Alex (Cold Fury Hockey 1)

Alex…buddy. I’m sorry. I tried the best I could. You know that, right? I only wanted you to be the best. And you could be, if you just tighten up a little bit. Put more hours in—

I hit the delete button without listening to the rest. That zebra will never change his stripes. My dad was never good enough, no matter how hard he tried or how much he practiced. Now he’s projected that on to me. I’ll never be good enough for my dad’s expectations, but that’s his cross to bear, not mine. I just wish Dad realized I was good enough.

I mean, hello…NHL career here.

Flipping over to my texts, my heart starts hammering when I see one from Sutton. It’s actually a series of three texts.

I just learned what a hat trick was. Congrats!

Just for good measure, I ran into my bedroom, grabbed my Durham Bulls baseball hat, and threw it at the TV.

You were amazing tonight.

I read back over the texts two more times, my mouth involuntarily pulling upward in a smile. I can just imagine her throwing her hat at the TV to celebrate my hat trick.

Hilarious.

My thumb idly grazes over her words on the screen and I take stock of the warmth they bring to me. It’s the first time I’ve had a friend who has taken pride in what I do. I’ve certainly never had a family member do it. I don’t recall my dad ever handing out praise and I’m not even sure if Cam has seen one of my games.

And Sutton…well, I suppose she may be the first friend I’ve ever had. Even though my thoughts where she’s concerned stray far past what would be considered friendly.

It’s getting late and I have no clue if she’ll see this tonight, but I go ahead and text her back.

Thx. So it appears you’re a real hockey fan now, huh?

I hit the send button then swing my legs off the bed to grab a water from the mini-fridge. Before I can even stand up, I get a text back.

Yup. My fav player is #67.

Leaning back onto the bed, I forget the water and decide to engage in some conversation with the lovely Miss Price. Before I can respond though, she says,

I dont understand why that goal was disallowed.

Ah. She wants to learn some hockey but that’s too complicated to do by text. So before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her name in my contacts and hit her number.

She answers on the second ring. “Hey, Mr. Hat Trick. ”

“Hey, Miss Curious About Hockey. ”

“You played awesome tonight,” she gushes. “I was so confused when people started throwing hats on the ice. I had to go Google what in the hell a hat trick was. ”

Chuckling, I say, “Then I’m surprised you didn’t Google your question about that disallowed goal. ”

“Nah. Why would I do that when I have an inside connection to a real live professional hockey player. ”

“Good point,” I tell her. “So, you can normally deflect a puck off your stick into the net, but it won’t be allowed if you raise your stick higher than the crossbar on the net. ”

“What’s the purpose behind that?”

“An attempt to keep players safe…keep sticks away from faces. They put in rules to make us keep our sticks down low to help prevent facial injuries. ”

“Ah, that makes sense,” she says softly. “So, what are you doing right now?”

“Lying in bed. You?”

“Same,” she murmurs and my imagination takes off. I can see her clear as day, lying na**d on a bed of satin with her red hair splayed out all around. My c**k twitches at the thought and I wonder if I could carry on a conversation with her while jacking off to that image in my mind.

Sutton interrupts those lewd thoughts though when she says, “Teach me something else. ”

“Like what?”

“How about…teach me about the various penalties,” she suggests.

I settle back against the headboard of the hotel bed, mast***ation forgotten, and we talk for the next thirty minutes about hockey penalties and the resulting consequences. It’s only when she yawns into the phone that I realize it’s just past midnight and I have to be up in about five hours to get ready for my flight.

“It’s getting late,” I tell her. “We should catch some sleep. ”

“You’re right. I can’t believe we talked that long. ”

I could keep talking all night with her, I think to myself, and all of a sudden, I wonder for a fleeting but desperate moment, what it would be like to have someone like Sutton all to myself. To have someone who was mine, and I was hers, and we’d stay up for hours at night talking on the phone. I wonder because, sadly, I’ve never had a serious relationship with a woman in my entire life. I’ve never even had a five-minute conversation on the phone with a woman, much less a half-hour conversation.

“You still coming to watch our practice Sunday?”