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“Were being the key word,” I tell him gently…honestly. “That’s the past and I’m sorry…but you just don’t seem to fit into my future. ”
“Is there someone else?”
“No,” I tell him firmly, because there’s not. Secret fantasies about another man don’t count. “I just think I’ve changed a lot since we were together, and I don’t know that you can give me what I need. ”
“How do you know until you try? Please give us a shot, Sutton,” he says urgently, his hand gripping mine tightly. “Let me at least have a chance to get you back. ”
Oh, God…I must have changed a lot. A year ago, Brandon begging me to let him woo me would have hit all my buttons. Now, the type of wooing I would like might involve a hot hockey player throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me to his bedroom. Which is so unrealistic but certainly a thrilling prospect. Maybe I should get to have my chance to sow my wild oats. I haven’t been trying very hard over the last year to do that, and as I reflect on why that is, it’s certainly not because I’ve been waiting for Brandon. He rarely crossed my mind.
No, I realize that I’ve done no sowing because it just hasn’t been a priority for me. I’m twenty-two, have a new career that I adore and that takes up all of my time, and I’ve had no real desire to fall back into a relationship again. I’ve done some casual dating, but there’s not been anyone that has rocked my world. Not the way that I bet Alex Crossman could.
Get your mind out of the gutter, Sutton.
“Brandon…I don’t know,” I hedge, because maybe I need to give him some sort of shot. We were happy together, and maybe I’m just stuck too deep in this odd attraction to Alex that probably will go no further than a mutual business relationship.
“Just stay for dinner…let’s talk. Get to know each other again. We’ll take it slow, be friends if that is what you want. ”
I rake my eyes over Brandon’s face. It’s sincere, no doubt. He wants a chance at me, and while he broke my heart, he did it in about the most honest, upstanding way a man can. He never asked me to wait, and I didn’t. But I didn’t move on. Maybe I was still in the same place because this is where I’m supposed to be, and maybe Brandon is an opportunity that I’m supposed to consider.
Trying to push thoughts of Alex firmly to the back of my brain, I remove my hand from Brandon’s and pick up my menu. “Okay, I’ll stay for dinner and we’ll try to start out as friends and see where this goes. ”
Brandon beams a sparkling smile my way and says, “You won’t regret it, Sutton. I’ll make you fall for me again. ”
Chapter 9
Alex
I take another pull on my beer and place the bottle on the bar. Looking down at the brunette that’s been attached to my arm all night, I try to figure out how to ditch her—politely, of course, because, dammit, Sutton is apparently inspiring the good in me.
What started out as me and Garrett hitting a local hole-in-the-wall bar in downtown Toronto has turned into an orgy waiting to happen. We hadn’t been in here two minutes before he had a swarm of women all over him, and of course, he didn’t mind pawning the brunette off on me. But I didn’t come out tonight to get laid, which is odd, because it would be nothing for me to pick up a one-night stand during an away game. I have no formal commitments to anyone and I have always been up front with Cassie that she wasn’t the only woman to warm my bed. I remember her laughing at me when I said that, to which she responded, “Yeah, but I’m the most frequent. ”
That was true enough, so no need to argue.
At any rate, I signal for the bartender to cash me out. Dislodging the dark-haired beauty’s hold on my arm, I spin around and clap Garrett on the back. He’s bent over, his lips pressed near a blonde’s ear, most likely whispering sweet nothings that are so not needed to get him laid tonight. When he turns his eyes my way, I say, “Hey, man, I’m heading back to the hotel. ”
His eyes flick to the brunette and then back to me, so I add, “Alone. ”
Garrett’s eyebrows go sky-high and he steps away from the blonde to turn fully to me. “What’s the deal, man? Your dick broken?”
“No. ”
“Are you g*y?”
“No. ”
“So why not take that chick behind you? She’s willing. ”
Shrugging my shoulders, I notice the bartender approach with my bill and I hand my credit card over to him, not even bothering to look at the total. I only had two beers and I think I bought the brunette two drinks as well.
“Just not interested,” I tell him.
“What’s bothering you?” he asks, and I actually flinch at the question. I’ve never had a teammate ask me something personal before. Most take my surly, introverted character to heart, which means they stay just as guarded as I do. I look hard at Garrett and try to figure out what his game is.
But he just returns my stare, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a touch of concern in his eyes.
Fucking weird.
“Nothing. Just a shitty night” is all I offer.
“We f**king pounded Toronto and you scored a hat trick tonight. How can that be shitty?”
The bartender returns with the credit card ticket and I scrawl a tip and my signature, handing it back to him while I pocket my card.
Turning to Garrett, I look him dead in the eye and say simply, “My dad showed up. Nothing good ever comes of that. ”
I turn away before I can even gauge the expression on his face from my admission. I’ve never talked about my dad to anyone, and I’m surprised I let that out. But I’m definitely not about to talk about it further, so I walk away from Garrett, the brunette whose name I’m not sure I even got, and the half empty beer I hadn’t bothered to finish.
I easily hail a cab within just a few moments, and then I’m in the back with my head resting on the seat, eyes closed. I hate playing in Toronto. It’s only about an hour away from my hometown of Hamilton, which means my dad will be at the game.
I have to suffer through his voice mails after every game, criticizing and cutting into me with all of my faults. Then I have to suffer while he drones on and on about what I need to do to improve. I have to suffer when he calls me lazy, arrogant, worthless—all things I heard growing up, but f**k…it wears thin on a man, especially when it was practically beaten into me when I was younger. My dad can’t use his hands on me anymore. He has no say-so on how I train or what I do. So the only way he still tries to have power over me is with those f**king phone calls, and I hate them with all my soul.
Yes, I have to suffer that all year long, but it’s still nowhere near as bad as having to see my dad in person those few times I play in Toronto.
I had my obligatory ticket waiting for him at Will Call this afternoon, so I knew exactly where he’d be seated. I didn’t even need to look over at him when I’d scored my third goal and hats came raining down on the ice, to know that he’d just be sitting in his chair, his face stony. He never cheered me on. He expected the best, but was never happy when I gave it. That boiled down to the mere fact that he was jealous of the creature he had created.
My dad drowned his sorrows in vodka for as long as I can remember. Those sorrows included losing his wife and my mother to cancer when I was just three years old and Cam was eight, as well as not being good enough to make it into the NHL. He floundered around the minors for a few years before he was released from his contract. That was about the time good old Dad decided Cameron and I were going to be professional hockey players.
Fortunately for Cameron—yes, fortunately—he had no natural talent, and after playing only one season, he was promptly forgotten and Dad turned all his attention on me.
Beyond getting my dad a ticket to the game, the other obligation I had to fulfill was meeting him for dinner. I could have come up with some excuse or another to bag out on him, but I made myself go. I made myself suffer his presence for an hour, so I could remind myself why I would ne
ver let him completely into my life again.
Dinner started off as well as could be expected. We talked about his part-time job delivering newspapers, which was okay for about five minutes. Then that turned into a bitch-fest, during which he sucked down a double vodka tonic. This led to him complaining that I wasn’t sending enough money to live on, despite the fact that I pretty much pay all of his bills. His part-time job was to buy his liquor, because I wasn’t about to support that habit. I held firm in my refusal to send him some extra cash each month, which made him angry and caused him to suck down another double shot.
By the time our food and his third drink arrived, we got down to brass tacks and talked about the game.
“Your ‘C’ cuts are looking sloppy,” he told me, his words clear and sure. He wouldn’t start slurring until about the sixth drink, and hopefully we’d be done with dinner before then.
“Duly noted,” I said, because it didn’t do any good to argue with him.
“And your wrist shot is weak. You’re not transferring your weight quick enough. ”
“That’s exactly what my coach said,” I agree, even though Coach said no such thing. My wrist shot is f**king perfect. Got me a hat trick tonight as a matter of fact, but I didn’t bother pointing that out either.
“Stop humoring me,” my dad growled. “Fucking man up and admit your weaknesses. ”
I watched my dad for a moment as he glared at me. Red spider veins shone angry against the pale skin of his nose, his cheeks flushed cherry from the vodka and his temper. He was a f**king alcoholic who was angry at the world and angry with me because he wants what I have.
These meetings between my dad and me never ended well, because there would always come a point where I would get tired of his harassment and let him have it.
Leaning across the table, I spoke quietly for only his ears. “You want me to man up, Dad? How about this—I’m f**king tired of you taking out your woes on me. ”
“What?” my dad sputtered. “I’m not taking my woes out on you. I’m making you a great player. I made you what you are today. ”
“Yeah, Dad,” I said urgently, leaning in a little farther. “You did make me what I am today. A f**king professional hockey player who f**king hates playing hockey. But imagine what you could have created if you’d given a little bit of praise…a little bit of affirmation. You made me hate this game. You and you alone. ”
“You love the game as much as I do,” my dad scoffed, slurping heavily on his fourth double vodka.
“No, Dad, I don’t. You made me despise it, the way I despise sitting here listening to your drunken shit. ”
My dad had never been one to take criticism. His already red cheeks blistered hotter and he seethed, “You should be thanking me for all I’ve done. You’d be nothing without me. ”
I looked at my dad and tried to find an ounce of sympathy for him, but my heart was black with bitterness and rage. Standing from the table, I threw a couple hundred-dollar bills down. “I am nothing, Dad. And that’s solely because of you. ”
***
When I make it back to my hotel room, I strip down to my boxers and crawl on top of the bed. Our flight to Montreal leaves early and I’m exhausted. Not from the game, not from the beer and a half I had, but from dealing with my dad. He takes it out of me like nothing else can.
Reaching over to the nightstand, I grab my iPhone where I had left it charging prior to the game. Turning it on, I see there’s already a voice mail from my dad. I hit the “Play” button and listen.
He definitely must have had his sixth drink before calling because his voice is slurred and almost unintelligible. But I’ve had years of listening to drunk John Crossman, so I was able to translate.
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