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Chapter Twenty-Six

Alex

I’ve been dreading Wednesday since Mom informed me I’d be meeting Kearstin at precisely four-thirty pm at Luigi’s, which would have been fine if Britt hadn’t called merely an hour after Mom’s decree to let me know that her husband pulled through and got me into Sharks.

They called while I was on the line with Britt to confirm my appointment at one pm.

Which means I’ll have to high-tail it out of the city during school traffic to go to this fucking date I don’t even want to go on.

Maybe it’ll be good for you. Maybe your mother is right. Maybe you just haven’t found the right woman because you’re too busy dicking around with assholes.

I’ve been thinking about her damn words all week. You haven’t had a girlfriend since Brittany.

No, I haven’t been in a real relationship in years, but it’s not like I didn’t want that.

I liked the dom enough, but he didn’t see me as more than a fling.

I liked Laura, my ice rink co-worker enough, but she ghosted me after we had sex and then quit the rink, so I took that to mean she was not into me, and she never called me again, which was pretty clear.

I loved Britt, and we spent nearly five years on and off together, even though we both knew we were biding our time until something better came along.

Then there was Jordan. The guy I really, really fucking liked.

The one I was nuts for. The one I’d pined for, for three fucking years.

But Jordan was like a time bomb waiting to go off.

Always ticking, counting down the moment to explosion.

I loved it. The night of Austen’s wedding, after the explosion…

I think about that night all the time.

Yeah, the sex was great. It’s always fun with the guys who insist they don’t like gay shit, when in fact they do. They are always the messiest, and I love a good hot mess.

But it’s not his dick down my throat that I think about, though I’ve found myself thinking about that more times than I want to admit when I’m alone with my cock in my hand.

No, I’m the dumbass who thinks about the soft shit. The emotional shit .

His fingertips brushing my shoulder as he laid down with me.

His kiss that shut me up.

The warmth of his body where I rested against him.

Sex is easy. It’s always been easy for me, because I know how to be what they want.

Sexy. Kinky. In charge.

Aside from Britt, there’s only been one other person in my life who looked at me and understood what I needed, not what I wanted. Who gave it to me without question, and didn’t judge me for it. And he fucking hates me now.

Then there's Vance.

The man who held my heart and my leash for six fucking years, which was truly the longest relationship I’ve ever been in, and it wasn’t even a real relationship.

It wasn’t like I wanted to marry the guy or anything, I just wanted to hold his hand when we went to the club. I wanted him to stay after he’d push me over the edge, but he always left.

I wanted to be able to kiss him in a restaurant or just out in public, because I wanted everyone to see what I had.

I wanted him to want to show me off instead of hide me like a knife under the floorboards. I just wanted him to care about me beyond the bedroom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from anyone, really .

“All done!” Lucy squeals, pulling me from my thoughts. I look down at her work, the bright purple nail polish everywhere but my actual nail.

“Wow, this looks great, Luce! Thanks!” I say with overenthusiasm, even though it looks all too much like I let a four-year-old paint my nails.

Lucy squeals, knocking over her polish bottle on the coffee table as she hugs my waist.

“You look so pretty now!”

I hug her, warmth spreading through my entire body, and I squeeze her a little tighter. And because I’m fucking me, that warmth fades too fast because I know I’ll never actually have this on my own.

“Love you, Lucifer,” I whisper as Britt shoos her off me.

“Okay, now that you’ve made a complete mess, it’s time to clean it up,” she says with authority and Lucy squirms out of my hold.

Britt smirks at me.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll get the polish remover.”

I sigh as I look at my watch.

I shake my head. “Leave it, it’s fine. I have to head out.” I run a hand through my hair without thinking. I hope the polish is dry and I didn’t just streak purple all through my hair.

“I still can’t believe Christian came through. ”

Britt comes back with a Q-tip and I can smell the polish remover. I stand and she meets me in the hall, gazing up at me with bright eyes.

“I told you,” she says as she grabs my hand and cleans up the plethora of purple around my cuticles.

“Thank you,” I say. “Not just for getting me into Sharks, but…” My heart catches in my throat, but it’s not because of remorse or guilt, like one might think. “For being my best friend. And for making the cutest little besties ever.”

“Alex,” she says, swishing the Q-tip around my last disastrously purple finger.

“I mean it, Britt. My life is…” I sigh as she drops my hand. “My life is a mess, but at least I have you guys. Minus Christian, of course,” I add, because I feel oddly emotional right now.

I hope my date drinks, because I fucking need a drink.

“Buy him some box seats, and I’m sure he’ll be singing another tune,” she teases.

“Done. Gotta appreciate the man’s sacrifice somehow,” I say as I lean in to kiss her on the cheek. She smiles.

“I gotta go,” I say, stepping away and heading towards the door.

My knee still hurts like hell because the ibuprofen isn’t cutting it on the pain. The doc gave me Vicodin, but that shit makes me damn near comatose, and I hate taking pills, period. Plus, they don’t mix well with alcohol.

“Have a good day at therapy,” she says with a mischievous grin as she waves at me from her porch.

At least if I have to stay here in Ashbourne for months, I’ll be able to spend time with the girls. I should call up Austen, too, see if he wants to grab dinner or something. He’s not the most social guy on the planet, but it’s been too long since we’ve hung out, just the two of us.

My music comes on in the car, blaring through my speakers. I don’t bother to turn it down, needing something more than the two cups of coffee from Britt’s to keep me awake.

The air fills with the sound of chimes, and I recognize the song even though I haven’t heard it in years. Fleetwood Mac’s “Everywhere.” I can’t help but grin. The last time I heard it was Austen’s wedding.

I grimace through the pain as I drive. I still wasn’t cleared to, but I will be damned if I let my mother drive me around like I’m a goddamn teenager. She’s bad enough as is. I don’t need to rely on her or my dad more than I already am.

I could ask Austen, but he works during the day.

Britt would do it, if I asked her, but she’s close to her due date and the last thing either of us needs is for her to go into labor in the middle of taking care of my ass.

Her husband would really hate me then. I get it.

His wife’s best friend is her hockey player ex-boyfriend.

Most people don’t get it because they think exes can’t be friends, that there’s a blurry line there or something.

Just because I’ve slept with Britt in the past doesn’t mean I want to sleep with her now—I don’t. Our relationship is purely platonic.

The ride to Sharks is riddled with traffic and by the time I get there, I’m five minutes late.

Great, already not off to a good start.

Getting out of the car, my leg stiffens, and it hurts. I grimace again, walking slowly. Seven minutes late.

My therapist is going to kill me. Maybe I should have left earlier, but I didn’t want to.

I was having too much fun with my bestie and her kids, the mini besties, and now I’m fucking late.

The receptionist looks bored out of her mind when I get to the desk.

“Alex Brewer, one o’clock. Sorry, I’m a bit late,” I say as I flinch and shift my weight onto the other foot, hoping a little charm will go over well.

I should have stopped for donuts, but I stupidly thought I’d have enough time to get here

“Room 32,” she says with a smile.

“Thanks.” I saunter through the main gym.

This place is nice. Aesthetically, it doesn’t look all that different from most places.

Bright open light, all whites and grays with a smattering of black, but there’s a simplicity, too.

It’s oddly relaxing. I get to room 32 and check my watch.

Nine minutes. Fuck me sideways. I knock, and a second later the door opens and my knee twitches, wanting to buckle instantly.

My gaze meets familiar amber eyes and a bitter scowl.

“You’re late,” Jordan hisses.

“Traffic,” I say, my voice breathless.

I blink a couple times, thinking perhaps I’ve lost my last fucking marble. That the nail polish chemicals have seeped into my brain. Jordan Mackenzie glares at me, and I have to remember to fucking breathe. I feel like someone’s punched me in the chest and kicked out my knee.

He steps to the side, waving me in impatiently.

“Come in,” he mutters.

I have half a mind to turn around and walk away because just seeing him brings back too many memories that I don’t want to think about.

I could request another therapist, but I don’t want to push my luck.

Britt pulled strings to get me in here as is, and I don’t want to overdo it.

And I mean, I’m an adult. I can handle working with Jordan if he’s going to fix me.

I could work with anyone who’s going to do that.

I can ignore the past and my fast beating heart if it means I’ll be back on the ice.

It takes everything in me to stand up straight and walk into his room when I feel like I want to collapse. My knee fucking hurts.

But that’s what I’m here for. To work through the pain and get back to where I need to be.

Home. On the ice.