“Actually, it’s a date, so I’m not sure what our plans are.”
Oh, yeah—no way she is going to have dinner at my apartment tonight. I don’t know much about Sutton Price but I can tell she’s not the type to play the field. I’m oddly disappointed she has a date tomorrow, but no clue why. Past the disappointment that she won’t be writhing around on my bed, I shouldn’t have any feelings for her one way or the other.
“Well, tickets are available any time you’d like to give it a try,” I tell her with a smile.
Sutton watches me, her face full of interest. “I’m not sure why you were labeled the team prick. I’m just not seeing it.”
My laughter has completely faded and I’m sort of teasing, sort of serious when I say, “Get me closer to the ice and my jackass attitude will start shining through.”
“What? Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You mean, you get grouchy when you play hockey?”
“I mean I f**king hate playing hockey, so yeah…I get a little grouchy.”
What. In. The. Hell?
Why I just told her that, I have no clue. I’ve never admitted that out loud to anyone in my entire life, although it’s a mantra I repeat silently to myself on almost a daily basis. If the press ever got hold of that, if the fans ever found that out, I’d be finished—run out of town faster than my very own slap shot, and every team’s door would be closed to me.
And yet, I can’t find it within me to care that I just told a complete stranger that little secret.
I expect her to scoff at me, because frankly, it has to be unbelievable that a professional hockey player hates playing hockey. I think we are a rare breed.
Hell, the more I think about it, I bet I’m the only one of the breed. I’m like the dodo bird, on the verge of extinction.
Rather than scoff at or dismiss my assertion, Sutton’s eyes go sad and she says, “I’m sorry….That really has to suck.”
I can’t f**king stand to see that look on her face.
Pity.
You can give me your ire, your hate or your disgust, but don’t ever f**king give me your pity. The pleasantly warm feeling that I held in the bottom of my belly just moments before has completely dissipated, and has been replaced by cold concrete.
Standing up from my chair, I toss the binder on her desk with a resounding thwack. She flinches backward and her eyes widen with surprise.
“Sorry, gorgeous, I don’t do ‘homework,’ ” I tell her with a sneer while pointing at the binder. “But my offer still stands: If you want to come over for dinner tonight, you can give me a summary of that monstrosity. Or we could do other things.”
I expect my barb to strike deep and offend her, maybe causing a little tremble to her lip that will help orient me back to my true self. She disappoints yet again, instead narrowing her eyes and curling her upper lip in disdain. “Ahh…there’s the prick you were telling me about.”
“Get used to it, Miss Price,” I tell her with a mock bow. “You’ll be seeing quite a bit of him.”
Turning around, I open her door and walk out of her office, feeling her eyes burn into my back until I turn the corner and head down the depressing gray hallway.
Chapter 4
Sutton
“You seriously met Alex Crossman? And you’re going to be working with him?”
“Yes,” I say for the third—maybe fourth—time as I set the lasagna in the middle of the table.
“Holy shit. That is just so cool,” Glenn says, his eyes filled with excitement and yearning.
“Watch your mouth,” my mom says sternly but I see my stepdad Jim turn away from the table because he’s about ready to bust out laughing. I catch his eye and shoot him a wink but try to keep my features bland so my little brother doesn’t know we think he’s freakin’ adorable when he cusses.
Glenn’s eyes cast downward for a second in shame over his curse word but then they pop right back up to me, filled with hope. “Do you think you can get me an autograph, Sutton? It doesn’t have to be much…just on a piece of paper or something.”
My heart tumbles, seizes and then melts over Glenn’s simple request. He’s an amazing kid, eleven years my junior and he never asks for anything. My mom and stepdad don’t make a lot of money but they have managed to give Glenn and me a damn good life. We may have grown up wearing thrift store clothing and having lean Christmases, but we never lacked for our basic necessities, and we were given so much love and devotion from our parents that we never missed the things we did without.
At eleven, Glenn is old enough to know the bounds of our parents’ abilities, even as he watches his friends sporting expensive clothing and carrying the very best of iPhones, iPads, gaming devices and toys. He doesn’t ask for these things because he knows our parents can’t afford them, and he never pouts, whines or tries to lay a guilt trip on them about it. But as he sits here staring at me with bright, shining eyes, he knows the cost of an autograph is nothing more than a simple request for me to make to Alex, and I’m not going to deny him that.
I’m pretty sure Alex would give me an autograph if I asked. He was quite the ass when he stomped out of my office, verifying for me that he must, indeed, be the team’s bad boy. But I feel there’s something else there too.
I sense there is a reason for the way he is. Call it my counselor intuition, or maybe it’s just plain wishful thinking so I don’t have to deal with an ass**le that is an ass**le for no other reason than he likes being that way.