jersey over them, but I did put my helmet on with full face guard. I needed that protection for sure.

My older brother, Cameron, stuck his head in the doorway of the mudroom and whispered, “Bad game?”

He was fifteen years old, and Dad didn’t mind him staying home alone while he took me to my hockey games; Cam never wanted to come watch.

“I guess,” I replied, even though I thought I’d had a pretty great game. Two goals and an assist. “Dad wants to do drills. ”

Cameron just stared at me, his eyes sad. He watched me put on my helmet, grab my stick and head back outside. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t come outside to watch, didn’t offer words of encouragement. There was no way you could ever paint a good picture over what was about to happen.

When I stepped out onto our driveway, softly lit by the two lights flanking the garage door, my dad already had his stick in hand and the driveway lined with hockey pucks. He pointed to the position he wanted me to take and I went to stand in front of the garage.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked, his voice still tinged with anger.

“Because I messed up,” I answered woodenly.

“And how did you mess up?” he asked, toying with one of the pucks on the ground with the blade of his own stick.

“I didn’t make the sacrifice,” I said tiredly.

“You didn’t make the f**king sacrifice,” he affirmed, his voice filled with disgust. It didn’t matter that his son scored two goals. Didn’t matter that his son got an assist. Didn’t matter that his son was the best player on the team. Didn’t even matter that we won the game. The only thing that mattered to him, at that moment, was that when one of my opponents shot a blistering slap shot at our goaltender, I dove out of the way so that my goalie could see the puck coming. I was standing directly in front of him, blocking his view.

It’s true. It never crossed my mind to let the puck hit me. It was aimed in the general direction of my right thigh and it would have hurt had it hit me. Fear of getting hit with the puck played no part in my split-second decision to throw my body out of the way, though. No, I wasn’t afraid of pain, because God knows I’d become almost immune to it. I was just thinking of our goalie, and hoping to give him a split second of reaction time to make the save.

I made a bad choice. The puck sailed past me, sailed right past our goalie’s glove because he couldn’t see it coming and right into the net. Had I just stayed still—let the puck hit me, I wouldn’t be standing out here getting ready to do drills.

“I think twenty should do it,” my dad said quietly. “You’re not to defend and you sure as f**k better not move out of the way. ”

Swallowing hard, I gripped my stick tight and tried to relax. My natural instinct was going to be to try to deflect the puck when it came my way. But that would have earned me further punishment.

Yes, punishment. My dad called it drills, but it was punishment. Fucking abuse was more like it.

He wound his stick back, legs crouched. Didn’t matter that he’d been drinking. My dad had played in the minor leagues and he knew how to make a slap shot. The blade made contact with the first puck with a resounding crack and it came hurtling my way, so fast I could hear the whistle of it against the air.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, letting out just a small ooph when it caught me in my chest pads. It wasn’t exquisitely painful, because my dad didn’t have the strength he used to, but, more important, the drinking had made him a bit clumsy with his shot. But it still hurt like hell.

The next puck came on the heels of the first, and I took it in the right thigh. My dad raised his arms in victory and yelled, “He shoots, he scores!”

The f**ker was proud he hit his ten-year-old son in the right thigh—exactly where I would have taken the puck tonight had I just stood still.

My dad was having too much fun tonight. I was betting twenty turned into fifty before it was all said and done.

“You okay, Crossman?” I hear Sergei ask, almost like he’s in a tunnel of some sort.

Giving my head a small shake, I look at Sergei and he comes into focus. His face is worried and I wonder how long I just zoned out while I took a trip down memory lane.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say gruffly and walk past him and his son.

Rounding the corner to the house, I immediately take in the color and sound, all of it causing a momentary flare of panic to well up inside of me. Kids run around everywhere, screaming and laughing. There’s a clown wearing the brightest, most horrendous lime-green outfit I’ve ever seen. It actually hurts my eyes to look at it. Multicolored balloons are tied to everything, floating and bobbing on the early fall breeze. Classic rock music blares out from speakers set up around the yard, and the babble of adults partying slams into me.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a flashback like that, and I’ve often found that a quiet, dark place will help me come down from the terror of the memory. Instead, I’ve walked into a f**king circus filled with so much color and sound that I feel disoriented and woozy.

No doubt seeing Sergei and his kid knocked me backward in time, but I was primed for it. On the way over to the party I listened to a voice mail from my dad that he had left last night. I saw his number on my iPhone screen but didn’t answer. I don’t ever answer when he calls, but it doesn’t stop him. He calls, does his duty and leaves a voice mail, then I won’t hear from him until my next game.

This particular voice mail he complained about my line changes. Said I looked sloppy and slow coming off the bench, wasting precious seconds that could be detrimental to the team. I did what I always do, and deleted the voice mail while anger surged through my veins. It stayed with me, even as I was walking up to Leo’s house.

“There you are,” Cassie purrs from behind, and I feel her fingertips slide up the back of my shirt. While ordinarily I would rebuke Cassie for any type of public display, the mere fact that someone I know is touching and talking to me is helping to ground me somewhat.

I knew Cassie would be here. She’s at every Cold Fury party with her sister and Kyle. I can’t stand that f**ker. He’s a pompous ass who thinks the world was built to serve him. His wife Allie is a bitch, and takes pride in spending every bit of Kyle’s money as soon as it’s earned. Can’t feel sorry for the dude, though. He screws around on Allie every chance he can get, bragging about it in the locker room. They are a f**king travesty together, and the worst part about it is that both Allie and Kyle have it in their heads that Cassie and I would make a beautiful couple.