“Cameron—” I say softly, unsurely, no clue what to say.

“Listen, Alex,” he cuts me off. “I don’t want to rehash the past. It wasn’t pretty—enough said. But Dad is going downhill and I just really want you to be prepared for it. He’s going to die if he doesn’t stop drinking.”

Taking a deep breath, I rub my finger around the base of my water glass. Lifting my eyes to my brother, I ask, “What do you think I might be able to do to convince him to go to rehab?”

“I don’t know that you can,” he says in resignation. “I just think it’s worth a try. He won’t listen to the doctor, he won’t listen to me. Maybe he’ll listen to you, maybe not. But at least we’ll know we tried everything.”

A terrible thought takes root in my brain, causing icy fingers of dread to squeeze my chest. Swallowing hard, I say quietly, “I should have done something sooner. Instead, I ignored him for years, letting him drink himself to death because I hated him. If it’s too late now, then that’s my fault.”

Cam leans across the table and grips my forearm tightly. I refuse to meet his eyes but I hear what he says next. “No way, Alex. This is all on Dad. Nothing you did or didn’t do…nothing I did or didn’t do, made him this way. This is not on your doorstep.”

I look at my older brother and find no comfort in the intensity of his gaze. I know he believes what he just said, but I don’t—not for a minute. Pulling my arm away from his grasp, I sit up straighter in my chair. Clearing my throat, I signal the waitress that we’re ready and say, “Let’s eat breakfast and figure out the best way for me to talk to him.”

Cameron stares at me a moment, his eyes searching deeply to see if I’m carrying the guilt. I’ve tamped it down deep but it’s still there, though I know he can’t see it. I show him assured, calm and in control Alex Crossman. I’m used to this facade and I find it falls back easily into place.

***

I’m exhausted and for the first time in weeks, I don’t have a thrill of anticipation running through me at the prospect of seeing Sutton. Tonight’s game was brutal, I f**king played like shit and I can’t stop thinking about my deadbeat dad, whom I’m feeling compelled to save to alleviate my guilt. For the first time that I can ever remember, there is a certain appeal to getting shit-faced drunk and letting my worries drown along with my misery.

Opening the room door, I anticipate Sutton will greet me with a hug and a warm smile, and I’m not wrong. There she is, wearing one of the robes and smelling like fresh rain from the shower she just clearly had.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” she asks as she runs her fingertips lightly over the eight stitches in my left temple. “I saw you get injured.”

I jerk back slightly, not because it hurts but because I don’t want her care right now. Stepping out of her arms, I walk over to the minibar and pull out a beer. Twisting the cap off, I toss it in the garbage can and take a long pull. After swallowing, I say, “I’m fine.”

And I am. Sutton preferred to stay at the hotel and watch the game on TV, so I know she got a close-up, slow-mo view of the stick that I took to my temple from one of the Wildcats’ defensemen. Head wounds bleed like a bitch and mine was no exception. But it didn’t stop me from launching myself at the f**ktard, immediately dropping my gloves to the ice so that he knew it was on.

He dropped his just as quickly and we circled each other on the ice, our arms held in a fighting stance, fists curled tight for maximum delivery of pain. Even though blood was pouring down the left side of my face, it thankfully stayed clear of my eye and I had good vision, plus I had anger. I was pissed off and I made the first move, grabbing hold of his jersey with my left hand and landing three solid jabs to his jaw with my right.

That’s all I got in before both of his hands were gripping my jersey, grappling to get leverage against me. I tried to jerk loose to land some more blows but both of our skates shot out from under us and we were on the ice.

It was all over then as the officials swarmed in and pulled us apart. We both landed five-minute majors, but I went off the ice and headed back to the locker room so our team doctor could stitch me up. We still had another period and a half of play left and a small cut wasn’t about to stop me.

I should have just stayed my ass back in the locker room. Once back out on the ice, I played some of the crappiest hockey I’ve played since I was about ten years old. I couldn’t make a clean pass, my shots were wide and my skating was hesitant. Some viewers would blame it on my injury but that didn’t have a damn thing to do with it. I had just lost my focus, plain and simple, and I’m sure it had everything to do with my meeting with Cameron this morning.

Walking over to one of the large armchairs that grace the room, I sit down with a heavy sigh. Sutton watches me cautiously. I must be giving off some bad vibes, because she isn’t moving any closer.

“What’s wrong, Alex? Is it the game?”

I can’t help the snort that comes out or the wry smile that I give her. “Sure, we’ll say it’s the game.”

I take another deep pull on the beer and watch her. She’s so f**king beautiful, and I know she’s na**d under the robe. But the thing that I focus on—right this very moment—is the look in her eyes. They are filled with such worry and care for me, that it physically hurts to receive it. It’s alien to me, a concept I don’t understand. It makes me feel weak and small, and I don’t want any part of it.