Alex gives a deep groan and kisses me harder, for just a moment, just to make his point clear. When he pulls away, he says, “I can’t let you go. I don’t want to hurt you but I don’t want to be without you either. I’ve said it before…I’m a selfish bastard. I’ll risk hurting you just so I can have another day, another week, another month. Tell me I’m a bastard.”

His words are urgent and filled with need. He needs me to call him a liar and I’m going to do just that. “You are not selfish. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“Is it my heart that wants you, Sutton?” he asks on a low murmur. “Or is it just my cock?”

“Only you can answer that,” I tell him breathlessly. “But my heart is involved, so whether you hurt me right now, or hurt me down the road, it’s going to hurt all the same.”

Alex pulls me into him hard and hugs me again. I never would have taken Alex for being much of a hugger, but he seems to find a measure of comfort in the intimacy of the act.

Placing his lips against my cheek, Alex tells me, “I’m so afraid of hurting you that I think it’s safe to say my heart is definitely involved.”

“So, try not to hurt me.”

“I’ll try,” he answers, and I’m thankful that his voice is sincere.

Chapter 25

Alex

“Crossman…in my office…now!”

Garrett slaps a comforting hand on my back and gives me a look of sympathy as he walks out of the locker room, his game bag slung over his shoulder. “Call me later, dude, if you want to go grab a beer or something.”

“Sure thing,” I tell him, but I know after the ass chewing I’m about to be handed, I’m not going to feel like going out. Especially not on top of that miserable performance I just turned in for my team, and especially not after we lost our third game in a row.

Walking into Coach’s office, I take a seat and pick a nonexistent piece of lint off my slacks. When I look up at him across the desk, he’s looking at me with a mixture of anger and worry.

“What the f**k’s the problem?” he asks.

“No problem,” I answer, the smart-ass in me showing up early to the game.

“Try again, Crossman. For a guy who averages at least a goal or an assist per game, something is f**king wrong that you haven’t had a point since we got back from New York. Now, I want to know what the f**k the problem is.”

“Gee, Coach, you’ve really been working on your motivational skills,” I taunt.

Pretore looks at me for a moment, eyebrows raised at my audacity, then he gives me a sly grin. “What is it? Pussy you getting not good enough? Did they discontinue your favorite ice cream brand? Fuck, maybe your panties are too tight. It’s gotta be something.”

I can’t help it—I crack up laughing, even bend over and clutch at my stomach. When I look back up, Coach is smiling at me, but his eyes are worried. “Seriously, Alex. What can I do to get you back on track? You were playing so well…really had your shit together.”

The laughter dies and bitterness wells up inside of me. “I don’t know. My focus is off.”

“Well, no shit, Dick Tracy. How do we get you focused again?”

“I’ll work harder,” I tell him quickly.

“It’s not your skills and we both know it. Your slap shot doesn’t need polishing—your confidence does.”

“You think my confidence is gone?” I ask, surprised by his conclusion. I still feel as cocky and egocentric as ever when I step out onto the ice. Granted, I get frustrated easily, and that may take away some of my focus and drive, but surely I still have confidence.

I’m Alex Fucking Crossman…most valuable prick and all that.

“Look, buddy,” Coach says, really taking on the paternal tone with me. “You need to evaluate your life…figure out what is causing you stress and get rid of it. You get into a mental funk, it’s hard to break free. Don’t ignore it, okay?”

His words cause me immense discomfort because there are a couple of things stressing me out, one of which is my constant worry that I’ll hurt Sutton. It’s something that I think about every day. The other is my father. I’m worried he’ll quit rehab, start drinking and kill himself. If that happens, I don’t know if I can survive the guilt, because no matter what Cameron said to me that day at breakfast, I could have stepped in long ago and gotten him help.

That was proven by the fact that when I went to Canada last week, Dad easily rolled over on me when I suggested rehab. He cried when I told him I didn’t want him to die, and then I packed his bags and took him to a facility that Cameron had already arranged.

Shaking my head, I stand up and look down at Pretore. “I’ll get it together. I promise.”

“See that you do, kid. I expect great things from you.”

Great…more pressure. Now I’m worried about letting my coach down. Things were certainly a lot easier before…

Before I cared about the game.

Before I met Sutton.

Before I stepped in to help my dad.

All of it was easier and I find myself resenting the sudden burdens placed on my doorstep. It makes me wish for easier times when I could be a loner and, if I wanted to f**k someone, Cassie would be there to give me release and then leave quickly.

Leaving Coach’s office, I pull my cell phone out and see a text from Sutton.

Come over tonight.