Alex (Cold Fury Hockey, #1)(77)

And then Alex Crossman made love to me.

I mean the type that is slow, luxurious and tender. He never said a word…not one dirty or filthy thing. His hands were gently probing, his touch everywhere felt like a warm caress. This soft nature he showed me was almost unbearable and I was writhing on the bed seeking more, almost begging him to take me more forcefully.

But I didn’t. I held my tongue and let him do whatever he wanted. And for some reason, Alex wanted to take his time with me, and he wanted to do it quietly. I have no concept of time, but it seemed to stretch on forever, and yet in my mind it would never be long enough. He filled me with torturously slow strokes that went deep but never came off a leisurely pace. The only quickening was our breathing, but even that had a more subdued quality. When we came, we did it together with our hands clasped and our lips pressed together as our breath ran warm across each other’s skin.

It was a hauntingly beautiful experience, the most touching sexual experience of my life. I have no clue if he was showing me that his feelings were running deep, or he was giving me something I could remember before he cut things off. Alex never told me what was wrong, he never discussed where he went for his walk, and when I woke up the next morning, he was gone and all I had was a note on the pillow beside me.

His note apologized again for his behavior after the game and told me that he had to make a quick trip back home to Canada to take care of some family business, but that he would see me back in Raleigh for our scheduled talk at Pope High School in two days.

I didn’t call him and he didn’t call me. I worried myself sick over this, but I felt that he needed some time. Besides, any contact almost guaranteed that I would press him for details as to what in the hell had been going on with him. I figure he didn’t call me because he knew that and wasn’t in a mood to share.

So, as I sit here in this parking lot, all I can do is hope Alex shows up, not just physically, but emotionally as well.

***

Glancing over at Alex, I give him a small smile and then turn back to the podium in front of me. I have some notes jotted down, but I know I probably won’t even look at them.

He showed up—true to his word, and just as the program was about to start. I didn’t get a chance to even say hello but pressed into his hands the sheet of paper that held three paragraphs I’d need him to read when I was done, announcing the Cold Fury’s support for this outreach program.

Looking out over the audience, I try to focus in on a few of the students who stare back at me. Some are interested, some are texting on their cell phones. Regardless, I know there’s at least one person in this room who will find what I’m about to say interesting.

“Hi. As Principal Snyder just introduced me, you know I’m Sutton Price and that I’m a counselor at the Wake County Drug Crisis Center. What she didn’t tell you, though, is that I was raised, at least for a portion of my life, by a parent who was addicted to drugs.”

Stepping out from the podium, I check to make sure the portable mic is on, and move out onto center stage. I always feel more comfortable talking this way, as it feels less formal. I’m not nervous about talking to these kids, but knowing that Alex’s gaze is pinned on my back gives me some tingles for sure.

“My dad was and still is addicted to heroin. My mom and I stayed with him until I was nine years old, and she was able to break away. My dad has his good moments. He’s gone months at a time staying clean, but unfortunately he’s always relapsed.”

The auditorium is silent and I see more faces watching me than not. “What I want to talk to you about today is how you can get help…if you have a parent that is using. You see, my dad as an addict was pretty terrifying, and I spent a lot of time alone with him because he was unemployed and would watch me in the afternoons when I got home from school. When he was high on heroin, he would mostly just sleep, which meant he left me alone. When he was waiting on his next fix, and couldn’t get his drugs, he got mean. Really mean.”

I pause for effect and take a few steps across the stage. “He would hit me…sometimes with his hands, sometimes with his belt…it’s how I got this scar,” I say, pointing to my left eyebrow. “Sometimes he’d kick me. Once he dragged me across the floor by my hair and I only got away after a chunk of my scalp tore loose.”

Someone in the front row gasps, but I don’t look. I turn and walk back across the stage. “I had a wonderful mother. She worked to try to support us, but unfortunately she didn’t make enough to support us and his drug habit. That made my dad even meaner. She’s the most wonderful woman in the world. She loves me more than life itself.”

I turn and risk a glance back at Alex. His eyes are glittering intensely as he watches me. Turning back to the kids, I continue. “But even though she loved me, and I knew she would do anything to protect me, I didn’t tell her about what my dad was doing. I told her lies about my cuts and bruises. I was afraid because I didn’t want my family to break up. Even though my dad abused me, he didn’t do it all the time. I mean…he loved me, and he was always so sorry after he hurt me. So I kept silent.”

I let this sink in for a few seconds. “And by me keeping silent, it just ensured he kept doing it.”

Walking up to the podium, I rest my forearm on it in a casual stance and place my other hand in my pocket. “It was a teacher at school who noticed a bruise on my arm and asked me about it. I was so afraid of telling because I didn’t want to let my mom down, and I was afraid of losing my dad, because even though he did those terrible things to me…he still loved me.”