That’s all it says, but it doesn’t need to say more. I didn’t need the invitation either, because despite my obsessive worrying about Sutton, she’s like my drug and there’s no way I wasn’t going to take a hit tonight. I need her to maintain some level of sanity, because just her voice coats me in soothing balm. Her touch makes me feel peaceful. When I f**k her, the world melts away and only she exists.

Making my way out to the players’ parking lot, I sign a few autographs for some of the fans still lingering. Then I get in my car and head for Sutton’s house.

***

When she opens the door and I see her for the first time today, I feel immersed in serenity. I forget about the shitty game and letting my team down. I forget about my dad, and my anger and my resentment. It’s so easy to let it go when she’s standing there looking even lovelier than when I left her bed this morning.

She smiles at me in welcome and doesn’t even wait for me to walk in before she’s wrapping her arms around me and giving me a hug. Standing on the threshold of her house, I let her comfort me for the shitty game, letting my team down and the mess that is my father. She doesn’t know that she’s comforting me for all of those things, but I’m taking it all the same.

Then she’s kissing me with such delicate care that my soul twists, and it only reinforces my desire to have her, no matter what the cost.

“Come on in,” she says softly and takes me by the hand.

Her living room is glowing with flickering light as the hearth crackles with a small fire and her Christmas tree—which she put up Thanksgiving Day—twinkles with multicolored lights. It looks magical and romantic, and causes me to want to just cuddle with her on the couch, which is odd because my first thought would normally be that I want to f**k her on the couch.

Leading me to the sofa, she releases my hand and I take a seat. She sits beside me and curls into my side, as I wrap my arm around her shoulder. Laying her hand on my chest, she strokes me softly through the material of my dress shirt.

“So what did you think of the game?” I ask her, curious as to how she will address the fact that I played like an amateur in a local rec league. Will she sugarcoat it or give it to me straight?

Idly running her fingertips over the center of my chest, she doesn’t mince words. “You don’t look focused.”

“I don’t feel focused,” I say with resignation, and also gratitude that she talks honestly to me.

Painfully so.

“Then that means you have something heavy weighing on you. Want to talk about it?”

Do I? Do I want to share my demons? Will she understand or will she make the same inevitable comparison that I made between our lives, and judge me to be unworthy because I can’t seem to get my shit fully together?

The mere fact that I’m worried over her reaction tells me that my confidence in general has taken a hit. At least the ass**le that is Alex Crossman wouldn’t ever apologize or make excuses for his actions or reactions. Soft, cuddly Alex is a different story, and I mentally sneer at myself to man up and lay it on the line.

“When I went to Canada…it was to put my dad in rehab,” I tell her, letting the impact of my words sink in. This will hit close to home with Sutton.

She jerks in my arms and sits up straight, dislodging my arm from around her shoulders. Thankfully, her gaze is sympathetic, not piteous. She also gives me a small smile of appreciation, which I know is because I shared with her.

Raising up on her knees and flipping her leg over my lap, Sutton straddles me, resting the palms of her hands on my chest. The warmth of her touch seeps in with soothing effect, which helps to relax me marginally.

“Oh, Alex,” she says gently. “I’m sorry. That’s a very brave thing to do, but it’s also so scary.”

Exactly. Scary as shit.

“His doctor says if he doesn’t quit drinking, he’s going to die.”

“He’s had a long history, then,” she guesses.

“Ever since I can remember,” I say wryly.

Sliding her fingers up to just above my open button at the top of my shirt, she grazes her fingers over the skin of my collarbone. It’s not sexual, but speaks more of a need to have skin-on-skin contact—to promote more closeness, so to speak. I’d be lying though if I didn’t admit my dick twitched just a bit.

“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—”