Alex (Cold Fury Hockey 1)

I don’t wait long for his response.

The wait will make it better. Promise. And I like you being bad.

Sitting down on my bed, I lean back against it, clutching my phone to my chest. I want to text him—no, call him—and tell him to come back inside. I’m not sure I ever wanted something this badly before…except there was a time in my life when I wanted so badly for my dad to quit using drugs. But then I realized that was beyond my control and was nothing more than hopeful wishing.

Running my thumbs over the phone, I text him back.

It will make it better. Agreed. And you can see my bad side some other time.

Alex’s text back is short.

Looking forward to it. A lot.

Smiling, I set my phone down on the bed beside me, and close my eyes…savoring this evening.

Then they pop back open with insight and determination.

Picking my phone back up, I dial Brandon and wait for him to answer. I’m going to tell him that he and I will never move past the friendship we have been trying to build again. I can’t let him go on believing that the possibility of something more exists. I can’t lead him on in any way. Because—after tonight with Alex—there is no way I could ever have something with Brandon. That is brutally clear to me right now.

Chapter 13

Alex

Sitting on the bench in the visitors’ locker room, I contemplate sending a text to Sutton before I get dressed for tonight’s game. We’ve had a successful road trip so far, winning three of the last four, and tonight’s a very important game. If we win, we’ll take over the leaderboard for first place in our division. It’s a standing that didn’t mean much to me just shy of a month ago.

But now?

Now I want this win very badly.

And I think I want this win because of Sutton. When I talked to her last night, she wanted me to explain how the league was broken down and how teams earned points for the rankings. She got so excited when I told her that we could take over number one in our division, f**k if I don’t want to get that win for her.

I want to give it to myself too, because in a miraculous change, I’m starting to like the game again.

Do I love it? No.

And every time I get another voice mail from my dad following a game, it causes the loathing and bitterness to rise. The one I got just this morning is a prime example. He’s well aware of the importance of this game to the Cold Fury. So when he called this morning, I promptly ignored it and then was an immediate glutton for punishment by listening to his message.

Alex…tonight’s an important game. You need to rise above your petty differences with me. I know you don’t listen the way you should, but your old man knows a thing or two about hockey. I expect nothing less than perfection from you tonight. Don’t screw it up.

I really, really wish for the day that I can listen to these pearls of wisdom and just laugh about it, but that day is nowhere in the near future. I wanted to hurl my phone across the room and crush his arrogant, demeaning voice right out of the microchip processors inside. Instead, I did what I always do. I pushed delete, stewed on it for a few hours, and then let it go.

It’s a process, one that is only marginally easier now that I’m an adult and my father no longer has a say-so in anything I do. Right now, he is nothing more than hot air and a painful reminder of my awful childhood.

But maybe one day…if things keep getting better and better as they seem to be doing of late.

“Crossman…need a word,” Coach yells from the visiting coach’s office.

“Uh-oh,” Garrett teases in a singsong voice. “Someone’s in trouble. ”

Picking my jockstrap up as I stand from the bench, I throw it at Garrett and snicker when it smacks him in the face.

“He shoots, he scores!” I yell with my hands raised in victory, and several of my teammates burst out laughing. I note with amusement that some of them are looking at me like I grew a pair of antlers out of my head or something, shocked that the most valuable prick actually might have some humor deep within his bones.

Walking over to the office that sits off the locker room, I enter and close the door. “What’s up, Coach?”

“Just wanted to pass on to you that the Board has been very pleased with your work of late. ”

“Just doing my job,” I say, honestly not caring if they’re impressed with my game or not.

“It’s not just how you’re playing. They’re very impressed with your work on the outreach campaign. ”

I stare blankly at my coach, because for the life of me I can’t figure out how in the hell they even know what I’m doing. Coach decides to fill me in.

“Seems that woman you’re working with over there sent an email to Walt Prestonwood, extolling your virtues or some shit like that. Even said something like you were a role model for other players,” he says with an amused smirk on his face.

I have to lower my head and bite down on my tongue so as not to snicker. God love Sutton and her attempts to make me look good to the brass.

When I raise my head, Coach is still smiling at me. “Seriously though, I’ve noticed a difference too. You’re actually ‘present’ during the games and at practice, and by that I mean your head is f**king present. You were a great player before, but you’re on fire now, Alex. Keep up the good work. ”

I actually feel my cheeks get a little hot from the blatant praise and rather than roll my eyes as I normally do when I feel like someone is blowing rainbows up my ass, I actually feel a pleasant warmth creep through me. Standing up from my chair, I say, “Thanks. I appreciate it. ”

Turning to walk out of his office, I hear Coach say, “Oh, and do me a favor tonight. Try to kick some ass out there and bring the win home for us. ”