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.