Alex (Cold Fury Hockey #1)(81)

“Do you want to talk about it…tell me details? Sometimes it helps to share.”

My hands, which had previously been resting on the couch on either side of my hips, move up to grip her thighs. I rub my thumbs over her legs, pushing in so she can feel it through the coarse denim of her jeans.

Staring at the base of her throat, because I’m not sure I can reveal my story while looking in her eyes, I tell her all about my dad.

“My dad was a hockey player, but wasn’t good enough to make it out of the minors, and wasn’t even good enough to stay there for very long. When he had kids, he decided to have us live his dream.”

Maybe because she’s fully aware that this is hard for me, probably because I won’t look her in the eyes, Sutton leans in and lays her head on my shoulder, pressing her chest against mine. She then grabs on to my wrists and forcibly removes my hands from her thighs, directing them to wrap around her back and hold on to her tight.

With her plastered up against me, and my gaze now focused on the fire, I continue my story. “My brother, Cameron, is five years older. He had no talent, so Dad basically ignored him his entire life. But that left him to channel all of his energy into me—”

My voice breaks, not with any overwhelming emotion, because I’m pretty ice-cold when I confront these memories. Instead, I find my mouth to be dry merely because I’m getting ready to lay my heavy story on Sutton’s doorstep and I have no clue how she’s going to react.

As if sensing my hesitation, she murmurs, “Only tell me if you want, Alex. No pressure.”

Not quite realizing that my chest has been tight, my muscles loosen up a bit and I can breathe easier. Her insistence I go at the pace that I feel most comfortable with makes the fear lessen.

“He was abusive. Drunk most of the time, but verbally and physically abusive. No matter how good I was—and Sutton, I was f*cking good—he always found fault with my play. And fault required punishment.”

I squeeze my arms a little tighter around her, for my comfort and maybe hers as well. “I’m sure it was to soothe his own conscience but my dad disguised punishment as ‘practice.’ He’d shoot pucks at my body and wouldn’t let me defend. I’d have bruises all over and it hurt like a motherf*cker. Or he’d make me do drills, sometimes for hours on end, often into the wee hours of the morning. He wouldn’t let me stop to drink anything, and only after I’d collapse in exhaustion was the ‘practice’ over. He’d berate me…constantly, and in front of others. If I dared to talk back to him, or even plead with him for a break, he’d use his fists, or a hockey stick, or his belt…whatever was handiest.”

One of Sutton’s hands, which is still resting on my chest, digs into my skin in angst and she lets out a stuttering breath.

“He was a monster,” she whispers.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Most of the time, but not all. There were some good times.”

“I know,” she says simply, and she does. She said as much the other day, that there were some good times with Cosmo.

“He stole your childhood.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“He made you hate your career.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like your dad,” she says, almost petulantly, and it makes me laugh.

“I don’t like him much either,” I agree again, giving her a slight kiss on her head.

“But you’re worried about him. Just like I worry about Cosmo.”

“Yes,” I tell her, but I don’t tell her everything. I don’t tell her about the crushing guilt that I’m suffering under, because I think it’s my fault that he got to be this bad. I spent the last eight years of my adult life, out from under his ruling thumb, just watching him drink his life down the toilet. I ate dinner after dinner with him while he pounded double vodkas, almost wishing for him to drink faster so he’d pass out and forget about me. Never once did it cross my mind that he could be killing himself.

I enabled him to keep going, often wishing it so. Maybe subconsciously I wanted him to die, so he would be out of my life for good.

Those thoughts cause a violent shudder to run through me and bile to back up in my throat. Those thoughts are going to cause me to go to hell, and I’m not sure I can ever atone for them.

Sutton pushes up off my chest where she has been lying and when our eyes meet, I notice hers have a light film of tears coating them. She’s sad for me…crying for me, and that touches me deeper than anything ever has before.

Reaching one hand up, I sift my fingers through the hair at her temple and push them back. When I cup the back of her head, I give it just the gentlest of shakes so she knows I mean business. “Don’t you cry for me, Sutton. Don’t waste your tears on that story. You have far more important things to shed them over.”

Sutton’s own hand comes up and grips my wrist that’s holding her head. Her smile is tremulous. “I can’t help crying for you. I love you.”

Emotion such as I have never felt in my entire life wells up inside of me. It seems to bubble up from the center of my stomach, spreading outward…down my legs, my arms…up my spine. It blankets my skin with a warm tingle, and the center of my chest feels like it’s going to erupt in a fountain of released tension.

I urge the feeling on, waiting on the euphoria that I feel is ready to break free because of Sutton’s revelation that she loves me. I wait for it to expel my bitterness and fuel me with peace.