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Chapter Twenty-Eight

Alex

I curl up on the couch, pulling the blanket to my chin as I zone out and try to ignore my mother.

“You can’t just lay around here like a lump, Alexander,” she bites out.

“I’m resting,” I say tiredly. “I had therapy today, remember?”

My mother rolls her eyes. “Yes, and you’ve been on that couch since you came home. You promised to help me around here. You also promised to go on a date.”

I close my eyes and grunt out a sound of frustration.

I had canceled my date with Kearstin on Wednesday because after my therapy session I was in too much pain. After collapsing in Mack’s office and driving home, I was fucking done. Which is why I texted Kearstin and told her we’d have to postpone our “date” since I was useless .

“Honestly, I think you are using your injury as an excuse,” my mother says as she stands in front of me, arms crossed, tapping her foot.

I can’t with this woman. Has she lost her mind? Has the hairspray seeped into her brain?

I sit up, grab my phone, and cast her an angry glare as I text Kearstin.

Hey, it’s Alex. Are you free tomorrow by chance?

I get a text back almost immediately. My mother takes two steps forward, looking over my shoulder and watching Kearstin’s response come in.

I only let her watch because she’ll say I’m being difficult if I don’t. Not that I care what she thinks, but I’m not in the mood to deal with any more bullshit today.

I am, actually! I can meet you, if you want. Just let me know a time and place.

“She’s very organized and structured,” my mother says sweetly. “You need someone like that.”

I glare at her before tapping out a response, fully aware of her eyes on me.

How about I pick you up instead? Seven thirty?

Sounds great! I’ll drop you my address!

I throw my phone on the couch, not bothering to look at it.

“Happy?” I ask, venom dripping from my voice.

“Yes,” she says triumphantly. “Now, if you’re done moping, I need help in the den. I’m redoing the cabinets and they could use a new coat of paint.” Her voice softens as she says, “Brittany says you’re rather good at painting, and you’re much taller than I am.”

A part of me wonders if I’ve slipped into a hallucination or something. Not only is my mother painting something, but when the hell did she talk to Britt? Since when has she even liked Britt?

“Yeah, I guess I’m okay,” I say as she smiles.

“Good.” The softness that was just there is gone. “Then come on. No one likes a dawdler.”

And just like that, it’s back to the same old bullshit.

Thankfully, once I get into the den, she leaves me alone with several buckets and pans of paints.

My knee still hurts like hell, so I take my brace off, which helps alleviate the pain a little bit.

The cabinets aren’t super high up, and I can reach them without having to stand on my tip toes or a stool—which could go very wrong.

I dip my brush into the paint, the chemical smell almost soothing. On the first stroke, I let out a deep sigh at the color that crosses the wall. Vance’s favorite color is dark blue. It’s also the color of his eyes. Vast, like the trenches in an ocean.

I don’t want to think about him, but I can’t help it. He’s the reason I’m here in the first place.

I can’t exactly tell my mother I don’t want to go on a date because I just got out of a six-year long situationship with an asshole who broke my knee because I broke up with him.

Don’t be dramatic, Alex. It was an accident…

I watch the blue fade when the paint runs out, and I dip the brush back into the tray. Deep blue stains the bristles, changing their pale color, coloring wherever it touches. Another swish of paint on the white cabinets.

Thing is, I know it wasn’t an accident. We both know it wasn’t an accident.

When I’d signed Vance’s NDA, I agreed that I’d never talk about what we did behind closed doors.

At the time, it sounded great. I didn’t need anyone to know about my kinks or what Vance and I were doing because I didn’t want a relationship and we both wanted to keep things between us and not let it affect the game .

Jordan asked me point blank what happened, and I lied to him.

I’ve lied to a lot of people about what happened out there, and that was okay because no one needed to know the details about us. I mean… it was my fault.

All of it was my fault.

But when Mack asked me for the truth, I wanted to tell him. So fucking badly, I wanted to get it off my chest, but I couldn’t. I can’t handle that kind of fucking judgment. Not from him. Not if I want to get better and get back out on the ice where I belong.

I let Vance Harding take too much, and I am not going to let him take this from me, too.

The paint thins, fading from dark blue to white as I run out of paint again.

I queue up my Spotify and blast some music, getting lost in the motions as I paint, stroke after stroke, until it’s well past ten pm and I realize I’ve painted all the cabinets and I feel slightly better. Not one hundred percent, but…

I turn around in the space, nearly jumping as I see my mom in the doorway, in her terry cloth robe and with rollers in her hair.

“I didn’t expect you to finish that fast,” she says.

I shrug as I clean up the mess I made, not looking at her directly.

“Yeah, well, I kinda hyper-fixated, I guess. Usually happens when I paint. ”

She looks at me for a moment, her gaze full of something I recognize all too well. Guilt.

I look away.

“I’m going to bed,” I say as she sighs.

I walk past her, expecting her to say something, but she doesn’t. I feel her judgment on me all the way down the hall. I drop off the brushes in the utility room before heading to my room.

It’s just the same as I left it all those years ago. The same dark blue and ivory Ralph Lauren comforter with plaid throw pillows. The same white walls decorated with photos and jerseys. The same bookshelves full of trophies and framed photos.

I make my way through the room, undressing myself and heading for the shower to wash off the paint that made its way onto me.

No matter how hard I try to be organized or clean, I always make a mess. It’s who I am.

The moment the hot water hits me, I relax and close my eyes. I lean forward, bracing one hand against the tile wall as I flex my knee. The hot water feels amazing on my sore muscles, and I let out a sigh of relief.

The memory of Jordan’s fingers brushing my skin resurfaces.

His touch was warm. Soft from the lotion on his hands, no doubt.

It hurt, but it also felt good. Though I’m fairly certain it’s weird and perverted to think about your physical therapist administering care in a not-so-professional way, I can’t help it.

There’s something about Jordan Mackenzie that makes me so fucking hungry for more.

More of those fingers across my skin.

More of that bitterness in his voice.

Maybe that’s my problem when it comes to Mack. I’m always going to want more, and I’m never going to get it. Not getting it is why I want it. I’m caught in his vicious circle.

What happened between us all those years ago, it’s in the past. If he wanted more, he would have told me. He would have made it clear, the same way he made it clear I was no longer wanted every morning after I gave myself up to him.

My cock twitches as I try to forget those memories, but I can’t help myself. When I’m alone, hard, and in need of release, nothing makes me come quite like those memories.

I should not be thinking about him like this. I should not be remembering his hands in my hair or his tongue in my mouth, or his hand squeezing my cock, but fuck.

Leaning forward, I shift my weight as I start to build my rhythm.

My mind fills with images of the past—of him splayed across the bed in Vegas, dick bouncing and gleaming with precum, and of his hand on my throat as he slammed me against the bathroom door at Austen’s wedding—and I am too tired to fight them. Maybe if I just give in, I’ll feel better.

It’s not like I’m going to tell him or anything. Though a part of me wonders what he would say if he knew I still thought about him like this. That I’ve never stopped thinking about him.

The only thing that could quiet the noise was Vance’s brutal hand.

Flipping the switch isn’t just about obedience anymore. It’s about forgetting.

Forgetting that I’m a fucked up man with daddy issues. Forgetting what I lost.

What I left behind.

Vance was really, really good at making me forget, but now that I’m here, and now that Jordan’s so fucking close…

It’s a lot harder to forget.

I grunt out a satisfied sound as the memories bleed through my psyche. I come with a strangled groan, my hand filling with cum as my body relaxes.

I bring my hand to my face, staring at the thick ropes that slide between my fingers, remembering his ardent gaze.

I was just wondering what you taste like.

I swallow hard, licking my lips. I step back and wash my hands, my heart still racing .

Don’t go there, Alex. You won’t like the outcome.

The memories fade as I wash my cum down the drain, telling myself I won’t go down that road again. I won’t think about Jordan and his warm tongue or his deep voice or his touch. I won’t think about him and his brutal kiss or how perfect it all felt with his arms wrapped around me.

But it’s a fucking lie, because when I go to sleep, those amber eyes haunt my dreams, just like they always have.

The Fall Festival in Ashbourne is a huge event. Folks come from all over the country to check it out, and because I love a good food festival, I figured it would be the perfect place to take Kearstin for our date.