Alex
Page 14
Chapter 5
Alex
It’s Sunday afternoon and here I am—once again serving at the beck and call of the Cold Fury. Tucking the birthday present under my arm, I start walking up the driveway to the modest, two-story brick house of our trainer, Leo Getts. It’s his youngest son’s birthday today, and the entire team has been invited.
I, however, was mandated to attend. I had an email Friday evening from Coach telling me if I failed to show, it would be a $5,000 fine. Now, this just made me want to stick my chin out and take the fine, because I don’t like being molded into shape. But the problem was, I really like Leo. He’s a wonderful trainer and has done an amazing job working me through some minor and major injuries. I decided I was coming to the party weeks ago when I first got the invitation because it was the least I could do for Leo.
So I asked Cassie to buy the kid a present from me a while back and wrap it, and in return I gave her a couple of orgasms. It was an even exchange.
Cassie wanted to go to the party with me, had even tried to talk me into it while I was f**king her from behind, but I just f**ked her harder to make it more difficult for her to talk. No way was she coming to this party with me. That screamed too much like a date or a relationship, and I didn’t ever want her thinking that she was entitled to that from me.
Here’s the thing about Cassie. She’ll talk out of one side of her mouth, assuring me that she’s all about the sex. I can’t tell you how many times she’s assured me she doesn’t do relationships. This worked out well for me, because I sure as hell don’t do relationships either. Never have—probably never will. But then she’ll talk out of the other side, trying to subtly push her way into my life outside the bedroom. That’s the Cassie I don’t like very much.
When I met Cassie at a Cold Fury party last year, it took us only about twenty minutes after we were introduced to leave the party together, heading back to her apartment and f**king like champions all night long.
In that respect, she was the perfect woman.
Except now, she’s changed. I see it in her eyes, I hear it in her words, I know it by her actions. She wants her claws in me permanently and she’s been coming on strong lately. It’s something I need to put a stop to so she doesn’t think this will ever go any further than orgasmic release.
Walking up to the house, I can hear the sounds of kids squealing and adults laughing from the backyard, so I don’t even bother with the front door, choosing instead to walk around the house.
As I come around the east side, I’m brought up short by a small orange ball flying at my head. Luckily, my reflexes are good and I’m able to duck in plenty of time.
“Shit—sorry, Crossman,” I hear and see my teammate Sergei Annikov standing there with an unapologetic grin on his face. He’s holding a small, plastic hockey stick, and I see a little boy of about five standing up against the brick exterior of the house. The kid is wearing a goalie mask, decked out with a goalie glove and stick.
Walking over a few feet, I pick up the lightweight plastic ball from the ground and toss it back to Sergei. “No problem.”
Sergei drops the ball to the grass and says, “Okay, Darius, keep your eye on the ball.”
Putting the small stick to the ground—which looks ridiculously minuscule in his large hands—he flips the orange ball gently to his son. At least I think that’s his son. Fact of the matter, I know virtually nothing about most of my teammates.
The little boy tries to raise his glove to catch the ball but it bounces just off the tip and ricochets off the brick wall behind him.
“Good try,” Sergei says in affirmation at the boy’s attempt. “You almost got it.”
My head swirls and I feel faint, a memory clawing its way up to my consciousness and I try desperately to tamp it down. It’s too strong, though, and it assaults me hard.
“I’ve never been so embarrassed,” my dad snarled as we pulled into the driveway. He took out a small flask from the inside of his jacket, angrily twisting the cap off and slugging back a huge gulp of liquor. Putting the flask away, he turned ice-blue eyes my way and glared at me. “Drills. Get suited up.”
“Dad…it’s late and I’m tired,” I complained. It was something I knew better than to say, but I was so tired I just didn’t have it in me to play any more tonight.
“Get your f**king gear on and get your lazy ass in the driveway,” he screamed at me.
Sighing, I pushed open the car door and slouched my way into the house. I didn’t even bother going any farther than the mud room, where I reached into my equipment bag—which I had been carrying—and put on my pads, still wet with my sweat from the game I’d just played. I didn’t bother putting my jersey over them, but I did put my helmet on with full face guard. I needed that protection for sure.
My older brother, Cameron, stuck his head in the doorway of the mudroom and whispered, “Bad game?”
He was fifteen years old, and Dad didn’t mind him staying home alone while he took me to my hockey games; Cam never wanted to come watch.
“I guess,” I replied, even though I thought I’d had a pretty great game. Two goals and an assist. “Dad wants to do drills.”
Cameron just stared at me, his eyes sad. He watched me put on my helmet, grab my stick and head back outside. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t come outside to watch, didn’t offer words of encouragement. There was no way you could ever paint a good picture over what was about to happen.
Alex
It’s Sunday afternoon and here I am—once again serving at the beck and call of the Cold Fury. Tucking the birthday present under my arm, I start walking up the driveway to the modest, two-story brick house of our trainer, Leo Getts. It’s his youngest son’s birthday today, and the entire team has been invited.
I, however, was mandated to attend. I had an email Friday evening from Coach telling me if I failed to show, it would be a $5,000 fine. Now, this just made me want to stick my chin out and take the fine, because I don’t like being molded into shape. But the problem was, I really like Leo. He’s a wonderful trainer and has done an amazing job working me through some minor and major injuries. I decided I was coming to the party weeks ago when I first got the invitation because it was the least I could do for Leo.
So I asked Cassie to buy the kid a present from me a while back and wrap it, and in return I gave her a couple of orgasms. It was an even exchange.
Cassie wanted to go to the party with me, had even tried to talk me into it while I was f**king her from behind, but I just f**ked her harder to make it more difficult for her to talk. No way was she coming to this party with me. That screamed too much like a date or a relationship, and I didn’t ever want her thinking that she was entitled to that from me.
Here’s the thing about Cassie. She’ll talk out of one side of her mouth, assuring me that she’s all about the sex. I can’t tell you how many times she’s assured me she doesn’t do relationships. This worked out well for me, because I sure as hell don’t do relationships either. Never have—probably never will. But then she’ll talk out of the other side, trying to subtly push her way into my life outside the bedroom. That’s the Cassie I don’t like very much.
When I met Cassie at a Cold Fury party last year, it took us only about twenty minutes after we were introduced to leave the party together, heading back to her apartment and f**king like champions all night long.
In that respect, she was the perfect woman.
Except now, she’s changed. I see it in her eyes, I hear it in her words, I know it by her actions. She wants her claws in me permanently and she’s been coming on strong lately. It’s something I need to put a stop to so she doesn’t think this will ever go any further than orgasmic release.
Walking up to the house, I can hear the sounds of kids squealing and adults laughing from the backyard, so I don’t even bother with the front door, choosing instead to walk around the house.
As I come around the east side, I’m brought up short by a small orange ball flying at my head. Luckily, my reflexes are good and I’m able to duck in plenty of time.
“Shit—sorry, Crossman,” I hear and see my teammate Sergei Annikov standing there with an unapologetic grin on his face. He’s holding a small, plastic hockey stick, and I see a little boy of about five standing up against the brick exterior of the house. The kid is wearing a goalie mask, decked out with a goalie glove and stick.
Walking over a few feet, I pick up the lightweight plastic ball from the ground and toss it back to Sergei. “No problem.”
Sergei drops the ball to the grass and says, “Okay, Darius, keep your eye on the ball.”
Putting the small stick to the ground—which looks ridiculously minuscule in his large hands—he flips the orange ball gently to his son. At least I think that’s his son. Fact of the matter, I know virtually nothing about most of my teammates.
The little boy tries to raise his glove to catch the ball but it bounces just off the tip and ricochets off the brick wall behind him.
“Good try,” Sergei says in affirmation at the boy’s attempt. “You almost got it.”
My head swirls and I feel faint, a memory clawing its way up to my consciousness and I try desperately to tamp it down. It’s too strong, though, and it assaults me hard.
“I’ve never been so embarrassed,” my dad snarled as we pulled into the driveway. He took out a small flask from the inside of his jacket, angrily twisting the cap off and slugging back a huge gulp of liquor. Putting the flask away, he turned ice-blue eyes my way and glared at me. “Drills. Get suited up.”
“Dad…it’s late and I’m tired,” I complained. It was something I knew better than to say, but I was so tired I just didn’t have it in me to play any more tonight.
“Get your f**king gear on and get your lazy ass in the driveway,” he screamed at me.
Sighing, I pushed open the car door and slouched my way into the house. I didn’t even bother going any farther than the mud room, where I reached into my equipment bag—which I had been carrying—and put on my pads, still wet with my sweat from the game I’d just played. I didn’t bother putting my jersey over them, but I did put my helmet on with full face guard. I needed that protection for sure.
My older brother, Cameron, stuck his head in the doorway of the mudroom and whispered, “Bad game?”
He was fifteen years old, and Dad didn’t mind him staying home alone while he took me to my hockey games; Cam never wanted to come watch.
“I guess,” I replied, even though I thought I’d had a pretty great game. Two goals and an assist. “Dad wants to do drills.”
Cameron just stared at me, his eyes sad. He watched me put on my helmet, grab my stick and head back outside. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t come outside to watch, didn’t offer words of encouragement. There was no way you could ever paint a good picture over what was about to happen.
