Alex by Sawyer Bennett
Page 14
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?”
“I’ll be there. Did you finish reading the binder?”
“Most of it. I’ve jotted down some ideas we can talk about when we meet. ”
“Awesome,” she says. “Thanks for doing that, Alex. ”
“No problem. Thanks for not bashing me over the head with that binder. I’ve given you a few reasons to do that. ”
She giggles into the phone and f**k, if that isn’t like the best sound ever. “Okay, go get some sleep,” she tells me, her voice floating over me like soft cotton. “I’ll see you Sunday. ”
“Good night,” I tell her.
“Good night, Alex. ”
When I disconnect, I quickly set the alarm to get up at 5 A. M. and then flip off the lamp beside the bed, plunging the room into darkness.
It’s funny how my night had started so shitty, yet ended on such a positive note. How can a thirty-minute conversation with Sutton bring me out of my funk? And we talked about hockey of all things.
Hockey! That sport I f**king detest.
But for some reason, whenever I talk to her about it, it’s fun. It actually makes me happy to share my knowledge with her. I’d even go so far as to say that the conversation brought me f**king joy tonight.
Fucking joy. I can’t believe I’d use that and hockey in the same sentiment.
I’m beginning to understand that perhaps I need to peel my blinders back a little bit. My dad molded me out of muscle, bone and raw talent but as he pushed me forward, he never let me look around at the world. He never let me form my own opinions. He never let me experience any joys. By the time I’d left home for good at the age of sixteen to join the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, my dad’s influence had already damaged me greatly. My hatred for the sport had already been cemented, and I didn’t know any way to find happiness in hockey.
That is, until tonight, when I spent half an hour teaching Sutton about the game. Now, all of a sudden, I’m excited about her coming to watch me practice. I know she’ll have a gazillion questions afterward, and it will be my pleasure to show her all about my sport.
I don’t know what it is about Sutton that sets her apart. Maybe it’s the way she refused to judge me when I first met her in her office. Or maybe it’s the way she lives her life with such zest. It could possibly even be the fact that the girl is smokin’ hot and I’m seriously attracted to her.
Whatever the reasons, I like Sutton Price. I like her a lot and for probably a million other reasons. I probably like her most for the fact that she is getting me to reevaluate the way I look at things.
I close my eyes as a smile lingers on my face, and drift off to sleep.
Chapter 10
Sutton
Interestingly enough, I actually needed a ticket to get into the Cold Fury’s Sunday practice session and Alex had sent one over to the office for me. Not all of the practices are closed. When they practice at the actual Cold Fury arena, those are usually open to the public. But when they practice in this small, private facility, they let in people only by invitation, and so I needed a ticket. Had we not planned on working after
, I would have asked for an extra ticket for Glenn, but I’m hoping I can get one for him another time.
Alex also sent me an email with directions to the practice rink. He added a note that said, “Pay attention to our drills. I’ll quiz you after. ”
I had to smile at that because I had so much fun talking to him on the phone the other night, listening to his patient voice as he taught me all about the various penalties. He never got frustrated when I broke in with a question, and I swear, even the tone of his voice was the most carefree and light that I had heard since I met him. He told me once that he hated the game of hockey, but you couldn’t tell by our conversation that night.
Shelley called me this morning, and I had to listen to her gripe for ten minutes over the fact that her husband, Sean, won’t pick up his underwear off the floor. Sean is in his first year of medical school at the University of Pittsburgh, and Shelley is completing her master’s in speech pathology. They’re both super busy and I suggested to her that perhaps she should just let that slide, because in the grand scheme of things it’s probably not that big a deal.
Then we lapsed into an hour-long conversation about Alex. We both sat with our laptops opened and Googled him relentlessly. Shelley spent time ogling his pictures and I spent time reading tidbits to her from articles. It seems he did, indeed, have a reputation for being quite a prick not only to other players, but to Cold Fury fans as well. Apparently, the only reason it was forgivable was because he’s so damn good at what he does.
I couldn’t find any information about his personal life, though. There were no mentions of his parents or other family members. There were no celebrity pictures of him with hot women on his arm. Nothing. The only thing that was apparently newsworthy about Alex was the fact he is a phenomenal player.
Not completely weird, but it certainly painted him as something I already understood: He’s a loner.
Once I get inside the complex, I immediately notice that none of the players are on the ice yet. The ticket just got me in the door and there is no assigned seating. The building isn’t much more than a huge hockey rink with about ten rows of seating that slant upward from the glass that surrounds the ice. I walk over to an area filled with what I’m thinking are family members as it’s heavy on women and kids, all wearing regular street clothes. The next section over seems to be more for fans, as they are decked out in Cold Fury jerseys and other franchise clothing.
Taking an empty seat in the front row, I pull out my iPhone and idly thumb through my emails from work. I check in on Facebook and post a message that says, Watching a Cold Fury practice session. Yay, me!
I check my text messages and see one from Brandon. We’ve had some friendly banter back and forth through texts and Facebook. I think he’s making a genuine effort to start out as friends with me, understanding I’m just not ready to look at anything more with him right now.
His texts are funny, sometimes sweet, but once in a while, he’ll say something that might feel a little pressurizing. Like right now.
Missing you today. Any chance of dinner again?
See…that steps outside the bounds of friendship and I wonder if I should say something to him—to nip this in the bud.
“You know you can’t take pictures while you’re in here,” a voice causes me to look up and forget all about texting Brandon back.
A beautiful woman stands there, looking down at me with haughty eyes. She has white-blond hair that comes down in a straight, silky curtain past her shoulders. She has on a pink fuzzy sweater that seems to be painted onto her and tight black jeans. Another woman who looks almost exactly like her stands just behind, peering at me.
“Oh, I’m not taking pictures. Just texting,” I tell her apologetically, although I’m not sure why. I don’t think she’s part of the arena police.
She doesn’t respond but pushes her way into the aisle that I’m in, and I hastily turn my legs to the side so she doesn’t trample my feet. She moves down about four seats past me, along with the other woman, and I’m promptly forgotten.
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?”
“I’ll be there. Did you finish reading the binder?”
“Most of it. I’ve jotted down some ideas we can talk about when we meet. ”
“Awesome,” she says. “Thanks for doing that, Alex. ”
“No problem. Thanks for not bashing me over the head with that binder. I’ve given you a few reasons to do that. ”
She giggles into the phone and f**k, if that isn’t like the best sound ever. “Okay, go get some sleep,” she tells me, her voice floating over me like soft cotton. “I’ll see you Sunday. ”
“Good night,” I tell her.
“Good night, Alex. ”
When I disconnect, I quickly set the alarm to get up at 5 A. M. and then flip off the lamp beside the bed, plunging the room into darkness.
It’s funny how my night had started so shitty, yet ended on such a positive note. How can a thirty-minute conversation with Sutton bring me out of my funk? And we talked about hockey of all things.
Hockey! That sport I f**king detest.
But for some reason, whenever I talk to her about it, it’s fun. It actually makes me happy to share my knowledge with her. I’d even go so far as to say that the conversation brought me f**king joy tonight.
Fucking joy. I can’t believe I’d use that and hockey in the same sentiment.
I’m beginning to understand that perhaps I need to peel my blinders back a little bit. My dad molded me out of muscle, bone and raw talent but as he pushed me forward, he never let me look around at the world. He never let me form my own opinions. He never let me experience any joys. By the time I’d left home for good at the age of sixteen to join the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, my dad’s influence had already damaged me greatly. My hatred for the sport had already been cemented, and I didn’t know any way to find happiness in hockey.
That is, until tonight, when I spent half an hour teaching Sutton about the game. Now, all of a sudden, I’m excited about her coming to watch me practice. I know she’ll have a gazillion questions afterward, and it will be my pleasure to show her all about my sport.
I don’t know what it is about Sutton that sets her apart. Maybe it’s the way she refused to judge me when I first met her in her office. Or maybe it’s the way she lives her life with such zest. It could possibly even be the fact that the girl is smokin’ hot and I’m seriously attracted to her.
Whatever the reasons, I like Sutton Price. I like her a lot and for probably a million other reasons. I probably like her most for the fact that she is getting me to reevaluate the way I look at things.
I close my eyes as a smile lingers on my face, and drift off to sleep.
Chapter 10
Sutton
Interestingly enough, I actually needed a ticket to get into the Cold Fury’s Sunday practice session and Alex had sent one over to the office for me. Not all of the practices are closed. When they practice at the actual Cold Fury arena, those are usually open to the public. But when they practice in this small, private facility, they let in people only by invitation, and so I needed a ticket. Had we not planned on working after
Alex also sent me an email with directions to the practice rink. He added a note that said, “Pay attention to our drills. I’ll quiz you after. ”
I had to smile at that because I had so much fun talking to him on the phone the other night, listening to his patient voice as he taught me all about the various penalties. He never got frustrated when I broke in with a question, and I swear, even the tone of his voice was the most carefree and light that I had heard since I met him. He told me once that he hated the game of hockey, but you couldn’t tell by our conversation that night.
Shelley called me this morning, and I had to listen to her gripe for ten minutes over the fact that her husband, Sean, won’t pick up his underwear off the floor. Sean is in his first year of medical school at the University of Pittsburgh, and Shelley is completing her master’s in speech pathology. They’re both super busy and I suggested to her that perhaps she should just let that slide, because in the grand scheme of things it’s probably not that big a deal.
Then we lapsed into an hour-long conversation about Alex. We both sat with our laptops opened and Googled him relentlessly. Shelley spent time ogling his pictures and I spent time reading tidbits to her from articles. It seems he did, indeed, have a reputation for being quite a prick not only to other players, but to Cold Fury fans as well. Apparently, the only reason it was forgivable was because he’s so damn good at what he does.
I couldn’t find any information about his personal life, though. There were no mentions of his parents or other family members. There were no celebrity pictures of him with hot women on his arm. Nothing. The only thing that was apparently newsworthy about Alex was the fact he is a phenomenal player.
Not completely weird, but it certainly painted him as something I already understood: He’s a loner.
Once I get inside the complex, I immediately notice that none of the players are on the ice yet. The ticket just got me in the door and there is no assigned seating. The building isn’t much more than a huge hockey rink with about ten rows of seating that slant upward from the glass that surrounds the ice. I walk over to an area filled with what I’m thinking are family members as it’s heavy on women and kids, all wearing regular street clothes. The next section over seems to be more for fans, as they are decked out in Cold Fury jerseys and other franchise clothing.
Taking an empty seat in the front row, I pull out my iPhone and idly thumb through my emails from work. I check in on Facebook and post a message that says, Watching a Cold Fury practice session. Yay, me!
I check my text messages and see one from Brandon. We’ve had some friendly banter back and forth through texts and Facebook. I think he’s making a genuine effort to start out as friends with me, understanding I’m just not ready to look at anything more with him right now.
His texts are funny, sometimes sweet, but once in a while, he’ll say something that might feel a little pressurizing. Like right now.
Missing you today. Any chance of dinner again?
See…that steps outside the bounds of friendship and I wonder if I should say something to him—to nip this in the bud.
“You know you can’t take pictures while you’re in here,” a voice causes me to look up and forget all about texting Brandon back.
A beautiful woman stands there, looking down at me with haughty eyes. She has white-blond hair that comes down in a straight, silky curtain past her shoulders. She has on a pink fuzzy sweater that seems to be painted onto her and tight black jeans. Another woman who looks almost exactly like her stands just behind, peering at me.
“Oh, I’m not taking pictures. Just texting,” I tell her apologetically, although I’m not sure why. I don’t think she’s part of the arena police.
She doesn’t respond but pushes her way into the aisle that I’m in, and I hastily turn my legs to the side so she doesn’t trample my feet. She moves down about four seats past me, along with the other woman, and I’m promptly forgotten.